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Chapter Text

— CHAPTER ONE —

Night chase

The cold February wind howled across the frozen fields surrounding Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The moon hung high in the sky, casting an eerie glow on the snow–covered castle towers. Inside the warm Gryffindor sixth year boy dormitory, oblivious to the drama unfolding outside, Harry Potter sat cross-legged on his bed, the heavy curtains drawn tightly shut. He was hunched over the Marauder's Map, illuminated by the glow of Lumos, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The map lay spread out before him, its intricate lines revealing the castle's secrets, each dot representing a soul, living or dead. Harry's eyes, framed by round glasses, scanned the parchment and there, amidst the myriad of dots, was the one that caught his attention the most: Draco Malfoy.

The Slytherin's movements were usually unsuspicious and painfully boring, but today was different. Holding his breath, Harry watched hypnotically as the dot labelled 'Draco Malfoy' left the Slytherin common room and headed towards... the seventh-floor corridor!

A wave of determination washed over Harry as he realised that this was his chance to expose whatever sinister activities Malfoy was involved in. Without a second thought, Harry leapt from his bed, the old wooden floorboards groaning under the sudden impact of his rashness. His invisibility cloak lay folded nearby, and he grabbed it, the silvery material billowing as he wrapped himself in it. The thought of waking Ron briefly crossed his mind, but Harry couldn't afford to delay.

But the sudden noise woke Ron up anyway.

"Harry, what's going on?" Ron's voice was thick with sleep.

Harry, annoyed at the delay, only whispered, "Ron, I can't explain right now, but I have to go to the seventh floor. It's about Malfoy."

Ron, still half-asleep, rubbed his eyes and yawned. "I'm coming with you, then. Just give me a sec to get up."

"No, Ron, I don't have time. I'll be fine. I promise I'll fill you in later."

With that, Harry turned and slipped out of the boys dormitory, his invisibility cloak rendering him completely unseen.

Outside the Gryffindor common room, the castle corridors were bathed in shadow, and the echoes of Harry's hurried footsteps reverberated as he raced through the corridor. His breath was quick and shallow beneath the cloak as he made his way barefoot and in thin pyjamas towards the seventh floor. He navigated the twisting staircases and cold corridors, at one point narrowly avoiding Filch and his cat, Mr. Norris, and finally reached the seventh floor.

He stopped and, catching his breath after his frantic run, looked down at the map he had been clutching all along. Surprised, Harry discovered that the dot signed as Draco Malfoy had disappeared from the map. This time, however, Harry already knew why. Malfoy must have entered the Room of Requirement.

"Malfoy," Harry muttered to himself, "what are you up to?"

o.O.o

Hidden beneath his invisibility cloak and clutching the Marauder's Map, Harry Potter stood patiently outside the Room of Requirement, the anticipation of uncovering Malfoy's intentions consuming his thoughts. The minutes felt like hours as he glanced down at the map from time to time to make sure dot labelled as "Draco Malfoy" wasn't still at the map. Although he was no longer so certain that Malfoy had entered the Room of Requirement, he decided to trust his first hunch. The constant chill of the thick walls and stone floor nearly froze him, so he cast a warming spell on himself. He could have at least worn thick socks...

The task Dumbledore had entrusted him with, to discover what Riddle learned about the Horcruxes from Slughorn, weighed heavily on his mind. Harry still had no idea what they were, Hermione couldn't dig up any information about them, but according to Dumbledore, this incomplete memory contained the most important clue that could help them defeat Voldemort. Harry trusted the headmaster, believed his judgement, but at that moment his determination to uncover Malfoy's secrets took precedence. So, Harry battled the nagging voice in his head, reminding him of his urgent mission with Professor Slughorn. It was here, in this silent, secluded corridor, that Draco Malfoy would need Harry's attention. To ease his conscience, he promised to himself that as soon as he discovered what Malfoy was up to, he would return immediately to the task Dumbledore had given him.

As the night wore on, Harry's eyelids began to droop. He was exhausted from standing in the cold corridor, but he couldn't afford to let the Slytherin slip away unnoticed, not with all the unanswered questions and the sense of impending danger in the castle.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Harry heard the creak of the door opening. He jerked his head up and glanced in anticipation at the Marauder's Map. Harry's heart quickened and he held his breath as he saw the dot signed 'Draco Malfoy' reappear on the map where the entrance to the secret chamber had been. With practised stealth, Malfoy left the Room of Requirement and Harry could almost hear the soft click of the door closing behind him.

Harry forced himself to wait for Malfoy's footsteps to fade. Then, still shrouded in his invisibility cloak, he pulled his back away from the wall and walked over to the hidden entrance to the Room of Requirement.

Taking a deep breath, Harry started pacing back and forth, focusing his thoughts. He kept whispering, "Show me the room where Draco Malfoy has just been. Show me the room where Draco Malfoy has just been."

In response to his plea, a doorway materialised on the wall before him, revealing a room shrouded in shadows and secrets. Determined to discover what Draco Malfoy was up to, Harry crossed the threshold without hesitation and found himself in a room filled to the brim with strange and bizarre things.

Harry's heart pounded with anticipation and curiosity as he wandered through the cluttered space. Shelves lined with forgotten artefacts loomed on all sides, and his footsteps echoed softly in the dimly lit space.

He roamed between the aisles, his invisibility cloak sliding off his head. The Marauder's Map was safely tucked away, and his senses were on high alert. Harry had no idea what he was searching for; he only knew that the Room of Requirement had concealed a significant part of Malfoy's secret activities, and he was determined to find it.

Unsure of where to begin, he walked with measured steps, his wand clutched tightly in his hand. It was like navigating through the extremely vast library, except the tomes were replaced with an endless array of curiosities, all carefully hidden within the space of the Room of Requirement.

Suddenly he heard it — a single, ominous creaking sound, as if an ancient door had reluctantly yielded to the passage of time. His curiosity piqued; Harry made his way toward the source of the sound. There, in a far corner of the room, stood an old, decaying wardrobe, its wood showing signs of age and neglect.

Following an instinct that was now tingling with the anticipation of discovery, Harry approached it. Its exterior appeared unremarkable, but he couldn't shake the feeling that it held something hidden within its ageing frame. He took a deep breath and reached for the handle and pulled it open. To his initial disappointment, the interior was empty and shrouded in inky darkness. He began to examine the wardrobe more closely, running his hands along its wood, searching for hidden compartments or any signs of its significance.

The unwanted thought that what he was doing was breaking his promise to Dumbledore entered Harry’s mind. Harry sighed. If only it were possible to combine both...

With a deafening slam, the door abruptly shut behind. Panic surged through Harry's veins as he felt the ground vanish from beneath his feet. He began to fall with dizzying speed, spinning and somersaulting through the air. The world around him became a blur of colours, sounds, and sensations, and Harry unable to do anything else, clenched his eyes tightly and brace himself for an inevitable, painful landing. He only hoped that he would survive it....

With a deafening thud, Harry fell to the ground. For a moment he lay motionless in a rather uncomfortable position with his legs up and his head on the ground, catching his breath. Finally, in pain and disorientation, he slowly rose to his feet, clutching his aching head. To his astonishment, he realised that he was still within the wardrobe. It didn't ease his bad feelings.

He would have been happiest not to leave the cursed wardrobe, but he knew that wasn't an option. As he tentatively opened the door and stepped out, he realised that he was no longer at Hogwarts unless it was some other version of the Room of Requirement. He sincerely doubted it. An unpleasant feeling of déjà vu came over him. The place he found himself in was like the shop where he had landed years ago during his first trip through the Fiuu network. Harry tightened his hand on his wand and took a few tentative steps forward, looking carefully around.

Flickering candlelight bathed the shop in an eerie glow, casting elongated, ominous shadows. A heavy, musty scent clung to the air, a melange of leather, mothballs, and aged parchment. Shelves lined with curiosities loomed on all sides, their contents a bewitching assortment of the macabre and mystical. Taxidermized creatures, their glassy eyes unblinking, stared from their perches. Antique masks leered from the walls, each with a story of its own. Shrunken heads grimaced from their pedestals, and cabinets were filled with venomous, preserved creatures in glass jars, their serpentine forms frozen in eerie lifelike poses.

Yep, it was definitely Borgin and Burke's.

At least he knew where he was. Comforted by this thought, Harry turned to find the exit and screamed in terror. Across from him, with his wand pointed in his direction and a deadly serious expression on his face, stood none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"Well, well, what do we have here? A lost little boy who …"

Harry let his instincts take over. Without waiting for Riddle to finish, he attacked him with Expelliarmus.

It was his fourth fatal mistake of the evening.

The third was that he hadn't made sure he had had his invisibility cloak on before coming out of the wardrobe.

The other boy's shield wavered like the surface of a pond moved by a stone, sending Harry's Expelliarmus back into the shadows. Tom Riddle's retaliation came in a flash, a stream of purple flame that twisted and writhed through the air.

The duel began.

Tom Riddle fought with fluid grace. He cast spells with a precision that spoke of his years of experience, each incantation calculated to hit its target without destroying the cursed objects around them. Harry, his messy black hair flying as he dodged spells, was a stark contrast. He may not have had Riddle's finesse, but his determination and reflexes were unrivalled. He hurriedly cast spells, his voice echoing through the cluttered shop, not caring for the damage they caused. The room crackled with magic as the spells erupted like fireworks, casting eerie, erratic shadows that danced across the shelves of forgotten objects. Eerie artefacts collected on the shelves rattled, and one of the jars exploded violently, spilling its contents when one of the stray spells hit it.

"Who are you?" Riddle demanded; his tone icy as he sent a stream of red bolts in Harry's direction. "What are you doing here?"

Harry jumped back, hiding behind a display case. The glass shattered into a million pieces. Harry reflexively covered his eyes with his arm. Then he leaned out for a moment, parrying Riddle's questions with well-aimed curses.

The older boy smirked and effortlessly deflected Harry's spells. "Very well, we'll do this the harder way."

After another fierce but unresolved exchange of spells, the two wizards began to circle each other, deathly determination on their faces.

Suddenly, images flashed before Harry's eyes.

He saw himself sitting over the Marauder's Map, watching names move across the parchment. He was arguing with Hermione about the task Dumbledore had given him, his frustration evident in his words. He could feel the rush of the wind as he ran down the corridors of Hogwarts, racing to find out what Malfoy was up to.

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" he shouted lividly, pushing Riddle's presence out of his mind as he realised the other wizard was using his Legilimency on him.

The connection was broken, and the duel reached a new level of intensity.

Harry knew he had to do his best, despite the huge difference in their magical abilities. Riddle's spells were cast with a precision Harry could only dream of. A rapid succession of curses and hexes flew between them, their wands a blur of movement and colour. This duel was unlike any of his previous encounter with Lord Voldemort.

Suddenly, in a quick, decisive series of powerful spells, Tom Riddle unleashed a torrent of magic. Stunning, disarming and immobilising spells flew at Harry in rapid succession. Harry parried, dodged and countered as best he could, but the sheer force of Riddle's attacks left him breathless and cornered.

Hit by one of the curses, Harry slammed with his back into a shelf of grotesque heads on pedestals with a deafening crack. One of the heads fell and hit Harry in his shoulder.  At the same time, another spell knocked his wand out of his hand. Riddle wasted no time. With an air of malevolent triumph, he cast a spell that sent Harry tumbling to the ground. The magic pinned Harry's feet and palms to the wooden floor, forcing him to kneel before his opponent.

As Harry struggled against the invisible bonds that held him in place, Riddle approached him slowly. With a menacing glint in his eyes, he leaned closer, his voice a sinister whisper. "Now, let's try this again, shall we? What is your name?"

Harry Potter's heart pounded, trapped under the immobilising spell, his mind racing for a way out of this dire situation. He cast a fleeting glance toward the front door of the shop, silently praying for a miracle.

Riddle's gaze followed Harry's and, in a voice that oozed with sinister satisfaction, he informed him, "I wouldn't count on it. This shop is closed." Then he straightened up slowly and pointed his wand at Harry. "So..."

No phoenix, no Dumbledore or even a portkey, not to mention his parents.

"Piers... Piers Polkiss" Harry, staring at the floor, introduced himself with the first name that came to mind.

A sharp, quick pulse of pain — as if he had been electrocuted — made Harry's back arch. Harry shouted, briefly, loudly, utterly surprised by this attack.

Think, think.

But his mind was like a blank sheet of paper.

"Next time I won't be so lenient," Tom Riddle said casually, turning his wand in his fingers.

"Harry Potter" Harry threw out reluctantly, horrified by how close he was to dying. If Riddle had decided on Avada Kedavra, nothing would have been able to stop him. Riddle could have killed him here and now, and since no one knew Harry was here, no one would have looked for him. Another crime Riddle would have gotten away with. He would just have to hide the body. Harry suspected that for the future dark lord, this would be the least of his problems.

With an elegant flick of his wand, Riddle summoned a chair on which he sprawled comfortably across Harry. From his whole posture radiated the confidence of a man who had always won. Worst of all, Tom Riddle looked as if he had never duelled. Only his hair was a bit dishevelled and his black robes were a little dusty. And there were the two small stains on his sleeve and the slightly crooked piece of cloth around his neck that looked like a tie but wasn't.

"That’s better. Now we can talk."

Harry's chest tightened with a cold, creeping dread.

But the most chilling realisation came when he lifted his head and looked more carefully into the face of the wizard before him. Tom Riddle, a disturbingly material Tom Riddle, looked nothing like the teenager from the diary that Harry Potter fought in the Chamber of Secrets. His features were sharper, more mature, predatory and at the same time somehow handsome.

As if Tom Riddle's mere presence wasn't enough, Harry had, by some miracle, moved from Hogwarts to Knockturn Alley. He was trapped in Borgin and Burke's, a shop that looked both eerily familiar and drastically different from what he remembered. Had he moved not only in space, but also... in time?

The horror of this revelation sent a shiver down his spine, a realization that defied all logic and sense. Time travel was not a known skill in the wizarding world — besides Dumbledore had once said that it was not possible to travel more than a few hours back — and the implications of finding himself in the past, alone and defenceless, were staggering.

Playing for time, Harry decided that talking to Riddle would be the best option. Like in the Chamber of Secrets. He knew he had to choose his words carefully, stalling for an opportunity to escape the immobilising spell that held him in this humiliating, kneeling position.

"All right, we can talk. But first, could you..." Harry pointed with his head at his hands, which were stuck to the floor. Riddle looked at him with dark amusement and, to Harry's surprise, cast a spell that allowed Harry to get his hands off the floor. His legs were still bound, however, so he had no choice but to assume an even more humiliating position. Now he was sitting on his heels in front of his mortal enemy.

Harry rubbed his arm, which was still sore after being hit by one of the heads above him.

"Ask your questions" he said, a grim resignation in his voice.

Riddle's calculating gaze locked onto Harry as he inquired, "Who are you, and how did you come to be here?"

Harry hesitated for a moment, aware of the significance of his words.

"I'm Harry Potter, a student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he replied honestly. "As for how I got here.... it's complicated... and to be honest, I'm not sure how it happened..."

"Liar."

"No, I'm telling the truth this time," Harry assured him immediately, looking nervously at the wand in Riddle's hand. "I'm really Harry Potter and..."

"You may not be lying about your name, but... You can't be Potter and a Hogwarts student at the same time," Riddle interrupted him harshly. He wrinkled his forehead in an expression of consternation but did not take his piercing gaze from Harry. "I'd remember you."

Harry felt sweat trickle down his neck. Come on, he couldn't...

"How can you? You look older," he decided to play dumb. Maybe it would work.

"I'm not so much older that our paths didn't cross at Hogwarts. I also have a good memory for faces and names. And I don't recognise yours. So?"

The pale, slender fingers stroked the wand again. Harry swallowed.

"Maybe... maybe they didn't cross because..."

"Think twice before you try to lie to me the third time," Riddle warned, his tone, though calm, filled to the brim with icy menace.

How did the bastard do it? How could he sense a lie?

"…we may not be from the same era," Harry whispered, terrified of the consequences this confession might bring. But what choice did he have? He couldn't deceive Riddle indefinitely; when the older boy finally lost patience, he might use Legilimency on him, and that would have even more disastrous consequences. "I suspect I've been... transported through time."

Riddle's eyebrows arched. He regarded Harry with intense scrutiny. "Transported through time?" he repeated, his voice tinged with scepticism. And yet he didn't accuse him of lying. "That is quite an extraordinary claim, Potter."

Harry, keeping his composure, continued, "I know it sounds unbelievable, but it's true. I know this shop from my times. It looks a bit differently now."

Riddle did not look convinced. "And based on the fact that the shop looks a bit different, you concluded that you had moved back in time?"

This sounded even more ludicrous in Riddle's mouth.

Harry nodded vigorously.

"Exactly."

Riddle crossed his arms over his chest. At this very moment his face betrayed no emotion, so Harry couldn't tell if the older boy believed him or not.

"Then how exactly did you transfer in time?"

"I told you it was a bit complicated... I... it's quite a long story."

"We have time." Riddle's lip curled into a faint smile, though his eyes remained cold.

Harry had no choice but to comply. He moved his shoulders to stretch his back, which was a little sore after the blow, and shuddered slightly from the cold. He hadn't felt it during the fight, but as the adrenaline-fuelled emotions subsided he realised that he was still barefoot and in his pyjamas. And it was only a tad warmer in the shop than in the dark corridors of Hogwarts. On top of that, his feet began to pinch; probably shards of glass had been knocked into them.

"I was out stalking one Slytherin I'm on the outs with last night, and it turns out the bastard was hiding from me in a secret room on the seventh floor." As soon as he mentioned it, he saw a flash of recognition in Riddle's eyes. Okay, so that meant he knew about it too. Maybe he would believe him then. "As soon as he came out, I asked the Room of Requirement to show me the room where that git was staying. Well, that's how I ended up in the room with bizarre things, and that's when I came across this wardrobe. Something pulled me towards it, so I went in and... And that is how I ended up here."

"Just like that... You walked into it? Into an object that could potentially be cursed? Without thinking?"

"Now I know it was stupid."

As he told his story, Harry Potter realised one thing: he knew who Tom Riddle was, whereas Tom Riddle had no idea that the boy kneeling before him was the one who would lead to his future downfall. If he can just convince Riddle that he's a harmless idiot, perhaps the man will let him go, so that he can look for someone to help him get back to his times? After all, he couldn't die here, not with a Voldemort waiting for him to defeat in the future.

"And as soon as you saw me, you attacked me," Riddle pointed out. "Why?"

Harry took a deep breath and replied, "I attacked you because I panicked. When I saw your wand pointed at me, I reacted out of fear. I didn't know what your intentions were, and I had to defend myself. It was a reflex, and I…  I apologise for it."

It meant nothing. Any normal person would apologise in that situation, wouldn't they?

Riddle seemed to consider this explanation carefully, his gaze unwavering.

"Let's suppose I believe you.... How far in the future do you come?"

"February 1996. And here?"

"February 1947."

Harry breathed in sharply. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fucking 50 years. 49 years, to be precise.

"I... I have to go back to my own time! Please let me go so I can find someone to help me!" Playing the role of a frightened time traveller came easily to Harry, especially since that’s how he felt. At the same time, he looked around Riddle's figure, searching for his wand, which he had lost during the duel. Unfortunately, he didn't see it anywhere.

Riddle studied Harry, his dark eyes narrowing as if he was considering Harry’s request.

"Please," Harry urged, "let me go. I need to find a way back to my time. I don't want to change anything by accident."

Riddle regarded him with a sinister glint in his eyes, the corners of his lips curling into a sly smile. He gave the impression of someone who knew he had all the cards and was about to use them. "I will release you, Potter, but it won't be without conditions."

Harry's heart sank. He had a sinking feeling that Riddle's terms wouldn't be favourable.

"Name your terms," Harry said, his voice resigned. He had no choice but to listen to what Riddle had in mind.

Remember, you're just an ordinary, stupid teenager who gets into unknown magical artefacts...

"Actually, I have one simple condition," Riddle purred, his eyes glinting with devious intent. "I will release you, but in return, you must swear an Oath of Submission and obedience to me."

Harry's eyes widened in horror. "You are kidding!", he blurted out.

"On the contrary, I'm deadly serious. if you truly are a time traveller, as you claim, you could be useful to me."

The proposition hung in the air like a malevolent storm cloud. Harry's heart sank as the full weight of the request settled upon him. Swearing obedience to Tom Riddle, the dark wizard who would become the dreaded Lord Voldemort, was a nightmarish prospect.

"Why should I agree to your terms?" Harry questioned, wanting to buy some time, even if it was just a few precious moments.

Riddle's response was merciless, his voice dripping with malevolence: "Because, Harry Potter, I am the one holding the wand pointed at you. You are at my mercy. You can either accept my offer or face the consequences."

As if to emphasise his words, Tom Riddle stood up from his chair and towering over the kneeling Harry pointed his wand at him. "So…?"

The cruel reality of the situation weighed heavily on Harry. He was immobilised, powerless, and vulnerable. Tom Riddle had him in a stranglehold, and there seemed to be no way out. He had to play along, bide his time, and find an opportunity to escape this nightmare. Besides... They were just words. Breaking the word to Tom Riddle will not be a disgrace to honour, quite the contrary.

In a moment of utter helplessness, he relented. "Fine. I agree. Is it enough for me to just say that I will submit and be obedient?"

Riddle's smile was chilling as spoke, "Let’s do this magical, shall we?".

He extended his hand towards the kneeling Harry. With a languid and undisguised reluctance, Harry placed his hand on his palm. He didn't feel the expected pain. As Tom Riddle's cold fingers closed around his, a shiver like an electrical impulse ran down Harry Potter's spine. At the same time, there was also a second, different feeling — a fleeting one, like a blink of an eye, and Harry nipped it in the bud — a feeling as if he was finally where he meant to be, in the right place.

"I want you to swear to me something too," Harry suddenly said, trying not to think about what he was doing. "Swear you won't kill me and help me find a way to my times."

Riddle narrowed his eyes and said icily, "You are not in a position to make any demands, Harry Potter."

"Then save your time and kill me now."

For a moment, Harry and Riddle stared at each other with cold, determined gazes. Harry, upright, on his knees, his cheeks burning with humiliation and anger. Riddle, with his terrifying aura, towering over him, ruthless and calm. Neither of them would back down.

"You first," Riddle finally said. Harry hoped that meant agreement. "Repeat after me: I, Harry Potter, swear by my magic that…"

"I, Harry Potter, swear by my magic that…"

Every word he spoke left a bitter taste on Harry's tongue. But he didn't turn his head. He looked Tom Riddle straight in the eye with cold hatred.

"…I will submit and be obedient to Tom Marvolo Riddle…"

"…I will submit and be obedient to Tom Marvolo Riddle…"

Every word was a betrayal of all that he believed in and fought for.

"…my new master."

It was the antithesis of what his parents had done for him, and Harry knew that even when he found a way to break that vow, the words he had just spoken would haunt him for the rest of his life.

"…my new… master."

As soon as Harry said the last word of his vow, a streak of light appeared around their clasped hands. It didn't tighten around them, as Harry had expected, but hung in the air, as if waiting for something. Riddle looked at it with undisguised, sinister satisfaction, then spoke again in a solemn manner.

"I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, accept the Oath of Submission sworn by Harry Potter and promise not to kill him or take away his magic until I believe he has broken it. When I decide I no longer need him, I will help him find a way to return to his times."

Cold fear has swept over Harry as he heard the part of Riddle's vow. The glowing band above their hands finally closed over them. A feeling of emptiness and finality washed over Harry.

However, he didn’t have time to think about what he had done, for as soon as the oath was sealed, Riddle withdrew his hand and with a quick, decisive wave of his wand, cast a stunning spell on Harry. Harry's limp body fell to the floor with a thud.

o.O.o

With a casual flick of his wand, Tom Riddle lifted the unconscious body of Harry Potter into the air, his inert form hovering just above the cluttered floor of the shop. It was a necessary precaution to ensure that the potentially disruptive presence of his prisoner didn't interfere with his efforts to clean up the aftermath of their violent duel.

Tom Riddle surveyed Borgin and Burke's coldly. The shop, normally a haven for rare and dark magical artefacts, was in disarray. Tom's brow furrowed in irritation. He had been cautious, measured in his strikes, careful not to damage any of the objects. After all, explaining the destruction to his employers was an inconvenience he would rather avoid. But Harry Potter, in his desperate fight for freedom, had cast spells blindly, hitting everything in his path.

Tom's eyes flickered to a shattered glass case containing delicate vials and mysterious potions. The contents had spilled, mixing and swirling. A cracked mirror lay on the floor, its shards reflecting a fractured image of the shop. A cupboard of cursed masks had been thrown open; grotesque faces now scattered about like eerie masks of death. One of the heads on the pedestal lay on the floor, staring at him reproachfully.

Potter had proved to be an unpredictable opponent, clumsy in his approach but surprisingly effective in his attacks. He was no match for Tom's immense talent, but there was a tenacity about the young wizard that intrigued Tom. It was as if there was something more to Potter's story, something hidden beneath the surface.

Fortunately, he will have time to discover what it is. A lot of time.

With a wave of his wand, Tom began to clean the shop, a meticulous process of restoration. Broken glass reassembled, damaged artefacts returned to their original state, and debris floated back to its proper place. Borgin and Burke's gradually returned to its eerie, meticulous order, the only evidence of the duel being the floating body of the second boy. At least the spells Potter used could not permanently damage the dark magic items Riddle's employers had collected with such care. And Tom, fortunately, was careful and restrained himself.

Once the shop was restored ad his opponent's wand found and tucked into Tom’s robe pocket, Tom Riddle turned his attention to the cupboard Potter had fallen from.

He wasn't an idiot like Potter and had no intention of packing into a potentially dangerous and cursed object, but he did want to examine it. The fact that this ordinary, dust collecting wardrobe had turned out to be such a thing amazed him immeasurably. Even Burke had suggested some time ago that it would be a good idea to get rid of it, as it was just taking up space. And here was such a surprise...

He raised his wand and cast a revealing spell. After a moment, his sharp eyes caught a faint glimmer from inside the cupboard. With a sense of anticipation, he summoned the source of the light and two items emerged from the depths of the cupboard. An old piece of parchment that appeared to be a blank page, but in his fingers sparkled with hidden magic, and a cloak of invisibility that appeared to be authentic. A smile played at the corners of his lips as he contemplated his new acquisitions.

The parchment intrigued him, its contents shrouded in mystery. Perhaps it was an enchanted map leading to powerful artefacts. The Invisibility Cloak, on the other hand, had its own appeal. Tom Riddle knew of such cloaks, rare and powerful, and the prospect of possessing one filled him with satisfaction.

Without hesitation, he slipped both items into his leather pouch. They would be added to his growing collection of rare and valuable artefacts. As he reflected on the strange events that had unfolded, Tom Riddle couldn't help but feel that fate seemed to be involved. His encounter with Harry Potter, the items he had acquired and the questions that remained unanswered all pointed to a greater plan, one that transcended the boundaries of time.

With one last appraising glance at the shop, Tom Riddle turned his attention to the unconscious form of Harry Potter. The young wizard floated in mid-air, suspended by Tom's magic, a mere inconvenience to be dealt with.

As an afterthought, he pulled the Invisibility Cloak out of his pouch — why not try it out right away? He put it on Potter and judged the effect to be satisfactory. Then he cast an Attraction Charm on his new acquisition. Even though it was dark and frosty outside, Tom felt like going for a walk. He needed to clear his mind before he face Harry Potter again.

o.O.o

In the depths of Knockturn Alley, a chilling darkness descended upon the snow-covered streets. The old, dilapidated buildings stood like silent thugs, their facades weathered by time and secrets. The windows were dark, reflecting the icy chill that gripped the street, and the shadows they cast seemed to dance with malevolence.

The snow-laden cobbles crunched under Tom Riddle's hurried footsteps, the cold air biting at his exposed skin of his neck and face. His long, dark cloak billowed behind him as he left a trail of footprints in the fresh snow, each step crisp and deliberate. The bitter cold of the winter night hung heavy in the air, turning his breath into frozen puffs. Tom's pace was swift, his purpose unyielding, as he pulled an invisible burden along the desolate lane.

If anyone living in this notorious alley looked out now, they would see the new history unfold.

But no one was looking. At least not officially.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWO —

Memory lane

Harry Potter regained his consciousness. His heavy eyelids slowly fluttered open, revealing a world blurred around the edges. For a fleeting moment, Harry hoped, prayed, that everything he had experienced last night was nothing but a product of a terrible nightmare, a side effect of stress.

It took a mere shift of his body, a simple attempt to reach for his glasses on the cabinet beside his bed, for reality to crash back down on him. The sharp jolt of pain that shot through his shoulder was a cruel reminder; this was not...

No, this was a dream. It had to be a dream. His shoulder was sore because it had been hit by a bludger during Quidditch practice, not because he had been thrown....

It was a bulger. A nasty, vicious bludger.

His glasses were not where he expected them to be. Panic crept to the edges of his consciousness as his hand fumbled in the air, his vision blurred and his heart racing.

"Your glasses are in the cupboard to your left, Potter."

Harry's breath caught, his heart pounding against his chest as a voice, soft but with a sinister undertone, rang through the room.

It wasn't a bludger.

Harry jumped, every muscle in his body tensing as he instinctively prepared to flee.

"Don't even think about it," Riddle's voice cut through Harry's panic, calm and unyielding. "Three reasons: one, you're wandless. I've got your wand. Two, this room has been enchanted to prevent any... unfortunate escape attempts. And three, you're in no condition to run anywhere."

Harry forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. With a trembling hand, he finally reached for his glasses, and as he put them on, the world came into focus.

Tom Riddle leaned against the back of the room, lit by a blazing fireplace, held a wand between his long, slender fingers. His other hand rested casually in the pocket of his well-tailored trousers, the picture of ease and confidence.

Satisfied that he had Harry's attention, Riddle pushed himself away from the wall and moved towards the bed, his movements graceful yet predatory. Harry's breath came in short, shallow gasps. His mind screamed at him again to move, to flee, but his body betrayed him, paralysed with pain and fear.

"Let me heal you," Riddle said, crouching on the edge of the bed; there was a fake concern in his voice and Harry knew he was being played.

"Don't you dare touch me," Harry snapped, instinctively pulling his legs up to get as far away from Riddle as possible.

"Now, now, there's no need to be so bristly. I won't hurt you...any more than I already have," Riddle said, smirking.

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You won’t, really? And you think I'll believe you?"

"You were the one who attacked me in the first place. I was only defending myself. And believe me, I held back."

The worst part was that Harry was well aware that Riddle was indeed holding back. No Crucios, no Avadas.

"Never mind, I'll heal myself," he said angrily.

"Oh, are you?" Riddle raised an eyebrow, a hint of pure curiosity dancing in his voice. "With which wand? And in your current state, I'd say you'd be doing yourself more harm than good."

Harry hated to admit it, but Riddle was right. Besides, he remembered, he was supposed to pretend he didn't know Riddle's true nature. His outburst might have looked suspicious, so he relented slightly. "Okay, so just... just my feet. And maybe a quick look at my shoulder," he mumbled, not looking Riddle in the eye, lest his true feelings betray him.

Riddle's eyes glinted with amusement. "So kind of you," he said sarcastically. He moved closer to Harry and began to carefully heal Harry's injuries. His movements were precise, almost gentle, a stark contrast to the vehemence with which he had cast the spells that had caused these wounds. Harry couldn't help but flinch as Riddle’s wand passed over his feet, removing shards of glass with a flick of his wrist. He watched, reluctantly impressed, as Riddle worked, his magic efficient and effective.

"Now your shoulder," Riddle said, his voice calm but commanding. Harry hesitated. "You told me to take a quick look at it."

With a sigh, Harry pulled back the collar of his shirt, revealing the bruised and battered skin. He winced as Riddle gently poked at the bruised flesh, but the pain was quickly replaced by a warm, soothing sensation as Riddle's magic worked to repair the damage. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to be at the mercy of his future enemy, to feel the gentle touch of hands that would one day wreak havoc on the wizarding world.

"Better?" Riddle asked, leaning back slightly as he finished.

"Yes," Harry murmured. The pain was mostly gone, replaced by a dull ache that was far more manageable. He could feel his strength returning, and with it a sense of clarity. "So what now?" Harry asked, feigning calmness.

"Now, Harry, let's take care of the future," Riddle said in a deceptively calm voice, but the predatory glint in his eyes betrayed how eager he was to find out what the future held.

Harry felt the blood drain from his face as Riddle's words hung heavy in the air.

"You... You can't!" Harry blurted out, abruptly jumping to his feet. "Knowing the future... You don't understand how dangerous it is."

"Dangerous to whom, Harry? To you or to me?"

Harry took a step back, his back touching the cold wall as Tom Riddle stood before him.

"To everyone. It… it could ruin everything," Harry said, lifting his head to look into Riddle's face, his voice filled with desperation.

"Ruin? Or improve?" Riddle's lips curled into a smirk. "Imagine the possibilities, Harry. If I know the future, I can bend it to my will."

Harry's pulse quickened, the gravity of the situation pressing down on him with a crushing weight. The wizard before him wanted to know the future — a future in which he, Harry, played a pivotal role in Tom Riddle's downfall. The consequences of such knowledge were catastrophic, and Harry felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.

"But you don't understand," Harry continued, his mind racing. "If you change things, it could mean that people who should be alive... may never exist."

"That's not my concern," Riddle said, his voice hard.

"But it is mine," Harry said immediately. He thought of his friends, of all the people he had met. "If you change the future, it could mean I have nothing to go back to. People I care about could..." He swallowed hard. The unspoken words 'not exist' lingered between them.

"Your life in the future is insignificant compared to the power I can gain."

"But... But you swore to help me return to the future, remember?"

"When you are no longer of use to me. Besides, I didn't say which one," Riddle replied mercilessly. "So let me check what the future holds."

With a defiant and determination in his eyes, Harry shook his head. "No, I... I can't..."

Tom Riddle raised an eyebrow, his expression unaffected. "Potter, you seem to be forgetting the position you're in. You also took an oath. The Oath of Submission, remember? This isn't a request, it's an order. Submit."

Harry felt his throat tighten as the reality of his situation sank in. He was bound by an oath, by magic he didn't fully understand. "There must be another way," he pleaded, his mind clawing at any solution that didn't involve revealing the future.

Riddle's gaze was unyielding. "There is no other way. And the consequences of breaking your oath are simple. No magic means no chance of returning to your precious time. Is that what you want?"

The room spun slightly as Harry's options narrowed to a single bleak avenue. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the sense of defeat bitter on his tongue. "Then ask your questions," Harry finally said, the words like gravel in his mouth.

Riddle came closer, his wand pointed at his forehead. "No, Harry. Judging by your reaction, I believe more direct approach is necessary."

Fear clawed at Harry's chest. He knew what Riddle was about to do. There would be no evasions, no careful omissions, or half-truths. Legilimency. Riddle would rip the future from his mind, tear through his memories with the voracity of a starving animal.

"You can't be serious," Harry said, his voice rising in panic. "You can't just break into my mind like that!"

Riddle's smile was cold. "I can, and I will. It is the most efficient way to get the information I need. And don't even think about resisting, Harry. It won't end well for you."

Harry didn’t even have a chance to prepare. He felt the invasion immediately, Riddle’s magic forcing its way into his mind with a ruthless efficiency. Harry’s natural instincts kicked in, and he immediately began flooding Riddle with an onslaught of mundane, inconsequential memories in an attempt to protect his most crucial secrets.

The Dursleys’ small, cramped house filled Harry’s mind, with Petunia’s shrill voice scolding him for some imaginary wrongdoing. He recalled the countless hours of drudgery, gardening, and cooking, hoping that the monotony would bore Riddle to the death. Harry mentally pushed forward images of tedious schoolwork, the scratch of quill on parchment and the dull thud of textbooks.

He even delved into the gruelling Quidditch training sessions, the wind whipping through his hair as he soared through the air, chasing after the snitch. His muscles ached with the remembered strain, and he could almost feel the sweat trickling down his back.

But Tom Riddle was not so easily fooled. There was a sharp, biting presence in Harry’s mind, cutting through the flood of memories with practised ease. Harry could feel Riddle’s frustration, his impatience, as he searched for something, anything, that would give him the answers he sought.

And then it happened.

A memory slipped through, a momentary lapse in Harry's concentration. It was only a flash, but it was enough. Riddle seized it — a sentence in neat handwriting. Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary? Harry's breath caught in his throat as he felt Riddle latch onto the memory, pulling it forward with a force that left Harry dizzy and disoriented. It was a pebble triggering an avalanche. Harry lost control of what he was showing. The distorted face of Voldemort on the back of Quiller's head, the cold, triumphant laughter in the Chamber of Secrets, the deadly duel in the graveyard — it all played out before Riddle's eyes.

Riddle’s rage growing, a storm brewing in the depths of his mind. The memories continued to flow, one after another, each one darker and more violent than the last. Harry’s conversations with Dumbledore about the Horcruxes, the prophecy, the knowledge that he, Harry, was the only one who could defeat Voldemort — it was all laid bare for Riddle to see.

And as Riddle delved deeper into Harry’s mind, uncovering more and more of his future, his rage turned into something else. Bewilderment. Confusion. A growing sense of dread as he realised what awaited him in the future.

Harry could feel Riddle’s emotions as if they were his own, the mix of anger and fear creating a chaotic whirlwind in his mind. And when Riddle reached the memories of the events at the Ministry of Magic, the death of Sirius, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. The veil, Bellatrix Lestrange's cruel laughter, a feeling of utter helplessness, death of Sirius — Harry felt the raw pain of loss all over again, the agony of losing his godfather.

And that’s when he started to fight.

With a surge of strength Harry pushed Riddle away, using every ounce of his willpower, every scrap of love he felt for Sirius, to put him out of his mind.

But the victory was short-lived.

Before he could catch his breath, Harry found himself slammed against the wall, Riddle’s hand wrapped around his throat. The grip was firm, unyielding, as Riddle’s eyes burned with rage.

"You dare to defy me?" Riddle hissed, his voice low and dangerous.

"I… didn't mean to," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse. He tried to pull Riddle's hand away from his throat. His head throbbed from the pain radiating from his scar. "It was… too much. The memories, the pain... I couldn't handle it."

"You think your pain matters to me?" Riddle sneered. "You think I care about your suffering?"

"I know you don't," Harry mouthed, fighting desperately for every breath. Bloody scar. Even now, in the past? "But– "

"I should kill you right here and now," Riddle hissed, his grip on Harry’s tightened. His other hand raised, the wand pointed directly at Harry’s chest.

Harry felt the cold press of the wall against his back. The room seemed to be spinning as he struggled to draw breath, his vision starting to blur at the edges. His terror was palpable, coursing through his veins, freezing him in place.

"Y–you can't k–kill me," Harry rasped, his voice barely audible as he fought against the pressure on his throat. His hands clawed at Riddle's wrist. "I– I took an oath."

"Oh, the oath," Riddle sneered, his grip not loosening in the slightest. "Yes, I remember. But do you really think that's enough now?"

Harry's heart pounded in his ears, his lungs screaming for air. He had to make Riddle see reason, had to make him understand.

"I showed you everything," Harry gasped, his vision darkening. "I– I let you in my mind."

"And what a delightful journey it was," Riddle said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Harry felt the pressure on his neck ease just enough to drag in a shallow breath, a bitter mercy. "To see my future laid out before me, my plans in ruins, all because of you."

"I didn't– I didn’t want this," Harry choked out. "I didn’t choose to be your enemy."

"But you are," Riddle hissed, his face inches from Harry’s. "You've destroyed everything I've worked for, everything I am."

"I ... obeyed. And you swore you wouldn't kill me until.... until..., " Harry hoarse out with the rest of his strength.

"You think that changes anything?" Riddle growled, his voice laced with venom. His grip tightened once more, a warning. "You think that because you swore an oath, I will just forget the future you’ve shown me? The ruins of my plans, my legacy?"

"You... you can't kill me for your own mistakes. This... it's not fair."

And then, suddenly, the pressure on Harry's throat eased, and he was gasping for breath, sliding down the wall, his legs unable to support him. Trying to ignore his headache, he looked up, expecting to see fury on Riddle's face, but instead, he saw a calculating coldness.

"No, I can’t kill you," Riddle admitted darkly. "But I can make you wish I had."

And with these words he pointed his wand at Harry once more that night.

"Legilimens."

Harry tried to resist, to close his mind, but Riddle was relentless. He bore down on Harry's mental defences, breaking through them with a force that left Harry breathless. And then Riddle was there, in Harry's mind, searching for his deepest, most painful memories.

With the skill of a trained predator, Riddle focused on the first memory; the night Harry's parents died. Harry suddenly found himself there, a toddler again, in his cot when the door to his room opened. He saw his mother, her face terrified, begging Voldemort to spare him. He heard her screams, felt her despair. Then a green light, a cold laugh and she was gone.

Harry felt like he was being torn apart from the inside, the pain excruciating. He could feel his mother's love, her sacrifice, and it hurt. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt before.

But Riddle didn't stop there. He dragged Harry from this memory to another, just as painful. Sirius, his godfather, falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. Harry could hear his own screams, feel his own helplessness as he realised Sirius was gone. Gone, and it was all his fault.

But Harry had no time to grieve, no time to wallow in self-pity. He was forced to watch helplessly as his mother screamed for Voldemort to spare her child and take her instead. The chilling, high-pitched laughter of Voldemort echoed in his ears as he saw the green flash of the Avada Kedavra curse strike down his mother. The memory shifted, but not before Harry heard his own infantile cries pierce the night.

Ministry of Magic again. He saw his godfather laughing and dueling fiercely with Bellatrix Lestrange. Their wands clashed in a fierce dance of light and power. Then, in agonising slow motion, Harry watched as Sirius was struck by a curse that sent him flying through the mysterious veil in the Death Chamber.

"NO!" Harry screamed, trying to run towards him, but his feet were rooted to the ground.

Just as quickly, the memory shifted back to Godric's Hollow, to the chilling laughter of Voldemort, and then back to the Department of Mysteries, to the echoing silence after Sirius's fall.

Harry felt each change like a physical blow, his mind reeling from the pain of reliving these traumatic memories over and over again. His heart ached and every fibre of his being screamed in agony.

"ENOUGH," Harry roared mentally, on the verge of madness. "Stop it! STOP IT NOW!"

But Riddle wouldn't stop, he wouldn't let Harry rest for a second. He dragged Harry back to the memory of his parents' death, forcing him to relive the moment again and again. The green light, the cold laughter, his mother's lifeless body.

And then back to Sirius, the veil, the heartbreaking loss.

Back and forth, back and forth, until Harry thought he would go mad from the pain, a relentless assault on his senses. He could feel his body convulsing, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He was dimly aware of his own screams, the tears streaming down his face.

And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The memories faded, leaving Harry broken and breathless on the floor, his body shaking and his mind reeling.

Riddle was standing over him, his breathing quick and ragged, but the expression on his face unreadable as he looked down at the boy he had just broken.

"Remember well this walk down memory lane, Harry Potter," he said icily. "You may have defeated me in the future, but here, now.... Here you are mine, at my mercy. And every defiance will have its price."

With that, Tom Riddle turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

Harry curled into a ball. His mind was a storm of emotions, a maelstrom of grief, guilt, and helplessness. For a long time he just lay there, too exhausted to move, too overwhelmed by the pain to even think. He had never felt so helpless, so mentally drained.

So defeated.

o.O.o

The first light of dawn crept through the dirty, fog-laden air of London, casting a muted glow across the roofs and streets. The city, still reeling from the war's devastation, lay quiet and still, its wounds hidden beneath a blanket of snow. From the spacious windowsill, Tom Riddle observed the world outside, his sharp sight taking every detail. His usually pristine appearance was marred by the night's events, his hair dishevelled and his clothes slightly crumpled. Yet, his eyes, cold and calculating, showed no sign of weakness. They were the eyes of a predator, assessing his next move.

Snowflakes danced in the morning air, a deceptive facade of calm. As if in contrast to the awakening brightness outside, the room behind Tom was plunged into shadow, the massive dark wood furniture barely visible in the faint light of the early dawn.

Meanwhile, Tom's thoughts were swirling with a tumultuous mixture of anger, disappointment and unwillingness to accept what he saw in Harry Potter's memories. The once bright and unobstructed path he had imagined now seemed full of uncertainty and obstacles. The knowledge that he would be defeated was a bitter pill to swallow, a deep wound to his ego. And as if that wasn't enough, Voldemort, a name he had once aspired to, was now a source of revulsion. The snake-like features, the red eyes, the grotesque manifestation of a soul torn apart too many times — it was all but repugnant. How had he allowed himself to be reduced to such a state? How had it happened? How had the brilliant, invincible Lord Voldemort, the figure he was destined to become, been defeated by a mere boy?

It was unthinkable. Humiliating.

Tom’s eyes flickered with a multitude of emotions as he thought of Harry Potter. The boy who lived, the boy who defeated him. The very same boy who now lay unconscious in his apartment, completely at his mercy. A cruel smirk played on Tom’s lips as he realised the power he held over his greatest prophesied adversary. He could do anything he wanted to the boy, and no one would be able to stop him.

The taste of power was sweet, and it soothed the sting of his wounded pride. He revelled in the knowledge that he would be able to bend Harry Potter to his will, that he had the power to control the boy who had dared to defy him. It was a small consolation, but a consolation, nonetheless.

Tom would use him, mould him into a tool for his own purposes. And when he was done with him, when he had squeezed the last drop of usefulness out of him, he would discard him, leave him broken and defeated.

However, even this thought could not completely dispel the disgust he felt at the memory of his future fate.

Tom’s fingers unconsciously traced the windowpane, the cold biting at his fingertips. He made a silent vow to himself. He would not become that monstrous caricature, that laughingstock. He would be different, wiser. His rise to power would not be marred by the same mistakes. He would harness the dark arts, yes, he would hone his skills to a razor-sharp edge, but he would be smart about it, more cunning. He would not let the darkness consume him, as it had consumed Voldemort.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the city in a blanket of white as Tom lost himself in his thoughts. He could feel the power coursing through his veins, the dark magic he had mastered over the years. But he needed something more, he needed something more to reverse his fate.

He had been given a second chance, a chance to change his destiny, and he would not waste it. He would learn from the mistakes of his future self, forge a new path, a more suitable one.

His mind whirred in action, plotting and planning, as he considered his options. He would not allow his quest for power to blind him, to lead him astray. He would learn from the mistakes of Voldemort, and he would rise to power in a different way.

His eyes traced the outline of the shattered city, taking in the stark contrast between the purity of the snow and the devastation it covered. He realised that power was not just about destruction and fear. It was about control, about bending the world to your will without it realising it was being bent.

And as for bending to one's will....

Harry Potter, his unexpected pawn, would play a crucial role in his ascent. Tom knew he could not underestimate the boy, not after what he had seen in his memories. But he also knew that Potter was now bound to him, his unwilling ally in the game of power.

Not just a pawn, not just an unwilling ally, but a liability. Not just a boy who lived, but a boy who knows too much.

Far too much.

Harry Potter knew Tom's all plans, his ambitions and, most importantly, he knew of the Horcruxes. The very essence of Tom's quest for immortality, his protection against death, was now an open book to Potter. And that was something Tom could not allow. He would have to find a way to neutralise the threat, to make sure the boy knew his place. He would have to act quickly, decisively. The Horcruxes would have to be protected, hidden where Potter could never find them.

And then he would ensure his silence. Fortunately, there were many ways to do that.

With a final, determined glance at the city below, Tom Riddle slid off the windowsill and turned back to the room, his mind set, his purpose clear. The game was on and he was ready to play.

But first he had to deal with Harry Potter.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER THREE —

Durability test

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, Harry forgot the pain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

o.O.o

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

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

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

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

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

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

o.O.o

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

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

Not the tiniest scratch was left on the glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry didn't even have time to jump away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The atmosphere in the room changed instantly.

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

Harry decided not to be intimidated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then it disappeared.

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

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

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

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER FOUR —

Irresistible offer

Tom Riddle strode confidently towards the dining room, the sound of his footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit corridor. He didn't bother to look back; he knew Harry Potter was behind him. His lips curved into a half-smirk, Potter's forced compliance another small but pleasing victory.

The dining room was lit by the soft glow of candles flickering in the ornate chandelier, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The fire crackled in the fireplace, its warmth permeating the room, in stark contrast to the coldness of the corridor and the room they had left. The massive dark wood table stood dominantly in the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs covered in dark green velvet, their luxurious comfort contrasting sharply with the room's severity.

Tom gestured to one of the chairs.

"Sit down," he commanded, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of authority that brooked no argument.

Potter, still a mixture of defiance and resignation, paused. "Why?"

"We'll have dinner," Tom replied smoothly, as if eating with a captive was the most natural thing in the world. He took the seat opposite the one he'd indicated to Potter. "You skipped the meal Bug brought earlier. I can't let my... guest starve."

Potter snorted, a sound that was half derisive, half incredulous, but slowly and with evident reluctance he sat up.

"Guest? Is that what I am now? No longer an obedient dog?"

Tom allowed a thin smile to form on his lips, devoid of warmth. "I thought you'd appreciate the courtesy," he said, not taking his eyes off the boy.

Potter's reply was cut short as the door opened and Bug appeared, his arms laden with trays. The smell of roast chicken thighs and baked potatoes filled the air, accompanied by the fresh aroma of several types of salad. A carafe of wine and pumpkin juice was also neatly placed on the table.

As Bug busied himself with setting the table, Tom's grey eyes watched him with a scrutiny that did not bode well.

"Bug," he began, his voice deceptively soft, "why wasn't the fire lit in Potter's room?"

Bug froze. Then, visibly trembling, he stumbled over his words. "Master, I... I was distracted by Harry Potter's demands to escape and his insults to you, Master. I forgot, I..."

"That's no excuse," Tom's voice turned icy, his displeasure evident. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. "For your negligence, you are forbidden to punish yourself for the next three days."

Bug's eyes widened in horror, a whimper escaping his lips. For a creature that found solace in pain, this was a cruel punishment. "Yes, Master," he murmured, his voice barely audible, a look of utter devastation on his face.

With a deep bow, the house elf retreated from the room, leaving a tense silence. Tom turned back his attention to Potter, his expression unreadable. "Now, let us eat," he said, reaching for the carafe of wine.

Potter replied with a hint of bitterness. "You enjoy this, don't you? Having power over everyone."

"Power is the only currency that matters, Potter. You'd do well to remember that."

Tom poured himself a glass of wine, the ruby liquid catching the candlelight. He made a gesture as if to hand the carafe to Potter, but the boy refused with a movement of his head, so Tom put it back on the table.

"Further attempts at escape will be futile, Potter," Tom said, his voice carrying an air of amusement that belied the seriousness of his warning. "Especially trying to recruit Bug for your schemes. I find your efforts rather… entertaining."

Potter, bristling at the condescension, shot back defiantly, "Is that so? Well, maybe you'll find it less amusing when I actually succeed."

Tom's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of annoyance in his eyes. "Careful, Potter. My patience isn't infinite. One day it might just run out. Now eat."

Potter looked at the food with undisguised distrust. Tom merely raised his eyebrows in a mocking gesture.

"I assure you, if I wanted to poison you, I wouldn't have cast all those spells I just cast on you."

Potter snorted under his breath, but the rumble in his stomach betrayed him. He reached for the meat platter and put the smallest of the thighs on his plate. As if on second thought, he topped it with potatoes and a rather substantial portion of salads. Tom allowed himself a small smirk. Apparently, even Potter was not immune to Bug's culinary talents. The chicken was perfectly cooked, as always, its golden skin crackling under their forks, and the baked potatoes were fluffy and warm.

They started eating.

This time it was Potter who broke the silence. “I’m surprised you have a house elf,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice. Good thing he had the decency to swallow before speaking. “Isn’t that usually a trait of old, wealthy families? You, after all, come from an orphanage.”

Tom's hand with fork paused for a fraction of a second, his grey eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The mention of the orphanage and the implications of his humble beginnings irked him, but he maintained his composure. "Bug was an inheritance from Abraxas Malfoy's uncle," he replied evenly. "After his death, Bug passed to Abraxas, who then decided to gift him to me."

Potter’s reaction to the name ‘Malfoy’ was subtle, but not subtle enough to escape Tom’s notice. He saw the flinch, the brief tightening of the boy’s features.

"Any bad associations with the name, Potter?" Tom inquired, his voice laced with a curiosity that was more probing than genuine.

The fork held by Potter was stabbed into the potato with evident anger.

"Why don't you figure that out yourself, Riddle? Abraxas is your school friend, or more like a servant, isn’t he?” Potter words were laced with sarcasm. “Considering I’ve defeated Lord Voldemort, including once sending him into oblivion for thirteen years, yours minions aren’t exactly fond of me.”

Tom felt a surge of irritation at the mention of Voldemort’s defeat, but he quelled it swiftly, schooling his features into an expression of detached interest.

"So... do you know Abraxas?"

"No, but perhaps his great-grandson," retorted Potter. It was clear that he held a rather strong grudge against the Malfoy family. Interesting. And worth remembering.

Tom took a sip of wine. With a gesture of his head, he pointed to Potter's unmoved carafe of pumpkin juice. “Help yourself, it's not poisoned either. And alcohol-free, if that bothers you."

"You know, I wouldn't trust the Malfoys either if I were you," Potter said casually, pouring pumpkin juice into his glass. "It was thanks to Lucius Malfoy that I managed to destroy your diary. And his house elf tried to warn me of his master's scheming."

Potter's intention was as clear as day — to bite and sting, just to get under Tom's nerve. But Tom was smarter than that. Though that careless mention of destroying a piece of his soul annoyed him. The champion of the light side? How nice.

"Who knows, maybe one day I'll take the warning," Tom replied smoothly, inwardly glad that he had already hidden the journal in a place Potter would never have access to.

The conversation halted, and the two ate in silence, the clinking of cutlery the only sound breaking the stillness. Tom observed Potter from above his plate, his gaze sharp and calculating. Potter, unaware or indifferent to the scrutiny, continued to eat in a manner that Riddle found distastefully adolescent. The way he tore the chicken with his fingers, the occasional smudge of food at the corner of his mouth — it was all so... unrefined.

Tom mused internally that if Potter were to be of any use in his further plans, he would need to teach the boy some manners. The thought both amusing and annoying.

o.O.o

Harry sipped his juice slowly, not because he was thirsty, but because it gave him something to do. He'd finished eating, put the cutlery back on his plate and... he didn't know what to do next. On the other side of the table sat Riddle - the very picture of composure and cold calm - showing no signs of wanting to leave the dining room.

Harry was torn between a desperate desire to escape Riddle's overwhelming presence and the uncertainty of being allowed to leave. He shivered in his chair — had he just started to think about whether or not he was allowed to do something in Riddle's presence? After one day?

Finally, Riddle's soft voice broke the tense silence. "Potter, if you're finished and want to leave, all you have to do is ask."

Annoyed that Riddle sounded like he was enjoying this, Harry asked in a casual, almost defiant tone, "Can I go then?"

"If you ask nicely," Riddle replied, leaning back. Even that he did with predatory grace.

Harry's rebellious spark flashed. "And how should I ask? Should I add some sort of honorifics? My Lord? Or is 'Sir' enough?"

"If you wish, you may indeed address me as such. Kneeling in greeting and calling me 'My Lord' would be appropriate, since I am now your master." Riddle's voice dripped with sarcasm, which only irritated Harry more.  "But you can call me Tom or Riddle if that suits you better. I would prefer you to remember your manners, though."

Harry's reaction was immediate and filled with indignation. "I'll stick with 'Riddle', thank you." He then asked with mocking politeness, "May I leave the table, Riddle?"

"No, you may not," came Riddle's curt reply.

Frustrated by the denial and the mind games, Harry stood up abruptly, as if to leave without permission. But he was stopped by Riddle's sharp tone.

"Sit down, Potter. I am not finished with you yet. We need to talk."

Slumping in his chair, Harry Potter could not have embodied the image of a rebellious teenager more perfectly if he tried. His arms crossed in defiance, his forehead furrowed in frustration. The condescending way Riddle treated him was more than just annoying, it was infuriating.

"So? What do you want to talk about?" Harry asked, his voice laced with barely concealed impatience.

Riddle didn't answer immediately. Instead, he snapped his fingers and summoned Bug to clear the table. The house elf, still visibly affected by the earlier punishment, quickly cleared the table and left the room.

Silence dragged on.

Tom Riddle eventually leaned forward and rested his clasped hands on the table, the picture of relaxed control. "Potter, I want you to help me change the future that awaits Lord Voldemort."

Harry, caught off guard, burst out laughing. "You've got to be kidding."

Riddle's expression didn't change. "On the contrary, I'm deadly serious," he said, his tone cool and measured.

The words seemed to hang in the air, charged with an unspoken gravity.

Harry's laughter died in his throat, replaced by a scowl. "You're out of your mind. And tell me, you think I'd agree to do this? After everything you've done to me? After the oath, the location spell, the muzzle?" His voice rose, a mixture of anger and disbelief.

"Yes, I do. I admit, if I had known from the beginning how important knowledge you have, I would have played it differently. But what happened happened, and I had to secure my secrets as best I could under the circumstances.” Riddle replied calmly, unfazed by Harry's outburst. “Now I could also make you cooperate, but I'd rather you did it of your own free will."

Harry scoffed, his expression mixed with disdain. "And tell me that I should thank you and appreciate your kindness," he retorted, his every word sarcastic.

"It would be appropriate," Riddle countered calmly. "Your voluntary cooperation will benefit both of us. I won't have to worry that you're up to something, planning to stab me in the back, and you'll gain more freedom over time."

Harry's eyes flickered with uncertainty, but he quickly hid it. "Leaving aside for the moment the absurdity of what you asked for, why do you want to change your future?"

Riddle's expression shifted, a brief flicker of disgust crossing his features. "Because the future that awaits Lord Voldemort is not one I find particularly appealing." There was a hint of contempt in his voice, a rare crack in his composed facade.

"Well, yeah, you will be defeated by an infant and then reborn as a noseless monster. I would find that repulsive too," Harry shot back, his words sharp and filled with grim satisfaction.

Riddle's eyes narrowed. "Watch your mouth, Potter." His voice was cold, a warning.

"But I'm just stating the facts," Harry replied, his eyes locked with Riddle's.

A moment of silence fell between them, heavy and charged. Harry's mind raced as he grappled with the reality of Riddle's intentions. "You really mean it..." Harry whispered finally and shook his head in disbelief. "Why would I even agree to this? Why would I want to help you?"

Riddle sat back, his eyes calculating. "Think, Potter. If I take a different path, those who died because of Voldemort might live. Your parents, for example."

Harry, annoyed at himself that Riddle's words had stirred something within him, countered with more anger than was necessary:

"And what would that other way be? Will you give up your ambitions? To become, I don't know, a salesman or something?

Riddle's laugh, though short, seemed to be genuine. "Who's talking about giving up ambitions? No, my main goals remain the same. I want to continue to explore the secrets of magic, I want to rule the world and shape it to my liking, but at the same time I want to avoid Voldemort's mistakes." His voice was calm, his gaze fixed on Harry, trying to gauge his reaction.

Harry couldn't believe his ears. No, the whole time travel thing had been a dream. A long, twisted nightmare.

"So, you're practically asking me to help you win this time and make your mark on the world. Forget it! My parents would probably rather be dead than live in a world ruled by you, by Voldemort."

Riddle sat more comfortably in his chair, his fingertip running over the rim of his glass. He did not give the impression that the course of the conversation was not going his way.

"It won't be Voldemort who rules, it will be me, Tom Riddle. A significant difference. Don't you think your parents should be allowed to make that decision for themselves?"

"They made their choice fifteen years ago when they gave their lives for me," Harry growled. "Besides, what difference does it make whether you rule under your real name or as Voldemort?"

Riddle's lips curled into a thin smile, his piercing grey eyes never leaving Harry's. “Significant,” he said smoothly. “My reign would be very different from Voldemort’s.” His voice was calm, controlled, each word carefully chosen for impact.

Harry leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "What kind of rule, then?"

"More rational ones," Riddle replied, his hands flat on the table.  "I don't know exactly what they'll look like yet, but that's a good thing." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if to tell Harry a secret. "Because then you'll be able to influence them. As my advisor, you will be able to influence my decisions and actively help shape the future."

Harry's heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing. A chance to influence, perhaps even prevent some of the horrors he knew were coming... Against his will, he began to think about it, the first 'what if' scenarios sprouting in his mind.  But the man before him was a master of manipulation And Harry could not let himself forget it. "And what guarantee do I have that you won't turn back into a Muggle-hunting mass murderer?"

"None, except my word. And your influence over me," Riddle replied, his voice soft, almost persuasive. "If I feel I can trust you, that you have our best interests at heart, I'll be more willing to listen to your advice."

Harry sneered, "Smooth talk. Only I'm too clever to believe you." He paused, his mind swirling with thoughts and doubts. "Besides, you haven't considered one thing. What if I don't want the future to change?"

Riddle smirked dismissively, as if Harry were a child merely delaying inevitable.

 "You don't? Don't you want to save all those people who died? Your parents? Sirius?"

"Shut up!" Harry's voice cracked, a wave of anger and pain washing over him. He slapped his hands on the table. "How dare you bring Sirius into this." The mention of Sirius was a low blow and it stung, reigniting the pain of loss that had been simmering just below the surface after Riddle's attack yesterday.

"I dare because I think you forget what's at stake," Riddle said coldly.

Harry's fists clenched. He hid them under the table. "I know exactly what is at stake. The lives of everyone I know and care about. What if, because of these games with the future, someone close to me isn't born?"

Riddle's eyes glittering with an almost predatory intensity. "Don't you think it's a bit late for such considerations? The future has already begun to change, I've already taken the first steps to change it. Now it's time for you to take yours. Would you rather be a passive observer, or have an active influence on what the world will be like from your future?"

Harry's jaw clenched. "What if neither role suits me? What if I refuse?"

Tom Riddle's response was chilling in its simplicity and coldness. "Then, Potter, I will consider it an act of disobedience. Under the terms of your oath, I could strip you of your magic or even end your life." He paused, a sinister calmness in his voice. "But death would be too kind, too swift. First I'd extract from you everything you know about the future, and then I'd confine you, let those dear to you be born, grow up, and then... eliminate them, one by one. And I'll make you to watch at this."

Harry felt a wave of horror wash over him, freezing him to his core. The casual way Riddle spoke of such atrocities, as if discussing mundane plans for the next day, was terrifying.

"So what kind of offer is this, then?" Harry challenged, his voice tinged with a mix of fear and defiance. "On one hand, you propose a partnership, and on the other, you threaten to kill everyone I care about if I don't agree. That's not a choice at all."

Riddle sighed, as if disgusted by Harry's lack of insight.

"It's a matter of perspective, Potter. I'm offering you a chance to shape the future, to save lives. The alternative is merely the consequence of your decision. Either I know I can trust you and let you act and help me, or I'll use you and then lock you up somewhere where you won't disturb me. I think it's just fair to let you know all the possibilities."

Harry scoffed. "Fair? You talk about not wanting to become the monster Voldemort was, yet here you are, using his very tactics. Do you really expect me to take your offer of cooperation seriously after a threat like that?"

Riddle regarded Harry with a contemplative gaze. "You misunderstand, Potter. My methods may be harsh, but my goals will be different. I am looking for a way to make my mark on the world that is not defined by fear and destruction. Your knowledge of the future is a tool in achieving that. It's not about right or wrong; it's about power and the ability to shape your destiny in your own way. Unlike you, I do not believe that my fate is a foregone one."

Harry felt a knot of frustration in his stomach. Riddle's words were a twisted web of logic and manipulation, designed to corner him into submission. Yet the stakes were too high to agree, and at the same time the consequences of refusal too dire to do so rashly.

Riddle, seemingly reading the conflict on Harry's face, added, "You don't have to decide now, Potter. Take your time. Let me know your decision tomorrow at breakfast, nine o'clock. Be on time."

With that, Riddel stood up, his movements fluid and controlled. "Return to your room and have a restful night, Potter," he said, his voice laced with a mocking politeness. "And please, no escape attempts."

Harry watched as Riddle walked away, sitting motionless, the weight of Riddle's ultimatum pressing heavily on him.

o.O.o

Riddle's flat was not very large and Harry easily found his way to the room where he had spent the last two days. He was far from calling it his room, but as Riddle had not located him anywhere else, Harry assumed that this was the place Riddle had in mind when he told him to go back to his room.

The events of the day had left Harry physically and mentally drained, a torrent of emotions and thoughts swirling in his head. As he opened the door, a wave of warmth greeted him, the room aglow with the comforting light of a crackling fire in the fireplace. Bug, it seemed, had lit the fire in his absence.

Grateful for the appearance of comfort, Harry let out a tired sigh. His eyes fell on the bathroom door. A bath, yes, that was what he needed, especially as he hadn't washed in two days. Maybe it would at least clear his head a little. Filling the tub to the brim with hot water and foam, he soon found himself immersed in the soothing warmth. The steam rose around him, creating a cocoon that felt removed from the rest of the world.

As he lay there, the warmth penetrating his tired muscles, Harry's eyes were fixed on the ceiling, his thoughts swirling as fervently as the steam rising around him. He replayed the conversation with Tom Riddle in his mind, weighing every word, every implication. The suggestion of changing the future — it was a concept so vast, so full of unknowns, it made his head spin. The potential to save lives, to prevent the rise of Voldemort — it was tempting, incredibly tempting. But at what cost?

The vision of willingly working with Tom Riddle, the future Dark Lord, was abhorrent to him. He could almost hear Ron's disbelieving voice, Hermione's logical arguments, Dumbledore's disapproving gaze and the condemning looks of the members of the Order of the Phoenix. How could he, Harry Potter, even consider helping a man who had become the epitome of evil? Besides, Harry was under no illusion that this would be a partnership of equals; Riddle had made it clear over the past two days who would have the upper hand in this arrangement. And the prospect of becoming Tom Riddle's man was even more repulsive than the mere thought of working together.

Despite Harry's deep distrust of Riddle, the thought of how many people he could save lingered like a stubborn fog. But at the same time, Harry couldn't forget that the man was a master manipulator, and his intentions were as dark as the depths of the darkest oceans. What if it was all a ruse, an elaborate trap designed to entrap Harry even further?

Yet Harry couldn't shake the memory of Riddle's reaction during their first Legilimency attack. The fear and disgust Harry had involuntarily felt, the fear and disgust Riddle had felt at knowing his future fate — it was so real. Was it possible that there was a part of Riddle that really wanted to avoid becoming the monster Harry had known in his time?

Taking a deep breath, Harry submerged himself completely, the sounds of the outside world muffled, his thoughts temporarily suspended in the cocoon of warmth and silence. He remained there, in the enveloping stillness, until his lungs begged for air.

As he broke through the surface, quickly catching his breath, a sense of clarity began to form in his mind. If Riddle could play games, so could he. He could agree to help, feign loyalty, while looking for ways to undermine Riddle's plans and find his way back to his own time. His agreement now did not bind his future actions; it was a means to an end, a ruse in the larger scheme of things.

With this newfound determination, Harry rose from the bath, the water running off him in rivulets. He wrapped a towel around himself, the fabric rough against his skin, grounding him in the reality of his situation. He had a role to play, a façade to maintain, but beneath it all he was still Harry Potter — the boy who had faced countless dangers, the young wizard who had defied the odds time and time again. With a silent, unspoken vow, Harry Potter decided that he would enter the game, the game where the stakes were higher than ever, and not only would he enter, but he would win. But he would play by his own rules.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER FIVE —

Summit talks

"You're late," Tom Riddle remarked, his voice carrying a hint of reprimand as he casually scooped scrambled eggs onto his plate.

Harry, taking the same seat as the previous evening, shrugged nonchalantly. “I don’t have a clock in my room,” he pointed out, his voice calm despite the undercurrent of tension. He ruffled his unruly hair with his hand, realising, as he looked at Riddle's immaculate hairstyle, that he had forgotten to comb it in the morning rush. He glanced sideways at the window to hide his growing unease.

The sky outside was a blanket of grey clouds, no snow falling today. Morning light filtered through the window, soft and dim. Inside, the fireplace was crackling warmly, and the table was full of food made by Bug. But the dining room still felt gloomy and cold, perhaps because Harry, after a night without sleep yet full of restless thoughts and plans, felt the same way.

"My oversight. I'll take care of it, but remember, I will not tolerate lateness in the future. Nor sloppiness," Riddle said, then added pointing to the food on the table: "Help yourself. If you want anything else, let me know. I'll have Bug prepare it."

Harry, slightly taken aback by this uncharacteristic mix of strictness and concern, hesitated before replying, "No, this is fine," he said, carefully pouring himself a cup of tea. The steam rose in gentle swirls, reminding him of mornings at Hogwarts spent with Ron and Hermione.

An absurdly strong longing suddenly hit him.

Not now.

They ate in silence for a few moments. Harry added sausages, bread and scrambled eggs to his plate, but his appetite was tempered by the gravity of the situation. The clatter of cutlery on plates echoed around the room as they ate breakfast.

Together.

In a civilised way.

Finally, Riddle broke the silence, his voice casual, as if asking about the weather. He didn't even put down his cutlery or stop eating. "Have you considered my proposal?"

Harry, who had been anticipating this moment since he entered the room, put down his fork and straightened up. "I have," he replied, meeting Riddle's gaze with a calmness that belied his inner turmoil.

"And...?"

Harry took a deep breath.

"I am willing to accept your offer, but I have my conditions."

Perhaps it was cowardice on his part, but I'll help you wouldn't have passed his lips. Just like the choice of words would change anything.

"Conditions?" Riddle raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing on his lips, as if amused by the audacity of Harry having conditions in his current predicament. "You're in no position to make demands, Potter."

Harry's jaw tightened, but he maintained his composure. "Maybe not," he conceded, "but if you want my genuine cooperation, you'll hear me out. I… I…" Come on, don't be a coward. "I'll help you, but only if it means creating a better world, not the nightmare you're destined for. No innocent lives taken, no reign of terror."

He said that. I'll help you. His parents must be turning over in their graves.

"And these are your terms?" Riddle asked offhandedly. With an elegant movement, he cut off a piece of sausage and put it in his mouth.

Harry looked at Riddle in a way that he hoped expressed absolute disdain.

"You know, I think I've changed my mind."

That finally made Riddle take Harry seriously. He swallowed his sausage, slowly put his fork down on his plate and looked at him attentively.

"I'm listening, then. What are your terms?"

Harry shifted uneasily in his chair. This was it, the point of no return.

"First," Harry began, his voice steady despite the swirl of emotion inside, "as I said, no deliberate harm to Muggles or innocent witches and wizards. And no killing, of course."

Tom Riddle's piercing grey eyes narrowed slightly.

"You are asking for the impossible, Potter. The path to power isn't always clean. I cannot promise never to harm the innocent," he replied, his tone devoid of remorse.

"It's not negotiable," Harry said firmly.

"I won’t have my hands tied in this matter," Riddle replied icily.

Harry had expected this refusal and resistance, and yet he felt disappointed.

"So, our deal is off. You said you wanted to change your future. Terrorising and killing the innocent is Voldemort's trademark. And you were supposed to be different." Harry let frustration colour his voice, wanting it to be clear how important this matter was to him.

"You should appreciate the honesty, Potter. I might agree and then torture and kill anyway." There was a note of warning in Riddle's voice.

Harry snorted in disbelief. And to think that just five minutes ago he had deluded himself into thinking that these negotiations could make any sense.

Riddle reached for a cup and took a sip of his tea. He set it down on the saucer with a soft click and sighed.

"I can, however, agree to limit myself slightly in this case. If I promise not to torture and kill others for the mere pleasure of spreading terror and fear, is that enough for you?"

No, it wasn’t enough. But knowing Voldemort's true nature, it was a step forward.

"If by innocent you mean Muggles, witches and wizards who might disagree with you," Harry replied, looking Riddle straight in the eyes.

Riddle was silent for a moment, as if seriously considering Harry's condition. Finally, he nodded.

"So be it. But if anyone tries to threaten my plans, I reserve the right to respond. In an effective way. And of course, I make no promises of complete harmlessness."

Harry let out a breath: the first behind them. He doubted Riddle would keep his word, but since he had no intention of sticking to their agreement either, he figured he could pretend that this satisfied him. It was a concession, after all.

"Agreed."

Riddle looked at him. A difficult to interpret smile appeared on his lips.

"Anything else?"

"I've only just started."

"Feel free," Riddle said, his amusement becoming even more obvious. "I hope you won't mind if I finish my breakfast in the meantime then."

"Feel free,", replied Harry, mimicking him. This insolence came with surprising ease although he never for a moment forgot that the future Dark Lord was sitting opposite him. Yet the fact that he looked only a few years older than Harry made him seem less intimidating than Voldemort.

Riddle cut off a piece of sausage and scooped it onto a fork. It flashed through Harry's mind in spite of himself that even such a mundane activity he was doing with incredible grace.

"So?" Riddle prompted as he had swallowed.

"I want my advice to be taken seriously, especially the ones regarding the future. You need to listen and consider what I say," said Harry.

The response was quick and unexpected.

"Agreed. Your knowledge of the future is precisely why you're valuable to me. I intend to use it to avoid the fate of Lord Voldemort."

It was too easy.

"Riddle, I really do expect you to take my advice."

Riddle's eyes glittered with predatory intelligence. "Rest assured, Potter, your insights will be taken into account. But remember, the final decision is mine."

Ah, so that was the catch.

Harry nodded, his expression hardening. "I will. But as your... advisor, I also expect freedom of action," he said and moved on to the next condition.

Even he was surprised by his calmness, but as the negotiations moved forward, his confidence grew.

Riddle, who was cutting another piece of sausage, raised an eyebrow.

"Freedom? In what sense?" His tone was laced with both curiosity and a hint of amusement. Again.

This was starting to irritate Harry.

"I want to be able to make my own choices. I won't just be a mindless puppet," Harry said, pushing his plate away from him. Although he didn't eat everything he put on himself, he didn't feel hungry. Then he rested his elbows on the table and crossed his arms.

Riddle replied only after he had eaten another portion of sausage. "Once you have proved your loyalty and usefulness, you will be given more freedom. But for now, you must follow my orders strictly."

Harry’s jaw tightened. “If our partnership is to succeed from the start I need some autonomy, even if it is limited."

Riddle's lips curled into a half-smile, as if amused by Harry's audacity.

"And you will get it. But in time. Besides, I never talked about a partnership, I talked about you helping me. "

"You know, Riddle, there's a difference between a helper and a prisoner," Harry pointed out, his green eyes flashing with defiance. "If you want my genuine cooperation, not just forced compliance, you have to give me some space."

Riddle leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Harry.

"How about starting with the freedom to express your opinion without fear of the consequences? Within reason, of course, with proper manners and never in public if it goes against my basic ideas. In public, you have to keep up appearances. Always." Riddle said the last sentence in a tone that left no doubt that only unpleasant things awaited Harry if he did not comply.

Harry nodded, though his expression showed clear dissatisfaction. “And if I disagree with some of your orders?”

Riddle's eyes twinkled with something like challenge. "Then you may express it, in private. And under the same conditions. But in the end, my word is final. Don't forget the Oath of Submission you swore to me. It still binds you."

"Don't forget that I also have my moral convictions. I'm not going to obey any order that goes against them. I'll never hurt anyone. Nor will I use black magic."

Riddle ate the last piece of sausage, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. Instead of commenting on Harry's statement in any way, he asked:

"Have you finished eating?"

Harry, surprised by this change of subject, said: "Yes," then immediately added with evident anger: "Did you hear what I just said?"

Riddle snapped his fingers and almost instantly Bug materialised in the room.

"We've finished. Clean up the table," he instructed the house elf.

Bug eagerly set about carrying out the order. When the house elf saw that Harry had hardly touched the food he had put on his plate, he looked at him with a mixture of anger and reproach. As if the fact that Harry had not eaten his scrambled eggs was a personal insult to Bug.

Great. The last thing Harry needed to complete his happiness was to live with a house elf who clearly had something against him. What was wrong with these creatures?

"As I said, I grant you the right to speak freely," Riddle said, returning to an earlier topic as Bug Disapparated with a soft click. His tone was icy cold. "If you present convincing arguments, there is a chance that I will change the orders that don't suit you or are contrary to your morals."

It was a lot less than Harry had hoped for, but it had to be enough for him to start with. If his plan worked out, he wouldn't have to worry about it for long.

"Fine", Harry said, sighing a little too ostentatiously. And then he moved on to the next condition. Instinctively, he straightened up and hid his hands under the table, crossing his fingers. This one was the most important in terms of his real plans. "I want my wand back. Mainly so I can start learning magic again. In case you missed it, I'm in the middle of my sixth year."

Riddle picked up a cup and sipped at his tea. He didn't take his eyes off Harry, and there was something in his gaze that the boy didn't like.

Harry felt a surge of heat. Was his plan that obvious?

"Concerned about your education, are we? Rest assured, Potter, it won't be neglected. I'll see to it personally."

"I meant studying alone," Harry shot back, a little too harshly. The prospect of a lessons together increased his irritation. That was not the plan. Not to mention that with Riddle breathing down his neck, he wouldn't have a chance to peacefully looking for a way back to his own time. “Not under you. I can handle it on my own, just give me the wand and access to the books."

"To refuse such an offer is foolish, Potter," Riddle said calmly, putting his cup back on its saucer. "Let us not forget how easily I defeated you in our duel. Your magical training is quite lacking."

Harry's jaw clenched. He knew deep down that Riddle was right, but admitting it was another matter. "My shortcomings haven't stopped me from defeating Voldemort before," he replied.

"This time, however, defeating Voldemort is not your goal. I want you to be useful, so I need to know if you can do more than you showed before."

"I thought my usefulness was limited to helping you change your fate."

"Yes, it is. But sometimes that might require a more... active approach," Riddle replied, leaning back in his chair with a smug look on his face.

They both knew he had backed Harry into a corner.

"Fine. But I'm not going to learn any black magic spells." Harry declared immediately. He crossed his arms over his chest.

Riddle's gaze was unwavering. "What you will learn is up to me — be it spells, potion brewing, or even the darker arts."

"No black magic. Neither on my part nor on yours. This, by the way, is one of my next conditions. It’s non-negotiable."

"Well, I guess it will have to be, though," Riddle replied, still surprisingly calm and with this infuriating expression.

"No," replied Harry firmly. Stubbornness laced his voice. "It was dark magic that brought Voldemort to the state he's in. It was what made him so weak that a one-year-old child could send him into oblivion for thirteen years."

A shadow of annoyance flashed across Riddle's face. Oh yes, it was a touchy subject.

"Only because he allowed himself to be consumed by it. I will not make that mistake," Riddle replied dryly.

"How do you know? Voldemort probably thought the same. And look how he ended up."

"Because I have you. I'm sure that if you notice that I'm taking the same path as him, you'll tell me right away."

The bluntness of this statement left Harry almost speechless.

"That's what I'm doing right now, and you're not listening to me!" Harry said, annoyed. "I'm supposed to give you advice. This is my first piece of advice: give up black magic. Stop using it."

Riddle sighed, as if he were dealing with a particularly stubborn child.

"I know what fate awaits Voldemort and believe me I have no intention of sharing it. But black magic is not just a tool of destruction. It's a source of power, knowledge. To limit ourselves to acceptable magic is to fight with one hand tied behind our backs. Besides, understanding dark magic is crucial, even if you plan to fight against it."

Harry's hands clenched into fists under the table. "I don't need to delve into darkness to know it's wrong. There's a line that shouldn't be crossed."

Riddle leaned slightly across the table towards Harry.

“What if returning to your own time requires a dark magic ritual?” he asked quietly, almost confidentially. "Are you going to be so principled then too?"

Harry also leaned towards Riddle. He looked him straight in the eye.

"Then I'll just start looking another way."

Riddle straightened up and laughed quietly.

"That childish naivety..." He shook his head. "Good luck with that, especially as the magic involved in time travel has its roots precisely in black magic."

"You're lying," hissed Harry.

Riddle shrugged his shoulder.

"Well, I guess I'll have to let you find out that for yourself. And back to your condition. I won't allow any restrictions on this matter. Black magic is part of my nature, and I will not abandon my studies of it. However, I can agree not to push you too much on learning it. Especially since our duel showed that you are deficient in more basic areas of magic, and they will be dealt with first. Does that suit you?"

"What do you mean you won't push me too much on learning it?" asked Harry, narrowing his eyes.

"I will require you to learn the basics. We will move on to more advanced aspects only if you start showing a more mature approach."

The mention of a more mature approach was probably meant to sting Harry, but it was completely misplaced. If it was about the dark arts Riddle might even have thought he was displaying the attitude of a toddler, he wouldn't have cared.

Harry hesitated, weighing Riddle's words. "Learning the basic. And only basics. But not using," he said slowly, trying to find a middle ground. "And you'll give me back my wand."

Riddle raised an eyebrow mockingly.

"You want to learn spells without casting them? If that's the standard way of learning in your time, then I'm not surprised I won so easily with you."

Harry snorted in exasperation, despite himself being reminded of Umbridge's approach. This remark has already reached the target.

"Only when it comes to black magic," he stated firmly.

"And here I thought you were serious about these negotiations," Riddle said, disgust evident in his voice.

Harry bristled. He was serious. But he also realised that what he was insisting on was absurd. It was impossible to learn magic theoretically.

"I won't be casting those spells on any living creature," he reluctantly relented, deciding that if anything, he'd just not bother with learning.

Riddle nodded, clearly satisfied.

"Agreed. You will, of course, have access to the wand during our classes. But only when you have convinced me that you will not take the first opportunity to escape will you have your wand back for good."

"Acceptable. I would also like to reserve the right to refuse an order if it involves cursing someone or using a dark magic spell".

"For now, let's settle on this: you won't be required to use dark magic on any living being, until you are ready. And I will not force such readiness upon you."

Harry hesitated, weighing his options. It was a compromise he could live with for the time being, although not quite what he expected. Finally, he nodded slowly. "Fine. But I can assure you even now that I will never be ready for that, Riddle. Don't delude yourself into thinking otherwise."

Riddle's smile was thin, almost predatory. "We'll see, Potter. Time has a way of changing perspectives."

Harry felt a momentary relief, tempered by lingering concern. "I'm not going to become something I'm not, Riddle. No matter how much time will pass."

Riddle didn't answer but drank his tea. Harry reached for his own cup as well.

"Anything else?"

"There are two more conditions."

"You drive a hard bargain."

"You didn't expect me to sell my skin cheap, did you?"

Riddle smiled slightly, just at the corners of his mouth. He waved his hand for Harry to continue.

Harry swallowed the contents of the cup in one gulp and set it down on the saucer.

"No more Legilimency. My thoughts, my memories — they stay mine." he stated, a determined glint in his eyes.

He was proud of himself: his voice didn't tremble. And he wasn't sure about that, not after the mental rape Riddle had subjected him to two days ago.

Surprisingly, it took some time before Riddle responded. His answer was as calculated as it was measured.

"I cannot forgo such a useful tool, Potter. However, I can agree to respect your privacy to a certain extent, but should I deem it necessary to verify your honesty, I will use Legilimency." There was a hint of steel in his eyes. "I can also offer to ask your permission first and… be gentle about it. Unless, of course, you're caught in a lie. In that case, I reserve the right to use it without warning or permission."

"So, my thoughts are only my own until you decide otherwise? That's hardly reassuring, Riddle!"

And his composure was gone.

Riddle's expression remained impassive. "Well, you will have to trust me not to abuse my right to look through your thoughts, just as I have to trust you to be honest with me."

Harry snorted.

"Consider it a privilege, Potter. Others don't receive such courtesy."

"It's hardly a privilege when someone warns you that he's about to invade your mind."

Riddle leaned back, a thin smile playing on his lips. "It's the best I can offer. Take it or leave it."

Harry clenched his hands hidden under the table into fists. His nails dug painfully into his flesh.

"Will you respect my refusal if you don't catch me in a lie?"

"Unless I have a real good reason not to."

That wasn't the answer he was expecting. It still depended on whether Riddle would have such a whim or not.

"Promise at least that you will never.... never again do what you did last time," asked Harry tentatively, angry with himself for saying it after all.

The expression on Riddle's face grew serious. However, that was not what surprised Harry the most.

"You have my word."

"Thanks," replied Harry quietly, looking away. He was embarrassed by his request, his reaction, but it had already happened. Besides, Riddle was well aware of the state he had led him into during that damned memory lane, it wasn't as if he had betrayed any of his weaknesses.

There was silence in the dining room, which was finally broken by Riddle.

"Then there's one more left, right? Let's get it over with."

Harry pulled himself together. He hoped they would discuss this condition quickly.

"I want a vow of non-aggression. No direct harm to each other."

Riddle's response was immediate.

"That wouldn't be wise. What if I want us to have a practice duel? After such an oath it will be impossible."

"Then we'll exclude the duel from it."

Riddle shook his head. "No. I can promise you that I won't hurt you just for the pleasure of inflicting pain, if that's what you're afraid of. But I need to keep some way of disciplining you."

"Discipline me?" Harry repeated dully.

"Yes. I don't think you expect to get away with it when you misbehave." Riddle leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, smiling smugly.

"You must be joking!"

"On the contrary, I'm deadly serious."

Harry looked at Riddle for a moment in genuine bewilderment.

"And what will this discipline supposedly look like?" he finally asked despite himself when it reached him that Riddle really wasn't joking.

Wasn't it enough that he was in danger of losing his magic because of this stupid Oath of Submission?

"Crucio. Its length would depend on the offence, of course."

"You're fucked," snapped Harry.

"Language, Potter," Riddle reprimanded him, narrowing his grey eyes slightly. "The next time I hear you swear, verbal reprimand will be the last thing I do."

A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine, but he asked defiantly, "Then what? Are you going to throw Crucio at me?"

"Yes, I will."

He didn't even hesitate.

"And you don't see an inch of exaggeration in that?"

"Why should I? It's a convenient and effective way to maintain discipline. I've been using it for years."

In the mouth of a twenty-year-old, it sounded... Scary, to say the least.

"Fuck it. You are Voldemort, no matter what you say." Harry pushed himself angrily away from the table. The chair squeaked.

Riddle's gaze was ice cold. So was his tone.

"Sit down. Unless you really want us to work together in a painful way. I will not give up on punishing you. And your behaviour only confirms my belief that I shouldn't. You’re an impulsive teenager who needs to learn to control his emotions if he is to be useful."

Harry struggled with his thoughts for a moment but finally sank back into his chair. "At least suggest something other than Crucio. You know, in my time, throwing it will get you into Azkaban."

"In these too," Riddle replied calmly, taking a more relaxed pose. He looked at Harry thoughtfully for a moment.

"Judging by your reaction, Crucio will be quite an effective punishment," he said after a moment of silence. Harry was about to protest, but Riddle silenced him with a wave of his hand. "However, so that you don't get used to it too quickly, I can make some concessions. I'll save Crucio for special occasions."

This didn't calm Harry down at all.

"What special occasions?" he asked with a lump in his throat.

"Attempting to run away, defying me in front of others, blatant disrespect, failure to obey an important direct order," Riddle began to list.

"That's quite a lot, don't you think?" Harry remarked sarcastically. "Why don't you write this down somewhere?"

"Of course, in case of betrayal Crucio will be the least of your problems," Riddle continued, as if he hadn't heard what Harry had just said. "On the other hand, for swearing, insolence such as the one just now, disrespect or defiance when we are alone, or failure to obey some not particularly significant order, I can agree to a less drastic punishment."

"That's mean?"

Riddle spoke slowly, as if he was thinking about it himself at the same time.

"Depriving you of some privileges, taking away your wand temporarily, some sort of light curse, maybe even physical punishment. Unless you have any suggestions of your own, you'd like to add to the list."

"A verbal reprimand?" prompted Harry, in a mocking tone.

To his surprise, Riddle took the suggestion seriously.

"Could be, although I thought it was obvious. So? Are you satisfied with such terms?"

Harry was silent for a moment, unable to believe the absurdity of what was happening. Had he just discussed with the future murderer of his parents how he would be punished? And... was he willing to agree to it? Even if it was only to maintain the appearance of cooperation, the thought of allowing Riddle to cast Crucio on him without protest disgusted him.

Riddle misinterpreted Harry's silence. "Just obey, Potter, and you won't have to worry about punishment or pain."

"I'm not afraid of pain," Harry replied coolly. "I just find the very idea of punishment absurd."

"You are now in my care, as my ward. You are still a minor, after all. So I am, literally, your guardian and, thanks to one of your conditions today, your teacher as well," Riddle pointed out. He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. More surprisingly, there was no trace of mockery or sarcasm in his voice. "That’s mean my role is also to discipline you when necessary. I will not give up on that. The question is whether you would prefer me to always do it with Crucio, or whether you would appreciate and accept my concessions."

"But apart from punishments and situations where you will teach me how to fight you will not hurt me," Harry demanded assurance, trying to ignore other feelings than utter dismay.

Because, despite his trepidation, Riddle's statement also stirred something in him that had been dormant long, long ago, during the dark, lonely nights he had spent in the cupboard under the stairs.

You are now in my care.

Riddle nodded curtly.

"You have my word."

"Raise your wand at me in any other situation and I’ll consider our agreement no longer binding."

"If you break any of our agreements today, you may also treat our agreement as such. Just don't forget that I have other ways of forcing your cooperation. And then it won't necessarily be as civilised as it is now."

Harry nodded. Riddle stood up and held out his hand.

"Do we have a deal?"

Well, the negotiations hadn't exactly gone Harry's way, but he'd managed to get a few things.

"We do. As long as we both stick to the terms we've set today."

Harry shook Riddle's hand.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER SIX —

Ups and downs, part I

"Follow me," Tom Riddle ordered, rising from the table as their negotiation ended. Harry had no choice but to obey.

As they passed through the massive double doors into the living room, Riddle's voice echoed off the empty walls. "The dining room, living room and library are the three rooms you will have free access to," he announced, moving quickly through the living room. "You won't be able to use the kitchen without a wand anyway, so if you want something to eat or drink, call Bug."

Harry barely had time to take in his surroundings; the living room was vast, yet minimalist in its furnishings. The high windows, heavy curtains and large fireplace all spoke of a subdued opulence. Through another equally massive double door they passed into the library, a room that mirrored the living room in its grandeur but seemed more intimate.

Shelves lined the entire wall, reaching up to the high ceiling. A sliding ladder stood still, giving access to the collections above. To Harry's surprise, however, most of the shelves were empty. He also noticed a heavy, dark desk under the window before Riddle caught his attention again.

The future Dark Lord settled into an armchair opposite the fireplace, which crackled and popped, casting a warm glow over his sharp features. He seated with an air of casual elegance, one leg crossed over the other, his gaze fixed on Harry with unnerving intensity.

"Sit down," he gestured to the chair opposite him. Harry sat on the edge, his posture rigid, the complete opposite of Riddle's relaxed demeanour. Harry was still processing the weight of his promise. The uncertainty of what lay ahead hung heavily in the air.

Riddle's tone was light yet probing. "Let me guess, Gryffindor."

Harry, caught off guard, gave a small nod. "Was there ever any doubt?" he retorted, trying to inject some of his usual defiance into the conversation.

A faint smirk played on Riddle's lips. "Never," he responded coolly. "Typical Gryffindor bravado."

"Bravado for some, bravery for others," Harry shot back, his voice tinged with a defiant edge. "I take pride in that."

"We'll take care of that yet, don't be afraid," Riddle promised, and sounded supremely ominous. "And by the way, who babysits Gryffindors in your day?"

"Minerva McGonagall."

"And the Slytherins? Still Slughorn?"

Harry shook his head.

"No, he was only pulled down by Dumbledore this year. Severus Snape."

Riddle, contemplative, tapped his fingers against his chin. "I don't recognize those names."

Harry couldn't resist a smirk. "Severus Snape was one of your Death Eaters. He switched sides, siding with Dumbledore. When Voldemort returned, he played both sides as a double agent. Allegedly."

Riddle's eyes narrowed slightly. "Death Eaters?"

"That's what you named your followers."

A look of distaste crossed Riddle's face. "What a unpleasant name."

"I couldn't agree more," said Harry.

Riddle sighed and waved his hand dismissively. "But that's part of a future that will never happen. Back to Hogwarts... Sixth year, right? So are you already after the O.W.T.s, or are they no longer held in your time?"

Harry cringed at the mere mention of exams.

"Luckily I'm past them."

"What were your grades?" Riddle pressed.

Harry, sceptical, responded, "Of everything we could discuss, you're curious about my O.W.L. results?"

Riddle simply shrugged, the gesture deceptively nonchalant. "Would discussing why my future self attempts to murder you be more to your liking?"

"That would at least make more sense," Harry retorted.

Riddle studied Harry intently, the firelight casting shadows in his grey eyes. "Well, then?"

Harry shifted in his seat, feeling the absurdity of the situation weigh heavily upon him. Discussing school grades with the young version of Voldemort was a level of surreal he hadn't anticipated. "I don't see why it matters," he muttered, more to himself than to Riddle.

"It matters," Riddle began, his voice smooth and persuasive, "because it helps me understand your strengths and weaknesses. I did promise to oversee your education, after all."

With a resigned sigh, Harry relented. On second thought, talking about grades was better than talking about Voldemort. "O in Defense Against the Dark Arts, Es in Charms, Potions, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures, and Herbology. A in Astronomy, P in Divination, D in History of Magic."

"And what of Ancient Runes? Numerology? Latin?" he prodded.

"I didn't take those," Harry admitted.

Riddle's face twisted into an expression of obvious contempt. "You neglect the foundational studies of magic for... Divination? And Care of Magical Creatures? How… unambitious."

Harry bristled at the slight. "You know, I had other priorities than just school, like fighting the most feared wizard in history," he snapped.

Riddle's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Of course, how could I forget? No need for extensive knowledge to do that, right? Do you really think your 'O' in Defense is sufficient against the most powerful wizard of our era?"

Harry held Riddle's gaze firmly. "I've held my own against you so far."

Riddle's eyebrow arched, his smile sardonic. "Indeed? I hadn't noticed. After all, it took little effort to overpower you."

"Well, it seems that your reflexes have got worse with age. Besides, exam grades do not reflect the level of knowledge."

Harry said it just to get Riddle to let him go, but the carelessly spoken words fell on fertile ground.

"Perhaps you have a point. Let's put your knowledge to the test, shall we?"

Harry's wariness spiked. "What do you mean?"

"Just a few questions," Riddle said casually.

"And will you leave me alone after that?"

"That depends on your answers."

Harry sighed. He didn't have much of a choice anyway. Taking a more comfortable position, he leaned back against the back of the seat.

"Ask your questions."

Riddle needed no further encouragement. He barraged Harry with a flood of questions, from Trasmutation to Herbology, throwing in Astronomy, Spells and Potions along the way. Harry, well aware of his strengths and weaknesses, tried to answer as best he could. Riddle did not comment on his answers, even when it was clear that Harry had no idea what he was talking about. But when he was asked about the difference between monkshood and aconite, Riddle couldn't stand it.

“Monkshood is poisonous... and aconite isn't?" Harry guessed, uncertainty in his voice.

Riddle squirmed in disdain. "They're the same, also known as wolfsbane. Basic knowledge, Potter."

"Maybe for you," retorted Harry angrily. "You could've just said wolfsbane."

Riddle's disapproval was evident. "Clearly, there's more work to be done than I anticipated." he sighted. With a sparsely yet elegant wave of his wand he summoned a book. The spell was cast non-verbally, of course.

The book landed with a soft thud on the low coffee table between them. It was ancient, its cover worn and pages yellowed with age.

"This," Riddle said, tapping the cover with a slender finger, "is The Compendium of Transmutation. You will study the first three chapters. Thoroughly. You have three days."

Harry glanced at the book, feeling a sinking sensation in his stomach. "Three days? That's not enough time to— "

"Three days, Potter," Riddle interrupted, his voice brooking no argument. "I expect you to be ready for a quiz on the material Wednesday evening. Your proper education has just started."

And with this unusual order, two of the strangest weeks of Harry's life began. Two weeks that he would remember as a period of ups and downs, two weeks that laid the foundation for his relationship with Tom Riddle.

o.O.o

Tom Riddle didn't bother to knock  — he just opened the door and walked into the room Potter was in. The sooner the boy gets used to the fact that there is no privacy in his new life, the better.

Contrary to Tom's expectations, he was not greeted with snide remarks or disgruntled looks. Instead, he found the boy lying on his bed, his glasses still on his nose, his head resting on an open book, The Compendium of Transmutation. A thin line of saliva dripped from the corner of Potter's mouth.

Riddle's eyelid twitched.

Saliva. On his book.

"Well, Potter," Tom's voice cut through the silence sharply, "I do hope this is a result of diligent study and not sheer boredom." His voice, smooth yet edged with a hint of sarcasm, echoed in the spare furnished room.

Startled, Potter jerked awake, his glasses askew on his face. Blinking quickly, he looked up to find Tom's piercing gaze fixed on him. "Wha– Oh, it's you," the boy muttered, quickly sitting up on the bed. "What do you want, Riddle?"

Tom's eyes narrowed slightly at this impertinent question.

"I've come to see how your studies are progressing," he replied, his tone cool and measured. "I trust you're finding the material... enlightening?"

Potter, now fully awake, straightened his glasses and replied with a hint of defiance, "It's going very well, actually. Thank you for asking."

An eyebrow arched sceptically, Tom surveyed Potter. "Is that so?" He took a few slow steps, approaching the boy. Potter, still sitting on the bed, visibly flinched. "Because, from what I've been informed, you've spent more time exploring my flat for an escape route than perusing those pages."

Potter’s expression faltered momentarily, but he quickly regained his composure. "Well, a bit of exploration never hurt anyone, did it?"

Riddle narrowed his eyes.

"As long as you fulfil your duties conscientiously. But we'll find out in two days." He looked down at the boy. "Stand up and show me your hands," he ordered.

Potter didn't look like he had any intention of obeying. This was beginning to irritate Tom more and more. He had to eradicate this unwanted trait from the boy quickly.

"Potter, make me repeat an order again and you will really regret it," he said in an icy tone.

At least this finally worked.

With a reluctant sigh, Potter finally stood beside Tom and held out his hands. The numerous burn marks on his hands were tangible evidence of the boy's attempts to escape. So Bug wasn't exaggerating when he said that Potter had tried every door and window, desperately looking for a way out. Well, it was a good thing Riddle had seen this coming and put a spell on every escape route.

Tom watched the boy's hands for a moment with cold interest, wondering if the pain would be enough. He had his doubts, but that was really Potter's problem. He healed his hands for the last time. The spell he had cast made the burns disappear, leaving Potter's skin untouched.

The boy stood, confused and frustrated. He looked at his healed hands and then back at Tom, relief mixed with suspicion in his gaze.

Tom allowed himself a barely visible smirk.

"Now that you know which doors are locked and out of your reach, I expect you to devote your free time to study." There was a warning in his eyes, a storm brewing beneath the calm surface. "Next time, Potter, I won’t be so generous in healing your wounds." Potter started to reply, but Tom wouldn't let him. He turned abruptly on his heel and cast over his shoulder. "Now follow me, Bug has prepared our dinner."

o.O.o

Harry mindlessly poked the beans in tomato sauce that Bug had served for breakfast. With a lack of enthusiasm, he grabbed a piece of bacon, the perfect crispness of which went unnoticed as he chewed it without any real hunger.

Halfway through a yawn, Harry thought about covering his mouth with his hand, realising too late who was watching him from across the table. It was when Riddle's patience seemed to snap.

"Potter, did no one ever teach you the rudiments of table etiquette?" he asked, his tone laced with irritation.

Harry looked up, a defiant glint in his eyes. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realize we were dining with the Queen," he retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Riddle's lips thinned. "It's not about royalty, Potter. It's about basic civility. Use your napkin, not your trousers, for those greasy fingers. And the knife — it's not merely a buttering tool but for cutting as well."

Harry rolled his eyes but reluctantly wiped his fingers on the napkin, feeling a bit like a scolded child. "Anything else, your highness?" he asked, his tone bordering on insolent.

Riddle's gaze sharpened. "Elbows off the table, Potter. You're eating a meal, not lounging in Gryffindor common room. And try to eat in a way that keeps the food on the plate rather than around it."

Harry's annoyance bubbled over. "You know, if you're so bothered by the way I eat, why don't you just stop insisting that we eat together?"

Leaning back, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips, Riddle replied, “Because your absence at the table wouldn't solve the underlying issue of your lamentable manners, and we're going to be spending a considerable amount of time together. Indulge me, Potter. Prove that my efforts to instil some civility in you aren't entirely in vain."

Harry replied with a look full of undisguised hatred.

He reached for his knife.

o.O.o

Tom made his move, a knight leaping over pawns with predatory grace, and then leaned back, his gaze never leaving the boy across from him. "Tell me, Potter," he began, his voice smooth and probing, "how did Dumbledore prepare you to face me? To face Voldemort? Surely, he must have given you private lessons, taught you things beyond the curriculum..."

Playing chess in the evenings was slowly becoming their new habit. Tom needed something to bring routine into their lives, to lull Potter's vigilance, to make the boy relax in his company and forget, at least for a moment, who he was actually dealing with. Of course, Riddle hadn't expected this to happen on the third evening, but in time...

Moreover, these games served as an excuse to converse; Potter, surprisingly engrossed in the game, often got distracted, inadvertently revealing more than he intended.

Just like now.

Potter hesitated over a bishop, his expression sharpening subtly. In the light of the fire, he looked even younger, more childlike. "Dumbledore never trained me in spells, if that's what you're getting at," he replied, a hint of barely perceptible bitterness in his voice. Sensing Tom's trap, he cautiously moved a pawn instead. "Our lessons were more about... understanding the past. Your past, specifically."

Riddle's eyebrow arched in genuine surprise. "No direct training? Even with a prophecy hanging over your head?" He moved his queen, a silent threat on the board. "That seems... negligent, doesn't it?"

"Not at all. Dumbledore taught me something far more important than new spells," Potter answered, cautiously, his gaze locked on the chessboard. "He taught me about choices, about what it means to stand up for what's right, even when it's hard."

Tom's face remained unreadable, but internally, he was astounded. How could Dumbledore, the great manipulator, have left Potter so unprepared? It almost seemed as if he was preparing the boy not for battle, but for... sacrifice?

This was utterly nonsensical.

“Fascinating,” Tom mused aloud, his fingers lightly tapping on the table. “The great Albus Dumbledore, leaving his protégé so vulnerable. It’s unlike him. Well, unless that's what he meant. To make you vulnerable. How did it go?" Riddle pretended to wonder, though the prophecy echoed in his thoughts whenever he looked at the boy. "And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."

This sentence made even less sense than Dumbledore's behaviour.

Potter carefully avoided looking at him, his fingers finally taking hold of the knight as he tried to evade them. "Maybe he thought I had enough on my plate..."

"Or maybe Dumbledore doesn't expect you to survive."

The abrupt way Potter placed his knight was a sufficiently meaningful response.

"Maybe he knows I'll find out. Or maybe he believes in my ability to stay alive," Potter said, a spark of anger in his voice. "Either way, I trust his judgement."

The word 'trust' seemed to linger mockingly in the air. Trust was a foreign concept to Tom, a weakness he had long since eradicated from his own psyche. Yet, it was this very concept that seemed to define much of Potter's relationship with Dumbledore.

Even if, in Tom's opinion, it was going to lead the boy to his death.

"If you say so..."

These dismissively thrown remarks finally caused Potter to lift his gaze and look hard into Tom's eyes. Riddle was tempted to slip into the boy's mind, to see what he was really thinking, but a recent promise was tying his hands. However, what he saw in the green eyes was enough.

"I trust Dumbledore," Potter repeated firmly.

A little too firmly.

When it came to the chessboard, Tom did not have to think long about his move. He shifted his knight, knocking down the Potter rook. And as for the relationship between Potter and Dumbledore, it was enough for Tom that the seeds of doubt were sown.

For a while they just played, moving their pawns around the board. Tom allowed Potter to take his two pawns, but in retaliation he took his knight. The fire crackled in the fireplace and its glow cast long shadows that made the living room, usually empty and gloomy, seem even more ominous. Outside, the wind was howling and snow covered the streets again.

"We taught ourselves," Potter said unexpectedly. "Last year, in our fifth year. We formed a group — Dumbledore's Army. We learned from each other."

"Dumbledore's Army," Tom said, the name rolling off his tongue with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "A group of students banding together to learn what the great Albus Dumbledore couldn't be bothered to teach you himself."

"It wasn't like that," Potter protested, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice. However, indicated that loyalty prevailed, for the moment. "Dumbledore didn't know about us. That bitch, Umbridge, got him kicked out of Hogwarts. And she forbade us to say that Voldemort had returned. So, we had to take our education into our own hands."

Riddle considered for a moment whether to punish Potter for swearing but decided to deal with the boy's vulgar language at the next opportunity. For now, the conversation was more important.

"A band of students, taking matters into their own hands. Admirable, if somewhat naïve."

Potter moved his queen forward, a bold and assertive move. "We weren't naïve. We were determined. We knew what was at stake."

Tom's reply was a calculated move of his bishop, trapping Harry's king. "Determination is a powerful tool," he acknowledged. "But it needs guidance, Potter. Something Dumbledore obviously failed to provide you with. Checkmate, by the way."

o.O.o

"List and describe at least five basic human transfigurations."

Tom Riddle, his sharp features softened by the glow of the fireplace, held a thick tome in his hands. His piercing grey eyes were fixed on Harry, who tried to hide his discomfort. He shifted slightly in his seat, his green eyes flickering with a mixture of defiance and suspicion.

Riddle was really going to quiz him on the damn theory of transfiguration.

It's not that Harry didn't try to study. There were a few times when he sat down with a book in his hand, but he found it so boring and written in such abstruse language that each attempt ended with him falling asleep over it.

His only hope was that the first three chapters actually covered the material he had learnt in his time, and that this time Riddle would not ask anything tricky.

Luckily, the first question turned out to be quite simple. Or so Harry thought, until he began to answer it.

"Appearances can be changed with potions, like the Polyjuice Potion. Then, there's the transformation into Animagi. There are also spells for changing appearance, and some wizards, known as Metamorphmagi, can do this without a wand."

Riddle's eyes narrow slightly, "Partially correct. You've missed one, Potter. But, moving on," he said, flipping a page with a flick of his wrist, "name at least three spells that change a person's physical appearance and describe them."

"Glamour," Harry started tentatively, his mind racing for another spell.

"And?" Riddle prompted, one eyebrow raised in expectation.

Harry remembered there had been several of them. He had even taken notes from them before exams, but now his mind was completely blank.

"It's... all I remember," he muttered, avoiding Riddle's piercing gaze.

"Just one? And no description?"

"What more can I say about Glamour? It's used to change your appearance, mainly your facial features, but that's what you asked about," Harry said angrily.

"Disappointing, Potter," said Riddle coldly, his displeasure evident. "You've only scratched the surface. You could have demonstrated the movement of the wand, talked about the pros and cons, how it could be taken down, what the limitations of this spell are. Now try harder." Riddle turned a few pages, probably moving on to the next chapter. "List the five basic principles of transmutation."

Harry fell silent, his mind a whirl of anger and frustration. He had learned this once, but the theory always slipped away from his mind like sand through the fingers.

Seeing Harry's struggle, Riddle leans forward, his eyes locked onto Harry's. "Let's try it another way, then. What can you tell me about the Elemental Reality Principle?"

One more time silence was the only answer.

Closing the book with a soft thud, Riddle placed it on the table, his movements controlled, betraying none of the anger simmering within. He looked at Harry with an inscrutable gaze that sent shivers down the boy’s spine.

"Potter," he began, his tone deceptively calm, "what, pray tell, was so important that it prevented you from following my orders? From studying?"

Harry almost burst out laughing. Oh, for Merlin's sake, he could think of a million things more important than learning some boring, useless transmutation theory. Except that, judging by Riddle's deceptively calm voice, honesty would not end well for him.

Fuck it.

"I had many other things on my mind," he replied, deciding not to be intimidated. He had fought Voldemort to the death more than once, so explaining his lack of knowledge to Riddle couldn't have been worse. "Like thinking about how my appearance here will change the future. Like wondering if my friends still exist."

Riddle leaned back in his chair. "These aren’t issues that should be on your mind right now," he replied, tone icy cold.

"Well, let me decide for myself what I will and won’t think about."

One cheeky sentence too many. Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"Show me your hands, Potter," he commanded icily.

Harry considered ignoring the order for a moment, but decided it wasn't worth arguing about. Riddle probably knew what he was really doing anyway, that bloody Bug must have told him everything. Reluctantly, Harry extended his hands. The new burn marks were evident, betraying his newest attempts at escape. He saw a flicker of fury pass through Riddle's eyes, quickly masked by that same unsettling calm.

"So, not only have you ignored my directive to study, but you've also been trying to escape, despite my explicit orders." Riddle's voice was low, dangerous. "Explain yourself, Potter. And this time, let it be the truth."

Harry's jaw tightened, the anger and fear intermingling within him. "You can see what I was doing," he snapped back, the words leaving his lips before he could restrain them. "Do I really need to say this?"

Riddle's eyes darkened. "Ignoring a direct order is a serious offense, Potter. According to our agreement, the punishment for such a transgression is the Cruciatus Curse."

Harry's blood ran cold at the mention of the curse, the very thought of enduring such torment making him visibly flinch. "Punishing with an unforgivable spell for not reading a book is madness, Riddle. A display of sadism," he argued, angry with himself for the shadow of fear in his voice. Riddle wasn't serious, was he? "You were supposed to be different from Voldemort."

Riddle, unperturbed, countered smoothly, "This is not about the book, Potter. It's about your blatant disregard for my orders. We have an agreement. And we have defined the consequences of certain behaviours." He paused, looking at Harry with a calculating gaze. Then he slowly leaned back in his armchair, a movement that did not bode well. "However, to demonstrate that I am not like my future self, I will allow you to suggest an alternative punishment. This time. So? What do you propose?"

Harry blinked. This was something he didn't expect at all.

"Limit my privileges," he finally suggested, when it became clear that Riddle was indeed waiting for his proposal.

Riddle shook his head. "You have no privileges here to restrict. Another suggestion?"

"A mild curse, then," Harry offered, forcing himself to remain calm. "A stinging hex, perhaps."

This is not really happening.

Riddle considered this for a moment, then replied, "Insufficient for two direct disobediences. That leaves us with one option: corporal punishment. So, Potter, you have a choice — endure Crucio or accept corporal punishment. Decide."

Harry's heart pounded in his chest. The thought of submitting to corporal punishment at Riddle's hands was abhorrent, humiliating. Yet the alternative was unthinkable. He remembered the pain of the Cruciatus Curse, a pain that tore through every fibre of his being, leaving no room for anything but agony.

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Tom Riddle watched him. There was a sense of curiosity in those piercing grey eyes, a desire to see what Harry would choose, how far he could push him before he snaps.

The fire crackled in the hearth, casting eerie shadows across the room. Harry's gaze flickered to it, seeking a brief respite from the intensity of Riddle's stare. His mind was a whirlwind of conflict, anger, and revulsion, yet beneath it all lay a resolute determination.

Finally, he looked up, his green eyes meeting Riddle's grey ones. The weight of his decision hung heavy in the air. "Corporal punishment," he said, his voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of his resolve.

Tom Riddle's expression remained unreadable as he nodded slowly, a silent acknowledgment of Harry's choice. "Stand up, Potter. In the middle of the room," he ordered, his voice calm yet commanding.

Harry pushed himself up from the armchair, his movements stiff, his body tensed for what was to come. He moved to the room's centre, feeling exposed and vulnerable under Riddle's scrutinizing gaze. The room seemed to close in on him, the walls echoing back his rapid heartbeat. Every instinct screamed at Harry to escape, to rebel, yet he knew that any sign of defiance would only make things worse.

Besides, they did have a deal. And Harry had to keep up appearances.

Tom Riddle rose from his seat, his movements graceful and deliberate. He circled Harry like a predator, his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. "I wonder, Potter," he mused aloud, "how should I punish you? A traditional spanking, perhaps? Or maybe something more... inventive?" His low voice dripped with sinister delight. "What about whipping your back?" Riddle said, gently brushing his hand over Harry's back.

Harry's instinct was to recoil, to lash out against this unexpected violation. This unwanted touch. But he knew any such reaction would be a sign of weakness, something Riddle would relish. So he stood still, his fists clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to react.

Finally, Riddle stopped in front of him.

“No, let’s keep it traditional, shall we? A method favoured by teachers even at Hogwarts,” his voice was smooth, almost taunting. "Stretch out your hands, palms up, Potter."

Harry looked defiantly at Riddle, then extended his hands, the backs of his palms pointing downwards. The fresh burn marks on his hands perfectly visible, a reminder of his failed escape attempts.

He will not show weakness.

"Six slaps on the hands," Riddle said. "One for each question you failed to answer, and one for each order you ignored." And then he moved his wand and cast a quick, non-verbal spell.

The first strike hit, a sharp pain that felt like a belt against his skin. Harry's hands jerked back reflexively, a new red stripe joining the earlier burn marks.

“Put them out again," Riddle ordered, a cold warning in his voice. "Do it one more time and I'll start again."

Harry, gritting his teeth, forced his trembling hands back into position. The challenge to keep them steady, to suppress the instinct to recoil, was immense. The strikes came in quick succession, each one sending waves of pain through his already injured palms. He focused on a point over Riddle’s shoulder, trying to detach himself from the situation, to be anywhere but in that room, under Riddle’s cold gaze.

But Riddle wasn't finished with him. After the third blow, his icy, commanding voice rang through the room, "Look at me, Potter."

Harry's green eyes met Riddle's cold ones, filled with pleasure at the power he now wielded. The humiliation of this moment, the prickling tears, the inability to hide his suffering, was almost more than Harry could bear. It was the hardest thing he had done, looking into the eyes of the younger version of his greatest enemy, while in such a vulnerable state. Harry tried to maintain his dignity, to keep the pain from showing on his face, but the effort was futile. Riddle could see, could probably feel the pain Harry was enduring. And he was enjoying it.

The fourth strike drew a sharp intake of breath and the fifth a stifled moan from Harry, each one more painful than the last. The sixth strike was the worst. A short scream escaped Harry's lips despite his best efforts to contain it. A barely concealed satisfaction flashed across Riddle's face.

And it was over.

Riddle stepped back, observing Harry with an unnerving scrutiny. "Have you learned your lesson, Potter?" he asked, his tone almost conversational, as if they were discussing something mundane.

Fighting back tears and trying to regain his composure, Harry nodded. The words stuck in his throat, the pain and humiliation too fresh, too raw. He had endured the punishment, but at what cost? His pride, his sense of self, felt as if it had been trampled on.

Was it worth it?

"A verbal answer, Potter."

"Yes," he managed to say, though the word was barely audible.

Riddle's smile widened slightly, but there was no warmth in it. It was the smile of someone who had just confirmed the extent of his power over another person.

"Good. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, I will quiz you on the first chapter. I trust you will be better prepared this time. Now you may return to your room."

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER SEVEN —

Ups and downs, part II

Harry Potter lay on his bed in the dimly lit room, his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought. The Compendium of Transmutation lay open on his stomach, neglected and forgotten. A lone candle, hovering near the bedside, cast dancing shadows along the walls. The fire in the fireplace was still smouldering, but it was dying, so the night's chill was beginning to creep treacherously closer, and the thin pyjamas Harry wore offered no protection against it.

One week. It had been exactly one week since Harry had been thrown back into 1947, into a world so familiar and yet so disturbingly different. Last Friday, his main concern had been uncovering the schemes of Draco Malfoy; now he found himself in the clutches of the young, but frighteningly formidable, Tom Riddle.

This version of Voldemort, younger and less scarred by the ravages of dark magic, proved to be an even more complex adversary than the one Harry had known. It only took Harry a week in the company of Tom Riddle to understand why so many people have fallen for his fake charming personality. And while he remained acutely aware of Riddle's manipulation and his true dark nature, some of this week's events showed that he, too, was not entirely immune to the charm exerted by the younger version of Lord Voldemort.

This terrified him the most.

During their evening chess games, Harry sometimes found himself forgetting who he was dealing with. A tacit permission to be blunt, to exchange sharp retorts, to speak freely without fear of retribution — all these things let his guard down. Staying alert was also not helped by the fact that Riddle appeared to be an attentive listener. He seemed genuinely interested not only in how the world had changed over the past fifty years, but also in Harry's life at Hogwarts, his favourite subjects, his opinions of teachers (it turned out that Binns was just as boring in Harry's day as he had been fifty years earlier), and even the school's Quidditch matches. His attitude made Harry feel, in spite of himself, that his words mattered, that someone was genuinely interested in what he had to say. Riddle, for his part, told anecdotes from his time at Hogwarts. Of course, there were subjects they danced around carefully — the dark events of Riddle's school days were left untouched, Riddle didn't mention them, Harry didn't ask.

Yet beneath this facade of normalcy lurked a darker side. His charm was just a cover, hiding the ruthlessness Harry had experienced first-hand. He winced inwardly as he remembered the invasive foray into his memory, which brought back haunting nightmares of his parents and Sirius's deaths. Awakened, he could not sleep, and the nights dragged on endlessly in a silent agony of grief and remorse.

Harry lifted his hands absentmindedly, examining them in the dim light. There was no sign of any burns or swollen welts on the skin. Harry flinched at the mere memory of the situation two days before. It was the first time Harry had experienced such a punishment. The Dursleys, for all their cruelty, had never resorted to corporal punishment. There were times when the vein on Uncle Vernon's forehead pulsed so fiercely that Harry was convinced Vernon was about to reach for a leather belt and beat him painfully, but that never happened. And even though Riddle didn't use a leather belt, but magic and the right spell, it was still a beating, just as painful and real as the traditional one. And not just physically. Riddle manipulated Harry into a situation where he had no choice but to accept it. The humiliation of that moment gnawed at him. The fact that he had to choose this kind of punishment himself, to let Tom Riddle punish him, was a bitter pill to swallow, igniting a mix of anger, shame and an unsettling sense of helplessness within him. This complete stripping away of his defiance and autonomy, lingered in his psyche. A stark, uncomfortable contrast to the resilience and rebellious spirit that had defined Harry Potter through all his life.

And as his hatred for Riddle reached new heights, future Dark Lord did something that only served to increase Harry's consternation. After Harry had dealt with a series of nasty questions about the theory of transmutation from the first chapter of that damned book, Riddle summoned a jar of healing salve. "Rub it in your hands", he said, handing the jar to Harry. And when Harry took it without a word, just raising a questioning eyebrow, he added: "There was a punishment for lack of knowledge, here is a reward." At first Harry had no intention of getting involved in another of Riddle's sick games, a game of carrot and stick, but after a few hours pragmatism overcame pride and he used an ointment to ease the pain.

He had to be fit in case there was a chance of escape.

The reality of his situation was maddening. Trapped in Riddle's apartment with no feasible escape plan, Harry's impulsive nature chafed against the enforced inactivity. He knew he needed his wand, patience was essential, but part of him yearned for immediate action. The forced interactions with Riddle — the shared meals, the chess games — were a double-edged sword. They were despised yet anticipated, providing an illusion of agency, a fleeting hope that he might say or do something to regain his freedom.

Of course, nothing of that sort had ever happened.

And so, the absence of Riddle that afternoon should not have mattered. Yet, Harry couldn't shake off a sense of disappointment, or was it fear? Fear of what the future Dark Lord might be scheming, of what his change from routine signified.

The ticking of the clock seemed to grow louder and louder.  Harry listened intently. Each passing second stretched into eternity in his mind, mocking his forced passiveness. And suddenly, like a missed bludger, he was struck by an overwhelming longing for Ron, for Hermione, for the life he hoped to reclaim.

o.O.o

Riddle moved his king from F1 to C1, and then casually remarked, "I hope your recent interest in magical oaths doesn't mean you're seeking ways to break the one you've made to me, Harry."

Harry's fingers, hovering over his knight, stopped. The fire crackled in the ornate fireplace, casting flickering shadows on their concentrated faces. He wanted to deny it, to shrug it off, but Tom Riddle's ability to sense a lie even without using Legilimency made it futile. Harry shifted his knight, a resigned weight in his voice. "Was it Bug who ratted me out again?"

Riddle, moving his pawn with a smooth, calculated motion, didn't look up as he responded. "No. This time you betrayed yourself by placing the book upside down on the shelf."

Harry remained silent, pushing down the rising frustration within him. The anger seemed pointless now. Encouraged by the fact that Riddle had also missed breakfast today, which gave him almost two days without the future Dark Lord's company, he decided to find out more about the restrictions placed on him. The thought of losing his magical abilities frightened him the most, prompting to begin his research with the magical oaths. But even with free access to the books in Riddle's library, finding clear answers proved difficult. The world of wizard oaths was vast and varied, and Harry struggled to determine which specific oath Riddle had used.

So not only did he fail to gain any useful information, but he also betrayed his intentions. Great.

For a while they played in silence, concentrating on the moves they were making. Harry had recently noticed that when Riddle played with the whites, his moves were repetitive, as if he was playing the same game over and over again. So when, as Harry had predicted, Riddle moved his queen from F3 to B3, he tried remembering what was coming next.

"So what exactly did you want to learn about magical oaths, Harry?" Riddle asked suddenly, returning to the earlier topic.

Harry. For some time now, Riddle had been calling him by his first name. The first time it happened, Harry had corrected him. Potter had been more impersonal, more in keeping with their relationship. Riddle had just laughed. And stayed with Harry. At least during their evening conversations.

So, Harry stopped paying attention. It didn't mean anything.

"I wanted to understand how this oath works," he sighted, deciding it wouldn't hurt to admit it.

Riddle's eyebrows rose slightly, betraying his surprise. "You took an Oath of Submission to me without knowing exactly what it entailed?"

He knew he had reached a new peak of stupidity, but he had already made so many mistakes that day that one more wouldn't have made any difference."

"Did I have another option?" Harry's retort came with a shrug, but the bitterness in his voice betrayed his true feelings. Finally figuring out what Riddle's next move might have been, Harry moved his king.

Riddle leaned back in his chair and watched him for a moment with an unconcerned expression on his face. Feeling uncomfortable under this intense gaze, Harry looked sideways, towards the windows, at the darkness spreading outside.

After a moment of silence Riddle spoke: "What do you wish to know about your oath?"

Harry turned his head abruptly and looked at Riddle in surprise. The played game suddenly forgotten.

"You're the only wizard I know who would do such a thing," Riddle said with a little amusement in his voice. "I think it's only right that you know exactly what you've gotten yourself into."

"How generous of you," he retorted, unable to stop himself.

Riddle raised one of his eyebrows. "So, you're not interested then?" His attention returned to the chessboard, where he casually noted, "You're going to lose again." That said, he moved his pawn one field forward.

"Can this oath affect my free will, force me into specific behaviours?" asked Harry, deciding that it might be worth taking Riddle up on his offer after all. If he was going to lose again, he could at least gain some knowledge.

"No," Riddle began, his voice calm and measured. "The magic of the oath doesn't control your will. You're free to make your own choices, but you must be prepared to face the consequences of those choices." He gestured to the board. "Fight to the end, surprise me."

Harry made a decisive move with his bishop, nailing the queen. A bold, desperate play, to which Riddle responded almost immediately with a move of his pawn. The battered bishop came off the board.

"So if I obey your order, it will be because I've decided to do so myself?" he made sure. "Not because the oath’s magic forced it upon me?"

He didn't know if that was good news or bad. It certainly didn't lift the weight of responsibility from his shoulders.

"Exactly," Riddle confirmed with a strange glint in his eye. "All decisions will always be yours."

"What if I disobey? Will I lose my magic instantly?" There was the tension in Harry's voice, but he didn't dare look Riddle in the face when he asked this question.

"A single act of disobedience won't result in the loss of magic," Riddle explained. "The loss of magic will only occur if I'm truly convinced of your disloyalty. This isn't automatic but depends on my perception of your obedience and your intentions."

Harry's rook knocked down another Riddle pawn.

"So, is everything up to you?"

"Yes and no," Riddle replied, looking carefully at the situation on the board. "For example, if I took your behaviour now as a sign of disobedience, nothing would happen anyway. For your magic to disappear, I'd need to be utterly convinced of your defiance."

Harry processed this, his mind racing. There was a certain comfort in this. "If I were to lose my magic, could I ever regain it?"

Riddle finally moved his pawn, getting dangerously close to Harry's king.

"Yes," he said, a hint of a smirk appearing on his lips. "But you'd have to convince me that you're truly sorry and that your intentions are sincere. When I believe you genuinely submit again, your magic would be restored. But I can assure you that regaining my trust is no easy task. I don't often forgive or give second chances. In fact, never."

The calm tone with which Riddle gave him all these answers encouraged Harry to ask another question. He could always pretend he was doing it out of curiosity.

"And the oath itself? Can it be broken or ended?" he asked casually, neutralising the threat to his king with his bishop.

Riddle's voice was calm as he replied, "Yes, but it requires the conscious consent of both of us. That's the only way to end it. Otherwise, it can't be broken".

In this case, Harry had no intention of taking the future Dark Lord's words for granted.

"And how does it work from your side?" Harry asked, watching as Riddle's rock made a seemingly insignificant move, going to the left by one field. "Will you have to keep your promise to help me get back to my time?"

The expression on Riddle's didn't change.

"Yes, I'll have to. But remember, I swore to you that I would only do it when I decided I no longer needed you."

Harry felt cold vices squeeze his stomach as he realised what that answer meant.

The calculating grey eyes locked with the greens.

"But so far, you are proving to be increasingly interesting."

Harry's king moved to the corner of the chessboard.

o.O.o

On a frosty Sunday midday, the world outside Tom Riddle's apartment was bathed in an unusually clear blue sky. Rays of light flooded the library, giving it a calm and elegant feel, far from the usual cold and gloomy atmosphere.

Tom Riddle was leaning against his massive, dark desk, his silhouette clearly outlined in the bright sunlight. His hair was neatly combed, as always, but there was a casual air to his attire. He was dressed simply but impeccably, in dark, perfectly fitting trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He waited for Harry with his arms crossed and an expectant look on his face, and even in this relaxed pose he exuded an aura of authority and dominance.

"Bug mentioned that you called me," Harry said as he entered the library, his voice laced with a nonchalant tone, a mask for the tension that lingered within him.

Riddle greeted Harry with a cold, chiding look. "You were in no hurry to come, I see," he observed with a hint of mockery.

In response, Harry merely shrugged, striving to maintain his façade of indifference.

"Next time come immediately," Riddle said icily, and although he didn't add 'because if you don't', it was still clear that this was an order, not a request. Then he straightened up, spread his arms and pushed away from the desk. His movements were fluid and marked by a predatory grace. "Today we're going to have a practical lesson in magic," he announced casually.

Harry's heart leapt, though he carefully controlled his expression.

The practical lesson meant casting spells. Casting spells required a wand. And with a wand in his hand… A myriad of possibilities flashed through Harry's mind. He could cast a curse or two, disarm Riddle, try to escape and contact Dumbledore, maybe even…

But before Harry could fully grasp the implications, Riddle reached into his pocket and with a fluid motion pulled out Harry's wand. With a knowing smile, he held it out to him.

Harry's fingers twitched with the urge to snatch it from Riddle's hand. His wand, his ticket to freedom. However, suspecting deception, Harry hesitantly reached for his wand and his fingers slowly tightened on the wood. As the familiar sensation flowed through him, the impulse to attack Riddle became almost irresistible.

But one glance at Riddle's face — the calculating, expectant look — quashed the impulse. Harry recognized the trap laid out before him. Riddle was baiting him, anticipating his every thought and movement.

The memory of their last and only duel flashed before his eyes.

No, he must be smarter, smarter than the cleverest snake of this century.

With a deep, calming breath, Harry raised his head, steadily meeting grey eyes. Pushing down the urge to lash out, he asked with a measured tone, "What are we going to study?"

Riddle’s smile widened slightly, seemingly amused by Harry’s internal struggle, yet pleasantly surprised by his restraint. "Today, Harry, we're going to test your accuracy in casting spells. We'll be concentrating on Engorgement and Shrinking spells." His tone was casual, but his eyes had a sharp intensity that told Harry he was being tested in more ways than one.

Harry nodded, clutching his wand tighter. He could feel Riddle's eyes on him, measuring him, judging him. The air in the room seemed thick with anticipation.

And then, as if oblivious to the tension, or perhaps consciously ignoring it, Riddle waved his wand and summoned a coffee table into the centre of the room. After another nonverbal spell, a paperweight, a piece of polished stone resembling an egg with a flattening on one side, rose from the desk and landed with a soft thud on the coffee table.

"Let's see how well you paid attention in class, shall we?" Riddle's tone was soft, mocking, a challenge cloaked in false politeness.

Harry, masking his inner turmoil with a feigned half-smile, replied, "Well enough, I suppose."

"Shrink it down to about an inch," Riddle commanded, crossing his arms over his chest and pointing with his head at the paperweight. "Then increase it to about three inches and then back again, only this time let it be exactly one inch and then three inches. Let's see how much control you have over that spell."

There was nothing suspicious about the order, so Harry decided it would do no harm to his pride to carry it out. Gripping his wand tightly, he focused his attention on the paperweight. His mind wavered between concentration on the task at hand and the ever-present awareness of Riddle's scrutinising gaze. The spell left his mouth and the paperweight shrank, but not to Riddle's exact size, as the conjured ruler that suddenly appeared in the air informed him.

Almost an inch and a half. That wasn't too bad.

Harry looked at Riddle expectantly, but the future Dark Lord just repeated his earlier instructions. "Now enlarge to about three inches."

This time it went better; he was only off by three-tenths of an inch.

“Close, but not close enough,” Riddle commented, his tone cool but not unkind. “Try again. One inch, precise.”

Harry cast the spell again, his green eyes narrowed in concentration. This time, he managed to get closer to the target, but it was still off by a fraction of an inch. Riddle’s gaze felt like a weight upon him, pushing him to do better, to be more accurate.

“Now, enlarge it to three inches,” Riddle instructed.

The lesson continued, a constant shrinking and enlarging. Harry's spells fluctuated, sometimes hitting the target, sometimes not. A few times Harry glanced sideways at Riddle, but it was hard to tell from his expressionless face whether he was pleased with Harry's level of skill.

Finally, Riddle halted the exercise with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Enough. I’ve seen what I needed. You lack control over magic, Potter. Not to mention precision when casting spells."

Harry's response was a mix of defiance and exasperation. "No one's ever asked for such exact measurements, not even during the O.W.Ls."

"My expectations are higher. Get used to it," Riddle replied, his voice as calm as ever. "When I require precision, you will provide it."

Snorting in disbelief, Harry challenged, "Prove it. Show me such accuracy is even possible."

With an air of nonchalance, Riddle effortlessly shrank the paperweight to exactly one inch, then to three, as if playing with the laws of physics at his whim. "Concentration, Potter. That's the key."

Harry shot Riddle a murderous glare. Concentration! As if he wasn't concentrating.

Riddle raised an eyebrow in response. "What are you waiting for? Keep practising. Start by making the button exactly two inches heigh. It's easier with larger dimensions."

Harry resumed the exercise, but there was no enthusiasm in his movements and his brow furrowed in frustration. Riddle watched him for a while, his eyes sharp and calculating, before finally retreating to an armchair by the fireplace and opening a book with an air of detached interest.

The room was filled with the sound of Harry's incantations, punctuated by the soft rustle of Riddle turning pages and the crackle of the fire. From time to time, Riddle changed the desired size to which Harry was to shrink the paperweight, although Harry had failed to achieve a repeatable result twice in a row. Worse still, the fatigue and lack of sleep during the night had finally set in; Harry had done the spell several times, barely holding back a yawn, and the urge to attack Riddle in return for this pointless exercise was growing by the minute. It was all making Harry's frustration simmer, gradually reaching boiling point as Riddle's demands escalated to the absurd precision of a tenth of an inch.

"I've had enough of this," Harry finally blurted out, unable to contain his growing resentment. "This is ridiculous. I won't do it anymore."

Riddle didn't even look up from his book. "You'll stop when I say you can stop, Potter," he said, his voice as cool and detached as if he were discussing the weather.

Harry's frustration turned to outright rebellion. "And if I refuse? What then, Riddle? Will you force me?"

There was a dangerous edge to Riddle's calm as he closed his book with a soft thud and finally turned to face Harry. "Don't test me, Potter. You know perfectly well what I'm capable of. Did you enjoy being punished so much that you want me to do it again?"

A fierce determination could be heard in Harry's voice: "You can punish me all you want, but that won't make me begin happily obeying your orders. Besides, our agreement gives me the right to refuse to obey an order."

"The right to refuse does not mean that it will be heeded, only heard. However, you have forgotten the second important condition: you can do it, but with the appropriate respect. Rebelling like a small child is not a manifestation of it."

As he spoke, Riddle rose from his chair and walked slowly to the centre of the room, standing directly in front of Harry. His close, clearly threatening presence made Harry want to take a step back, but he decided not to be intimidated. He raised his head and looked defiantly into the grey eyes.

Instinctively, he clenched his fingers tighter on his wand.

"If you want, I can also say it more calmly: I won't be practising this spell again," Harry stated coldly, keeping a semblance of courage despite the fear squeezing him inside.

Riddle's reaction was both swift and surprising. His wand swung, Harry leapt back and immediately assumed a duelling pose, but to his surprise, no spells bounced off from the hastily erected shield. Riddle lowered his wand calmly. Then he pointed his head at the paperweight.

"Measure."

Harry bit his lip, unsure of what to do. Finally, urged on by Riddle's burning gaze, he walked over to the table and reluctantly grabbed the ruler.

One tenth of an inch. A perfect fucking tenth of an inch.

"In case you were wondering why you lost the duel, here's the answer," Riddle said icily.

Harry swallowed. Adam's apple in his neck moved visibly.

Another hour passed before Riddle finally took mercy on him and announced the end of the lesson. This time Harry did not dare interrupt the exercise again, although he was seriously fed up with the Shrinking Charm. He was almost certain he would never use it of his own volition again.

"And? What precision have you achieved?" he asked, and if Harry didn't know him better he could have sworn he heard genuine curiosity in his voice.

"Two inches. I manage it almost every time. I've had more trouble with an inch, but it's worked a few times."

"Let me see," Riddle demanded, coming closer.

Harry sighed, but obediently cast the spell again. At two inches, it was perfect; at one, the paperweight was a fifth of an inch too big.

Riddle nodded. The ruler disappeared with a quiet pop.

"So, there's hope, but you'll have to practise this more," Riddle said tartly, then snapped his fingers and summoned a roll of parchment from his desk drawer.

Summoned. With. A. Snap. Of. His. Fingers.

Harry didn't even know it was possible. His mouth gaped open.

In the meantime, Riddle, as if unaware of the impression he had just made on his reluctant pupil (or perhaps the opposite, for there was a shadow of satisfaction on his face), handed the parchment to Harry.

"Go through this list and tick the spells you know," Riddle instructed, his voice as smooth and controlled. "I have limited myself mainly to the spells needed during the O.W.L.s, but I have also added a few from the sixth-year curriculum. To make it easier, I've grouped them by subjects: Transmutation first, then Spells, then Defence Against the Dark Arts and finally the Art of Duelling. If you know any that are not on the list, add them. I expect you to have it done by breakfast tomorrow."

Harry took the parchment, trying not to touch Riddle's fingers. The list, written in neat, familiar handwriting, was long and quite detailed. He looked through the spells, some familiar, others completely unknown. At the same time, Harry wondered what Riddle was trying to achieve by this. To learn the extent of his ignorance? Or, on the contrary, to find out what spells Harry knew so that he would not be surprised by anything unpleasant?

Riddle’s next words snapped him back to the present. “Your wand, Harry,” he said expectantly, extending his hand.

Harry raised his head abruptly, feeling an instinctive, fervent defiance. He gripped his wand tighter. He felt as if he had been petrified. He couldn't obey this order even if he wanted to.

And of course he didn't want to.

"Harry," Riddle prompted, a hint of impatience colouring his tone.

Harry felt a knot in his stomach as he looked at his wand, the epitome of his independence and strength as a wizard. Handing it over was not just a physical act; it was a silent acknowledgement of the power Riddle had over him. A recognition of the hierarchy that bound them.

But what choice did he have? If he wanted Riddle to trust him enough to let him leave his flat, he had to play along, pretend to obey.

With a heavy heart and a trembling hand, Harry forced himself to extend his wand towards Riddle. In doing so, he glanced sideway, not wanting to look the future murderer of his parents in the eye at such a moment.

Riddle’s fingers closed around the wand, his grip firm. “Good,” he said simply, a flicker of approval in his eyes. "Tomorrow evening, I'll start checking how you're getting on with casting these spells, so you'll have your wand back for a while again," Riddle continued, and there was a harder, colder note in his voice. "If I catch you knowing a spell you haven't marked, I will treat it as an act of disobedience. So if you think of deceiving me and hiding your true abilities, I'd advise you to think twice."

Harry just nodded stiffly. Without his wand, he felt a nagging emptiness, as if Riddle had deprived him of an essential part of him.

It meant nothing. He just did it to outwit Riddle and get back to his own time. Just for that.

And only because of that.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER EIGHT —

Ups and downs, part III

"Harry, I hope you do remember my warning about what will happen if I catch you knowing a spell that you haven't ticked on the list," Riddle said, his voice silky and smooth, as he elegantly raised a cup of tea to his lips.

He had given Potter plenty of time to cool down — an entire dinner and now a one and a half game of chess, to be precise. It appeared that having to hand over his wand after class for the second day in a row affected Potter more than the boy cared to show. Understandable, really; being forced to surrender one's wand was a powerful symbol of submission in the wizarding world, something Tom would never allow himself to experience. Potter, for all his ignorance of the customs of the wizarding world, was probably instinctively aware of this as well. It was therefore very satisfying to watch the teenager's inner struggle: to give in or to rebel and shatter the illusion of obedience with which the boy had been trying to deceive Tom for a week. Tom hadn't expected Potter to last that long, and he wondered when the boy would finally snap and try to attack him. The prospect of defeating Potter again in a duel was a tantalising thought, almost as satisfying as the moment he took the boy's wand.

Potter's hand hovered over the chessboard in mid-motion, a gesture more meaningful than any spoken concession.

"Perfectly well, Riddle," he replied evenly, finally moving his knight.

"Then why did you tick so few duelling spells?" Tom asked, shifting his pawn absentmindedly.

Honestly, it didn't even make him angry. He would have been more surprised if Potter hadn't tried to trick him and actually marked all the spells he knew. At least it suggested a modicum of cunning on the boy's part. Moreover, it also gave Tom another excuse to punish him, a prospect he found even more satisfying than confiscating his wand.

"Because I don't know most of them," Potter answered, his voice didn't even waver. With his eyes fixed on the chessboard, he furrowed his brow as though deep in thought, then a faint smile tugged at his lips. He shifted his second knight, simultaneously covering his mouth with his left hand while yawning.

A predictable move. Riddle's bishop leapt across the board to claim a position on Potter's side. The teenager's response was to swiftly manoeuvre his own bishop to a square adjacent to Tom's, the two pieces standing side by side, measuring each other with angry glances.

"These are basic spells, they're taught in first semester of the duelling classes," Tom pointed out.

Potter blinked his eyes, as if fighting off a growing sleepiness. And yet it wasn't that late.

"We don't have a subject like that in my time," the boy said, a touch of envy creeping into his voice.

Well, that explained much.

“Don't they teach you anything useful in the future?" Tom asked rhetorically and sighed ostentatiously. He moved his knight from F6 to D5, preparing the ground for an attack. Casual conversation wasn't his favourite method of interaction, but he found that it confused Potter and knocked him out of his rhythm, causing him to open up and speak more than he initially had intended to.

"I wish they teach us that, too," Potter admitted, performing a castling with his rock and king. "When I was second year, Lockhart tried to revive the Dueling Club, but it ended just after the first meeting," he added, grimacing.

Lockhart. It was not the first time that name had come up in their conversation. From what Tom recalled, he was another incompetent fool employed by Dumbledore. Truly, what happened in the future was beyond imagination. And to think that with such an education, Potter had been able to beat him anyway.

This time it was Tom who flinched slightly.

"What happened then?" he asked out of sheer necessity to keep the conversation going. He almost sighed as he assessed the situation on the board and noticed that Potter had positioned his knight so recklessly that capturing it was a mere formality.

"Lockart happened," Potter replied, shrugging and, in doing so, inadvertently falling into Tom's trap when he made a hasty move against Tom's pawn. "You'd better tell me about your duelling lessons."

Had Potter not said those words, Tom might not have noticed the subtle change in the boy's demeanour. But Potter's questions were so infrequent that any deviation from the norm aroused Tom's immediate alertness. He studied the boy closely. What was Potter trying to hide?

"And what exactly do you want to know?" Tom asked, deciding to act as if he had been outwitted.

Potter shifted uneasily in his armchair, a further confirmation of Riddle's suspicions. He barely suppressed another yawn.

"Err… What were you doing during this class?"

Really, it was an insult to his dignity to have someone like that defeat him. And not once, but several times, as Potter was eager to remind him.

"We were duelling," Tom replied, a perfectly polite expression. In his case, it was the most refined form of mockery. Although Potter probably wouldn't notice it anyway.

"I'm not an idiot, I guessed that myself," Potter replied with sudden anger.

So he noticed. Riddle smirked and resumed the interrupted game.

"But that's the truth. The lessons are about duels, so the students duel each other," he said in a more conciliatory tone. "They are compulsory for all sixth years, so most students have quite an arsenal of spells. Attwell teaches new ones during them, of course, but he's more focused on improving technique and teaching us the etiquette of magical duelling. If you wish, you can continue them in the seventh year. Dueling becomes more challenging, and Attwell puts more emphasis on teaching the art of shielding others.  Usually, two students duel and two others shield them, acting as their seconds."

"And I guess you took part in them in seventh year, too?" it was more a statement than a question, and although Potter tried not to show it, it was clear that the subject had piqued his interest. What he was doing with his pawns on the board was a clear indication that Tom's explanations of duelling lessons had taken up all his attention.  

Tom shrugged nonchalantly. "Of course. I even took Art of Duelling on N.E.W.T. Naturally, I got an O. I beat the examiner after three minutes. I could have done it in the first one, but I didn't want to draw too much attention to myself."

Potter rolled his eyes.

Tom's inner smile widened.

"We also have a School Duel's League. Or two, actually," Riddle continued his explanations. He glanced at the board, Potter had just moved his bishop and Tom's bored mind had already worked out instantly a plan to take it in three moves. Winning against someone who exposed himself so much wasn't even entertaining. "Official and unofficial one."

Oh, that twinkle in the eye.

"How so? Two leagues?"

Tom leaned back more comfortably in his chair, not hiding his satisfaction at getting Potter's attention. Actually, there was also a third league, much more private and secretive, but the only people who knew about it were Tom and his Slytherins. However he had no intention of mentioning it to Potter, not yet.

"In the official league, pupils from fifth to seventh years compete against each other. Of course, a fifth year rarely stands a chance against older students, but there are exceptions."

"I bet you were one of those exceptions," Potter said grimly.

Tom shrugged.

"I had other things on my mind when I was in fifth year," he replied dismissively, without going into detail. He didn't need to. They both knew what he was up to then. "But the following year, the others were no match for me. And the next year as well."

Potter tensed visibly, his jaw clenched and his attention shifted back to the chessboard. He moved his queen angrily.

Tom chose to ignore this small display of resentment, especially as Potter, in his fierceness, made a move that could potentially jeopardise Tom's victory. Was he aware of this? Tom smiled slightly as he considered a new strategy. At least it kept things interesting.

"The final duels always take place right after the exams and attract almost as many spectators as the final of a Quidditch match. But Crossed Wands are much more interesting, in my opinion," Tom said, bringing up the subject of wizarding duels again.

"Crossed Wands?" Potter asked, obviously despite his inner reluctance.

Tom, having finally chosen his strategy, moved his bishop, leaving Potter's queen surrounded on three sides.

"That's what this unofficial league is called," he explained. "It's always run by four students, one from each house, and as far as I know the tradition goes back at least seventy years. The duels take place in one of the old, officially disused duelling chambers in the South Wing dungeons, and anyone from first year to seventh year can take part. Although, of course, for first years it means slaughter. But I do remember one stupid Gryffindor doing it once."

In the middle of his explanation, Potter moved his pawn. To Tom's disappointment, the boy's next move clearly indicated that his earlier play had been a fluke. But there was still the risk that Potter knew what he was doing.

In a matter of moments, two rooks and two bishops had disappeared from the board; everyone had lost something, but it was Tom who still had the advantage.

"Well, I might have expected that from you. Anything involving the slaughter of innocents is more interesting to you," Potter said tartly.

Tom picked up his cup of tea. The situation on the table was under control. Whatever Potter did now, he would still lose.

"Not because of that. The unofficial league is more interesting because the students are less restricted than in the teacher-supervised duels. Only dark magic spells are forbidden. Fortunately, there are a number of curses on the border between black and neutral magic that no student would use in Attwell's presence, but without his watchful eye…"

"And the teachers let you do that?" asked Potter in disbelief. "No one's ever caught you?"

Riddle sipped the tea and then put the cup down.

"The teachers are probably well aware of Crossed Wands, but it's a tradition they obviously have no intention of breaking. Many of them probably took part in it when they were pupils, so they know how it works. Precautions are taken, of course. There are seconds in every duel, and the final fights are always covered by the Head Prefects. Injuries do happen, but nothing fatal or irreversible. So why should the teachers intervene? It's great training for the students. Besides, society should make sure that wizards are as educated as possible, and the ability to duel can come in handy in many situations."

"I don't think they think like that anymore," Potter said.

Tom held back a smirk. It really was too easy.

"It surprises me," admitted Tom evenly. "I wonder when they decided to remove duelling from the Hogwarts curriculum. And why they did it. Especially during wartime…"

Or maybe that's what they had in mind? Maybe someone in power didn't want wizards to be so well educated? But it was not only the Dark Side that was affected by this, but the Light Side as well. From what he saw in Potter's mind, the war unleashed by Voldemort must have really frightened everyone. The fear must have come from somewhere if wizards were so afraid of him that they wouldn't even say his name, calling him You Know Who.

Potter's only response was to shrug his shoulders and unwisely move the tower to the Tom's part of the board.

Tom, however, was not about to let him off. The sooner Potter learned that there was no way he could outwit him, the better. For both of them.

"Which makes me wonder, by the way, what must have happened at yours duelling club that Dumbledore decided to suspend it after only one meeting..."

Potter's head lifted instantly. And oh, there was finally recognition in those green eyes.

"I already told you. Lockhart. Everything's a disaster with him."

No, not this time.

"Potter, look me in the eyes," he ordered, his tone colder than a second ago. It obviously worked in the opposite direction, but Riddle had expected nothing less. Before Potter could dodge, Tom reached over the small table the chessboard stood, accidentally shifting a few pawns, but it didn't matter now anyway. His slender fingers gripped the boy's chin, nails dug into the soft skin.

"Let go of me," growled Potter, trying to break free. Tom only strengthened his grip.

"I'll ask again, and this time I expect a truthful answer. What happened during that meeting?"

Tom narrowed his eyes and put on a face that always sent shivers down the backs of his Slytherins. It worked on Potter too, because he stopped jerking. However, no answer came, so Tom focused on the teenager's eyes and pressed on his mind without hiding it at all.

This finally made Potter speak up.

"We have a deal," he reminded angrily through clenched teeth. "Get out of my head."

"Yes, we do," Tom agreed calmly, still in the same icy tone. "That's why I haven't gotten inside your head yet. But one more lie and I will. So?"

It must have been something big for the boy to fight so hard.

Another push on the barriers and Potter finally gave up. There was pure hatred in his green eyes.

"This was just after your memory from the diary had started terrorising Hogwarts with a basilisk. Rumours spread around the school that the Heir of Slytherin had returned, and everyone freaked out. And maybe everything would have been fine if Lockart hadn't had the idea of demonstrating how to block spells. And if Snape hadn't suggested that Malfoy and I be the ones to volunteer…" the boy trailed off.

To his surprise Tom could almost see what Potter was talking about. And he didn't use Legilimency at him, at least not consciously. But a podium flashed before his eyes and a blonde boy and an adult wizard leaned over him, whispering something in his ear. The strangest thing was that apparently Potter didn't seem to be aware of it.

"What happened next?" Tom asked mercilessly, although he already knew. The blonde boy conjured a snake. And Potter...

"Malfoy conjured a snake, I froze, and then of course Lockhart decided to intervene," there was bitterness in Potter's voice. "But instead of making the snake disappear, he angered it, causing it to turn on the students. It looked like the snake wanted to attack a boy from my year. And then I acted instinctively and..."

Potter didn't have to finish. Tom saw that. He...

"I told the snake to leave him alone," Potter finished, closing his eyes. This momentarily broke the strange connection between their minds.

"You told the snake…" Tom repeated dully, for the second time in a fortnight, completely at a loss. The thought flashed through his mind of how many more such revelations he had missed in his erratic Legilimency session during the second evening. Riddle let go of the boy's chin. "Are you Parseltongue?" he asked in snake language.

And though Potter replied in English, it was enough.

"It seems so."

Red possessiveness flashed in Tom's grey eyes.

o.O.o

"Harry, your wand," Tom demanded the next afternoon, holding out his hand expectantly to the teenager who was killing him with his gaze.

Today's lesson was a complete disaster, and it was better to end it sooner rather than later. Neither of them were in the mood and it was plain to see. Potter, with his constant yawning, because he was still brooding over the fact that Tom had found out about his Parselmouth. Tom, because not only had he spent last night recasting the spells to prevent Potter's escape (basing them on Parseltongue magic had been a good idea until it turned out that Potter didn't even need a wand to break them; luckily the boy hadn't thought of that in the last week), but during the day his patience had been tested by the customers who came into the shop.

Potter clenched his hand more tightly on his wand.

Oh, finally a rebellion?

Riddle's magic twitched in anticipation.

"Give it to me, Potter. Don't make me ask again," Tom's voice was silk over steel, a calm before the storm. He was beginning to enjoy these moments, the power play, the subtle dance of dominance and submission. And the fact that Potter wasn't one to be led, to follow the steps.

It would be boring if the boy didn't fight.

"Take it and fuck off," Potter spat venomously, thrusting his wand into Tom's hand.

Riddle's reaction was swift, a nonverbal curse swished through the air. Suddenly, foam bubbled from Potter's mouth, the boy choking and spitting in an attempt to clear his airways. The teen's instinctive dash towards the door was halted by another silent spell, his feet rooted to the ground by an unseen force.

"Language, Potter," Tom chided, his voice an icy whisper that that stung. "I thought my warnings against such language were clear."

Potter's attempts to respond were muffled by the foam, his frustration evident in every futile tug at the spell that bound him to the floor. Finally realising the pointlessness of his actions, he stopped and met Tom's gaze with a fiery defiance, the foam dripping down his face in almost comical contrast to the intensity of the hatred in the green eyes.

"I trust you will control your language more form now on. Am I clear enough this time?"

It took another moment of measuring vicious glances before Potter finally nodded reluctantly, signalling his compliance.

Tom accepted this with a cold smirk playing on his lips. With a flick of his wand, he released Potter from his magical constraints, watching with a mix of satisfaction and amusement as the boy fled to his room.

Definitely, if Potter didn't fight, it wouldn't be fun.

o.O.o

The night before, Tom had indulged Potter in an evening without chess, letting the boy lick his wounds in the privacy of his room. But he had no intention of giving up breakfast together. Potter had to get used to his presence, learn to show respect and obedience even when his wounded pride urged him to rebel and sulk. With his character, it was almost certain that the boy would be punished often.

Morning found them at the breakfast table, an air of icy civility between them. Potter, holding back a yawn, nibbled unenthusiastically at his scrambled eggs with a fork. His lack of desire to interact with Tom and the resulting lack of appetite was almost palpable. He barely bit into his toast, took maybe two sips of tea and didn't even touch the sausage. Tom, sipping his tea, measured the boy with a cautious, appraising gaze. His messy hair and the shadows under his eyes completed the picture of a tormented teenager. Potter, fortunately for himself, had the decency to change into normal clothes, although the long sleeves indicated that the fitting spell was wearing off. Well, Tom would have to order Bug to make the appropriate adjustments when the house elf would refresh Potter's clothes later. Just until Saturday; then he won't have to worry about it anymore.

"As fascinating as your attempts to fill a stomach without having to put food in a mouth are," Tom began, breaking the silence with a tone of dry amusement, "I would prefer you to drop the teenage sulking and start behaving normally. Especially as I'll be expecting some notes on chapters four and five of The Compendium of Transmutation when I get back from work."

This finally drew the angry green gaze.

"Just because we've moved on to practical exercises doesn't mean I'm going to let you off the theory," Tom added calmly, when it became clear that the boy wasn't going to answer and would just continue to murder him with a stare.

"So why don't you tell me what I'm supposed to be taking these notes on? I don't recall getting a scroll or a pen from you," came the defiant reply, punctuated by the angry plunge of a fork into scrambled eggs.

Tom did not allow himself to be provoked, showing a patience that was rather unusual for him.

"You'll find them in the library, on my desk. And I advise you to put your mind to it, because I will check them out and quiz you on the material they cover."

This earned him another hateful stare, but Potter made no protest, which meant he took the order. Tom decided that this time he could dispense with the need for verbal confirmation.

Step by step. Besides, this slow moulding of Potter to his standards was quite enjoyable.

The rest of breakfast passed in silence and a gloomy atmosphere, accentuated by the grey winter sky outside the window. Potter ate his scrambled eggs, but the almost untouched toast and sausage caused him to receive a reproachful look from Bug, who appeared to clear the table.

Potter took the vanishing of the plates as a sign to the end of their breakfast.

"May I go?" he asked.

Tom delayed answering for a moment. Potter, fortunately for himself having learned from previous experience, did not move from his chair.

The boy's chronic sleepiness and persistent yawning had not escaped Riddle's attention. Two day ago, while reinforcing the escape prevention spells in the boy's room, he finally had discovered the reason for his constant drowsiness. Potter, shrouded by Tom's distraction spell in case he woke up while Riddle had been working on wards, at one point had begun to throw himself on the bed, mumbling unintelligible words. Tom had stopped his spellwork and had listened for a while, trying to pick out the individual words. "No, not mum... Leave him..."

Nightmares?

At first Riddle had had no intention of doing anything about the fact that Potter had been plagued by them, but then he had realised that this was another ideal situation to mess with the boy's head.

"One more thing."

Tom reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a tiny bottle of shimmering purple liquid, placing it on the table with a soft thud.

"I'm aware of your nocturnal disturbances, Harry," Tom said in a tone that was at once neutral, but deliberately tinged with a hint of concern. He pushed the vial gently across the table towards Potter. "Dreamless Sleep Potion. Just pour five drops into a glass of water and the nightmares will stop bothering you."

Potter's reaction was violent, a flicker of anger lighting his eyes as his cheeks flamed a vivid red.

"You don't think I'll be fooled by your supposed concern, do you? You and care? Don't make me laugh. Back off with your fake kindness!"

Tom narrowed his eyes.

"Language, Potter", he chided him with a clear threat in his voice. Although the boy did not swear, the language he used was not respectful. "Shall I repeat yesterday's lesson?"

Potter pressed his lips together and shook his head reluctantly. Tom raised an eyebrow in expectation.

"So?"

"So what?"

"An apology, Potter."

"If you insist… I am all ears."

Potter had no chance to dodge the stinging hex that struck him in the right shoulder. The boy let out a short cry of indignation.

"Your apology, not mine. For being disrespectful," Tom clarified, twirling his wand in his fingers in clear threat.

Truly, doing favours for that brat was a path of agony.

The silence stretched, so Tom raised the tip of his wand slightly.

"I'm sorry," Potter said finally through clenched teeth, although his posture clearly indicated that he had no regrets. Still, it was a good start.

Tom nodded as a sign that he was satisfied.

"But if you really think..." Potter started but was silenced by the handy spell he himself had demonstrated to Tom a few days ago, which glued a tongue to a palate.

"I don't care what you're imagining in that tiny head of yours, Potter. You can assume that your lack of concentration during our lessons due to your insomnia is unacceptable to me if it makes you feel more comfortable. So you will take this potion to ensure a decent night's rest."

"Do you know that I wouldn't have this problem if it wasn't for you?" snarled the boy, when Tom drew back that tongue-glued spell.

"Then you should appreciate it all the more that I want to help you solve it," Tom replied coldly, satisfied that everything indicated that the boy would obey him after all. Once again. "Besides, it's not a suggestion, it's an order." He looked meaningfully at the vial.

Potter snorted and angrily took the bottle from the table, wisely holding back any impertinent reply that might have come out of his mouth.

"Remember, exactly five drops. We don't want you to get addicted," Tom reminded him with a smirk on his lips.

It didn't turn out exactly as he had planned, but he was still pleased with the outcome.

o.O.o

Tom Riddle never did anything without a reason. And if Potter hadn't brought up the subject of continuing his studies, it was likely that Tom himself would have offered him lessons sooner or later. Teaching the boy concentration and precision in spellcasting, or repeating material from the Hogwarts curriculum, wouldn't made Potter a threat to him anyway, not with the knowledge Tom possessed, which in many ways surpassed the skills of most of the gifted wizards, let alone the average one. Besides, it fitted in with Tom's plans, both the long-term ones, which he had no intention of telling the boy about for the time being, and the more immediate ones, which he could reveal to him, but did not feel the need to.

When Tom discovered that Potter was from the future, his imagination was fired not only by the prospect of learning about his destiny, but also by the magic unknown or undiscovered in his time. In both areas, however, disappointment awaited him. He preferred to think of Voldemort's fate in no other context than how he might avoid it, while Potter's knowledge of new spells proved equally unhelpful.

Handing Potter a scroll with a list of spells, Riddle did so not only to see how much the boy could do, but also in the hope that the boy would add something interesting to it. Yes, there were a few spells Tom didn't know, but they were mostly quite mundane with prosaic, everyday uses. Nothing interesting.

Moreover, he found Potter's skills to be mediocre at best. The power of his spells was unimpressive, but when forced, the boy proved a quick learner (he had recently achieved an accuracy of three-quarters of an inch in paperweight shrinking exercise) and actually even managed to surprise Tom once.

When Tom asked Potter to cast a Patronus Charm — another spell on the list added by the boy — he wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary. In fact, he was a little surprised that Potter had put it on the list, since Riddle had only learnt it in his seventh year (and it was during an optional classes, which turned out to be fortunate, as it was one of the few spells Riddle had a problem with), but he thought it was perhaps a rare display of overzealousness from the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Potter told him that they changed every year, some better, some worse. So, the boy's conjuring of a corporal, fully formed Patronus took him by surprise. The silver deer moved straight towards him, rubbing its spectral horns against him. Riddle leapt aside at the same time raising a shield that shattered the Patronus.

With that, the lesson ended.

The following evening, Tom set about testing Potter's knowledge of the transfiguration spells. It took them three evenings to go through the whole list and, as Tom expected, they came across a few spells that Potter knew but hadn't ticked off. Moreover, as Riddle noted with disdain, the boy seemed unaware of his slips. He could at least have made an effort to remember the spells he hadn't marked.

As they were nearing the end of the section anyway, Tom decided to raise the matter on Thursday evening. When Potter had almost correctly cast a spell to turn a cotton handkerchief into a silk one, showing knowledge of a spell he shouldn't have known, and of top of that, smiling at the result, Riddle decided to bring him down to earth.

With an effortless snap of his fingers, Tom summoned the scroll from his desk. The parchment unfolded and levitated in front of Potter, a silent command hanging in the air. Urged on by Tom's nod, the boy took the list into his hands. Having guessed what it might be, Potter's eyes darted down, searching for the spell he had just cast.

Tom watched the boy intently as he scanned the list. The sudden, tighter clenching of his fists on the parchment indicated that Potter had just realised what he had done.

"I don't suppose you expected me to remember every spell I've learnt," the teenager said angrily, lifting his head to look directly at Tom.

Riddle folded his arms across his chest. He felt no anger, rather a pleasant anticipation, but he had to play his part.

"That's exactly what I expect you to do," he replied coldly.

"I'm not like you or Hermione," Potter pointed out irritably. "I really didn't remember knowing this spell." The teen made a move as if to throw the list at Tom, but stopped at the last moment and crushed it a bit in his hands.

Tom's eyes locked with Potter's, sliding gently through his mind. He had been testing this for two days now; a subtle scan, something like a Legilimency but less invasive. If it was delicate enough (and it was, he'd learned doing it at Hogwarts), then the boy had no chance of sensing anything, and in turn, Tom would know if Potter was lying to him. However, he had not yet been able to repeat the effect from Monday when he had accessed the boy's memories in this way. He was missing something.

Potter blinked, unconsciously interrupting Tom's probing. But it was enough for Tom. The boy really didn't remember knowing this spell. But there was something more to his feelings. A fear. Fear of what? Of being caught?

So there were spells Potter was trying to fool him with concluded Riddle with sinister satisfaction.

"Let's say I believe you. In this case," began Tom slowly yet strictly. "But what with Avifors Spell? Featherweight Charm? Armadillo to Pillow transfiguration?" Clenched jaw, averted gaze — Tom didn't even need another probing. Potter was so obvious. "Should I name more?" he asked, his voice icy cold.

"This is madness!" Potter shouted in clear agitation.

"No, Potter, this is your new life. Get used to it quickly."

"I didn't choose it!"

"Well, you don't always get what you want. You should have not pocked your nose in that wardrobe," Riddle said mercilessly.

Potter murdered him for a moment with his furious avada-green gaze. The scroll was crumpled in the teen's hand, which was shaking slightly. Tom really began to like those moments when Potter acted as if he was going to attack him and fought with himself not to, however.

Riddle really wasn't sure which outcome he would have been happier with. But until now, the boy had always managed to control himself.

This time was no exception.

"What now?" Potter asked through clenched teeth.

Tom smirked.

"Now, Potter, you will be a good boy and give me back your wand, because there is no point in continuing the lesson. Then you will put the scroll back on the desk and I will give you until Monday to mark the spells written on it. I expect you to miss nothing this time. And then we will move on to the more interesting part."

Potter furiously handed him his wand and threw the parchment on the desk. It crossed Riddle's mind that since the boy had allowed himself to behave in such a way, he must have had far too little fear of him. But he'd get him to unlearn that too.

This time he decided to let it go, since he would hurt him anyway. A lot.

"I've counted nine spells that you supposedly don't know, and you've managed to cast them anyway. Eight, if I don't consider the last one," Tom began calmly, his cold grey eyes fixed on the boy. Once more he tried that gentle probing. "Let it be four strikes, then. In both hands."

The hatred was so pure, so burning. And yet the boy stood obediently before him.

"Or..." Tom added before Potter had time to assume the proper pose as his brilliant mind stumbled upon an even more brilliant idea, "this time I will forgive you, but in return you will let me into your mind and have a closer look at some memories of my choosing," Riddle finished with a sly grin.

The discovery that Potter was Parseltongue had left him haunted by the thought of how much more important information he might have missed. And since their agreement severely restricted him in the matter of forced mind reading, he wanted to manipulate Potter to choose Legilimency over other punishments.

Potter's response was immediate. Palms extended with backs down, chin raised in defiance, he straightened up in front of Tom.

"Don't talk so much, Riddle. Just wave your wand and let's get it over with."

This time Riddle's eyes narrowed due to genuine annoyance, and not just because Potter's refusal was not to his liking.

"Five. One more for insolence."

"Do your worst," was Potter's cold reply.

o.O.o

Tom Riddle scooped water into his hands and splashed it over his face. Its coolness not only washed away the remains of the soap, but refreshed him as well, helping to shake off any lingering drowsiness. As he reached for the towel that obediently floated into his waiting hand, an unexpected thought flashed through his mind. The morning a fortnight ago had been almost identical. The heavy grey clouds also blocked the sun's rays, so it was the flickering of the candles that illuminated the bathroom, and their vibration made the room seem to take on a life of its own.

Grey eyes framed by dark eyelashes that were reflected in the mirror looked at their owner's face with cold calculation. Tom reached for a shaving brush, its tip covered in a thick paste.

On the surface, little had changed. Tom still worked for Borgin and Burke, kept navigating the petty grievances of customers with a smile plastered on his face, a mask of politeness that concealed his disdain. But it wasn't the external actions that were the issue here: his approach to achieving his goals was fundamentally different from two weeks ago. Of course, he would continue his search for artefacts associated with the founders of Hogwarts. He had already acquired Rowena Ravenclaw's tiara. There were three left. Once an end in itself, he now saw this as a whim, an indulgence of his own desires, a way to fill the time until his new plans became clear.

His fingers, slender and precise, traced the contours of his jawline, his face tilted from side to side to ensure that no area was overlooked. In Tom's world, perfection was only the beginning, and its outward manifestation was his impeccable appearance.

So, the cup, the necklace and the sword. The latter the easiest one easy, getting it was a matter of time and the right plan. And a pinch of co-opting on Potter's part, but that wasn't something Tom was going to worry about too much either. As for the other two... Tom's instincts told him he was on the right track.

Tom learned to trust his intuition long ago. Or was it magic itself, subservient to his will, that guided him through life to help him achieve what his goals? In any case, he felt, more than ever, that taking a job at Borgin and Burke's was a good decision.

As he walked to his room, his thoughts were fully focused on the teenager who had unexpectedly fallen into his arms. Harry Potter, the saviour of the wizarding world in his day, was here a toy in Tom's possession. The inconvenience of having a second living being appear in his solitude, disrupting established order and developed habits, compensated for those moments when Tom played with the Boy Who Lived. Getting a bottle of Dreamless Sleep Potion was a trifle, especially as Tom's employer's old friend Decoctus Prince had a weakness for Riddle, which meant that Tom quickly twisted the Potions Master around his finger. The chaos that this seemingly simple, cheap gesture caused in Potter's mind cannot be overestimated. Concern? And at the hands of his tormentor? Delightful. But that was nothing compared to the anticipation Tom had felt at the thought of their yesterday's confrontation as he had been waiting for his work to finish.

Tom smiled under his breath while his slender pale fingers deftly fastened the cuffs of his snow-white shirt. As he bent Potter to his will, as he forced the boy who would fight him again and again into submission and obedience, an overwhelming sense of dominance and control washed over him. The absolute hatred in the green eyes that had obeyed his command and had looked straight into his grey as he had administered the punishment, every grimace, moan, stifled cry of pain was like honey to his wounded ego. He had not suspected that using another pain-inducing spell could be more satisfying than casting Crucio, and yet. But he'd already managed to see that with Potter, this was the rule, not the exception: something he'd previously thought impossible or unworthy of attention brought far more pleasure than he'd initially suspected. Playing with Potter was becoming more and more addictive by each day.

The dark green waistcoat rose from the back of the chair as Tom buttoned his shirt and snapped his fingers to summon it.

Potter was no mere toy, however. The boy seemed to be full of secrets and mysteries Tom was itching to discover. His lightning bolt-shaped scar, which had intrigued Tom from the moment he noticed it. The power, mentioned in the prophecy, that the Dark Lord did not know. Parseltongue, the latest but probably not the last. At the thought of his future nemesis knowing the language of snakes, Tom felt a mixture of irritation and fascination. Could this be why his future self had chosen Potter over the other boy? Because he had discovered something in his lineage that linked him to Salazar Slytherin himself and therefore, in a way, to Lord Voldemort? It would make sense. But then again, how could he have? In Potter's memories, he had seen the end of the confrontation with the Horcrux from his diary, and who would have thought that a wizard who could pull Godric Gryffindor's sword out of the Sorting Hat would have anything to do with another founder of Hogwarts? So, the assumption that Potter had been let into the Chamber of Secrets by his Horcrux, as he was in the habit of doing with his Slytherins, was logical. And it lacked nothing.

Except that it turned out to be false.

Tom suppressed the feeling of annoyance coming over him and glanced critically at his reflection in the mirror. The waistcoat fitted perfectly but the silver embroidered foulard needed a slight adjustment. As his slender fingers rearranged the fabric, it occurred to Tom that he had given the boy both too much and too little attention over the past two weeks.

His Slytherins were impatient, longing for his presence. Abraxas had already sent him three owls, inviting him to his residence in Woody Bay. He'd last seen Sebastian almost a two weeks ago, when he'd searched his family's library for a spell with which to bind Potter's thoughts (when he had found one he'd obliviated Selwyn, not wanting to leave any traces), and perhaps only Dolohov couldn't complain about his lack of attention lately. But Tom needed Alexandr for his connections to the magical underworld and when he had got what he needed, he had changed Dolohov's memory afterwards, for this clever wizard with Russian roots could put the facts together quickly. There were also others; Brandon Avery, Curtis Nott, Everett Rosier, the Lestrange brothers and the rest who either weren't in England or hadn't yet graduated from Hogwarts. To Tom Riddle, they were just tools; but tools had to be looked after if they were to do their job. Therefore, Riddle was going to indulge them with his presence and attention over the coming weekend. Whether or not this will turn out well for them was a different matter.

The wardrobe door opened and a dark green wizard's robe, summoned by another wandless spell, drifted gently towards Tom. It was made with the same meticulous craftsmanship as the waistcoat Riddle was already wearing. Tom spread his arms and the heavy, thick material settled on his shoulders. The robe also fit perfectly, and though its cut was simple, a skilled eye (and his employers and clients had such) had no trouble picking out the subtle signs of status and wealth it displayed. Oh yes, Abraxas Malfoy showed extraordinary generosity when it came to satisfying Riddle's daily needs.

From a tall mirror in a dark brown wooden frame, the figure of a young, handsome wizard, whose dress and manner suggested far greater ambitions than spending his future in a mere shop assistant's job, looked out at Tom. The wizard whose ambitions were beyond the dreams of most ordinary people, magical or otherwise. The wizard who knew he was destined for great things and had no qualms about demanding what he was destined for.

There was a red glint in the grey eyes. A smirk of superiority set on his thin lips.

o.O.o

Harry Potter arrived at breakfast, as usual, a few moments after Tom. The boy took his seat without a word, his reluctance to be in Tom's company evident.

"When you appear in someone's presence, it's appropriate to say good morning," Tom said dryly, looking at the teenager over a steaming bowl of porridge.

"Good morning," came in a quiet yet resentful tone.

"Good morning," Tom replied evenly, as if the greeting was not forced.

Potter avoided looking at Tom and it was clear that he would have stayed in his room if he could. But Tom's instructions, delivered by Bug, had been clear and the boy seemed to have learned over the past two weeks when it was worth fighting for and when it was better to let go.

"Help yourself," Tom added, knowing full well that it would be difficult for Potter to do so in his current state. His hands, injured by yesterday's spell, were still hurting and Bug, on Tom's command, had removed the ointment from the boy's room that had recently healed them. This time, Tom wasn't going to let him shorten his punishment and smother the pain.

Potter tensed. But for the head hung low, Tom could not enjoy the hatred in the green eyes this time.

Well, tough. If all goes according to Tom's predictions, he'll still have the chance, and sooner than Potter suspected.

They ate their breakfast in silence, with hatred radiating from Potter and cool amusement from Riddle. Tom occasionally watched with hidden satisfaction as the boy tried to hold a spoon or grab a glass with his injured hand so it wouldn't fall out.

"I'll be back from work early today," Tom announced as he finished his tea and set the cup down on the saucer. "Be ready, we're going shopping."

This finally made the green eyes look directly at him.

"Why?"

Tom held back a smile. Although it took a bit longer than Tom initially anticipated, he had found access to the smuggler through Aleksandr's contacts. Smart combination of confudus and obliviate allowed Tom to implant the correct memories into the man's mind. A few details remained to be worked out, but he would have to discuss these with Potter; he wanted the life story he had prepared for the boy to be as close as possible to what Potter had actually experienced. After all, the best lies were based on the truth.

"It's time to give Harry Potter back to the world. And you don't think I'm going to let someone pretending to be my little brother parade around in ill-fitting robes, do you?"

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER NINE —

Shopping thrill

Harry Potter ran through Diagon Alley, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. The late February chill bit at his skin, but adrenaline coursing through his veins made him numb to the cold.

The cobbled street was a gloomy, slushy mess. The remnants of winter melted into dirty puddles that splashed beneath his feet. The sky, a heavy blanket of clouds, seemed to press down on him, a reflection of the suffocating fear that gripped his heart.

Harry dodged and weaved around the witches and wizards on his escape route, his eyes searching desperately for a spot or a gate that might offer him refuge. His wet shoes slipped on the slick stones, almost sending him sprawling more than once. His mind raced as fast as his legs, trying to formulate a plan, any plan, that would put distance between him and the wizard who had controlled his every move for the past two weeks.

He hadn't planned this escape. It was a moment of pure instinct — a split-second decision made in the chaos of Diego Balenciaga's shop, in the midst of the distraction provided by a noisy family. He knew it wasn't the best of his decisions, with all the restrictions Riddle had placed on him, it was better to wait for a more convenient time, but having made up his mind, it was necessary to finish what he had started. The alternative wasn't encouraging. Riddle had made it crystal clear that if he was caught even thinking about escaping, Crucio would be waiting for him at home. And this time there will be no negotiation.

And there he was, running away anyway. Without a wand, without a plan, but with a fiery determination that gave him strength.

Screw the self-preservation instinct.

The rain, light but persistent, stuck his hair to his forehead and seeped through his thin robes. Wiping his splashed glasses with his sleeve, Harry glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see Riddle emerge from the rain, his handsome face twisted in fury. Luckily, he had only a crowd of witches and wizards behind him, unaware that the fate of the wizarding world and their own futures were at stake. He ran faster.

Few moments later, catching his breath, Harry paused, hands pressed against his knees. He couldn't just keep running, he had to think of something that would ensure that even if Riddle tracked him down and caught him, he wouldn't be able to drag him back to his apartment.

Easier said than done.

Straightening up, Harry lifted his gaze and his eyes fell on the rain-soaked sign of the Leaky Cauldron. And suddenly he was struck with an unexpected idea.

o.O.o

"It's time to give Harry Potter back to the world. And you don't think I'm going to let someone pretending to be my little brother parade around in ill-fitting robes, do you?" Riddle's voice, though smooth, had also a teasing edge. As if the older boy was amused by the mere thought of it.

Harry, on the other hand, didn't feel like laughing.

"Pretending to be your little brother?" he repeated, not bothering to hide his disgust and indignation. Pain caused by his hurt hands and the caution induced by the recent punishment were momentarily forgotten. As well as the breakfast. "Seriously, I thought Voldemort was out of his mind, but you managed to beat him in stupidity."

He couldn't fathom pretending to be the younger brother of his parents' future murderer. No way!

Riddle's eyes narrowed, though the future Dark Lord's voice remained calm.

"Potter, remember what I said about showing respect?"

"But I'm just stating the facts. Where's the disrespect in that?"

The expected stinging hex didn't come. Riddle straightened up in his chair, crossing his arms. So, then, the lecture. After two weeks in the presence of the older boy, Harry was beginning to pick up on his body language quite well.

"I thought you wanted to get out of my apartment," Riddle said, piercing him with his steely grey eyes. "Or perhaps your constant snooping around my library is about something other than finding a way to break through my protective barriers?"

Harry felt his heartbeat quicken. Since his last mishap he'd been extra careful not to leave any traces, and as he had set the books down, he had checked five times to make sure they were in the same location and not upside down.

No, nothing could tip him off this time, so it had to be the bloody Bug.

Luckily, Riddle's tone was not chiding, but still infuriatingly patronising.

"I don't see the connection," Harry replied evenly, forcing himself to calm down. The throbbing pain in his hands was an unpleasant reminder that he should be careful. He'd already learnt that calmness did not mean a lack of consequences.

"The connection is that you're supposed to be useful. You won't be if you're remained locked here," Riddle explained casually. "On the other hand, I cannot allow you to leave without a believable explanation for why you’ve suddenly appeared in my life."

Harry snorted. It was ludicrous.

"Well, yes, because the sudden appearance of another family member won't seem suspicious to anyone."

"If everything is carefully prepared, yes, it won't. We are quite similar, and we are both Parselmouth. That alone would be enough, even if you were a redhead with freckles. Besides, don't forget the times we live in. It wasn't so long ago that Hitler in tandem with Stalin were terrorising the Muggle world, and Grindelwald ours. Sudden disappearances, deaths or unexpected come backs take no one by surprise. In the turmoil of war, these things happen. Besides, people's capacity for ignorance is boundless when the narrative suits them. And is there anything more hearth touching than a family reunion?"

Harry had no counterarguments to this. He was all too familiar with the atmosphere of terror and uncertainty. Three weeks ago, he used to start his days by looking over Hermione's shoulder as she flicked through the Daily Prophet to find out who was missing, dead or arrested this time. Unfortunately, in his times, it was not uncommon for someone he had seen in class the day before not to turn up the next day.

But that didn’t make the idea of pretending to be Riddle’s younger brother any more acceptable. On the contrary, it reminded Harry why he should hate the young man sitting in front of him.

"You may be right about people buying it, but.... That's not an option. I have no intention of pretending to be your brother. Come up with something better."

The icy coldness in Riddle's eyes told Harry that he had overstepped this time, but he wasn't going to let that bother him. At worst he would be punished again, no big deal. He could handle a little pain.

As opposed to introducing himself using the name of his parents' murderer.

"Potter, I think you are missing a fundamental and important issue. You have no right to refuse."

"According to our agreement, I can express an objection," Harry reminded him.

And here it went again. The same verbal exchange. How many times had this happened?

"And I can take it into consideration, but I don't have to. And in case you've forgotten, the last word belongs to me."

Instinctively, out of anger, Harry clenched his hands into fists and hissed in pain. For Merlin's sake, how he hated the wizard sitting across the table at that moment.

"So? What's this brilliant plan of yours?" he asked in spite of himself.

He didn't say he agreed with this charade, but Riddle's demeanour changed instantly anyway: the deadly threat was gone, replaced by unabashed satisfaction.

"We're going to carry the same surname because it's more convenient, so we'll tell everyone that we have a same father but different mothers. Mine was from England, yours from Ireland. Yours was also abandoned by our father shortly after he found out she was pregnant. However, you were luckier than me and were raised by her for the first few years. She died of dragon pox when you were seven, and after her death you were sent to her sister, who lived in Dublin with her husband and son. This explains why you didn't go to Hogwarts. In Ireland, they have a completely different system of education for young wizards, so by the way, no one will be surprised by your gaps in knowledge," Riddle began, and the confidence with which he spoke assured Harry that the future Dark Lord had indeed thought everything through carefully beforehand.

Most disturbing, however, was the mention of his mother's sister. This meant that Riddle was listening carefully, remembering what Harry said and drawing his own conclusions. It seemed that the older boy was not only able to extract something from the story of Lord Voldemort's future fate that would serve his plans.

Harry decided silently that he would be more careful in their future conversations.

"Your new guardians didn't treat you very well," Riddle continued. Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Yep, definitely too perceptive. "Both your aunt and her husband were squibs, so jealous of your magic that tried to tamper your magical development. They only let up when it turned out that your cousin also had magical abilities, a weak one, but still better than nothing. When you turned eleven, they sent you to one of the schools where magic was taught, but as soon as our father stopped sending them money for your upbringing, they kicked you out of the house and you ended up on the streets. You were taken in by two vagrants, low-level criminals, but they got into some pretty serious trouble. One of them was killed, the other ended up in jail, and you were left alone again. And then you remembered that long ago you had come across an article in the Daily Prophet describing the school achievements of a certain Tom Riddle. You knew from your mother's stories that your father was from England, so you put the facts together and decided that we might be related. Your last guardians had put aside some money for a rainy day, and as you were left alone, you decided to use it, found a smuggler to help you get to England, and almost immediately tracked me down, as everyone on Nocturne knows each other. In a word, you were lucky and I was magnanimous enough to take care of you."

Harry was speechless. Riddle had planned this bloody well. From the whole story, Harry could only point out one stupid thing.

"How on earth, living in Ireland, would I come across an article in the Daily Prophet?" he asked, not without wry satisfaction.

The answer came in an instant.

"One of your last guardians was a Brit who fled to Ireland because he had also made trouble in England. He used to read the Daily Prophet out of sentiment. Oh, and one more thing: if someone asks you what your first guardians were called, you can give them the names of your real relatives. Just change the surname. The same goes for the two tramps; you can name them after your father's friends. What was it like? Padfoot and Moody?"

"Moony," Harry corrected Riddle reflexively, and then it dawned on him what that man was proposing. Outraged, he momentarily sprang up from his seat, slapping his open palms on the tabletop.

"How dare you!" he exclaimed, and at the same moment his face contorted with pain.

Fuck. His hands.

Riddle's reaction was immediate. The older boy also rose abruptly from his seat, and a second later they were staring at each other with murderous glances, their noses almost touching.

"What part of the phrase 'the last word belongs to me' did you not understand?" the future Dark Lord asked icily, his grey eyes narrowed threateningly.

Harry decided not to be intimidated, even though his heart wanted to rip out of his chest.

It's just a pain. And it faded eventually.

"I understood perfectly the first time. You're getting boring repeating yourself," Harry said through clenched teeth.

"You'll spend this morning practising introducing yourself in a new way," said Riddle, ignoring the remark. "And if it ever slips out in front of anyone that you're Harry Potter, not Harry Riddle, believe me, Crucio will be the least of your worries."

o.O.o

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Harry brushed his wet hair back with a trembling hand and stepped across the threshold of the Leaky Cauldron with a resolve that belied his inner trepidation. The warm, slightly musty air, rich with the scent of butterbeer and roasting bacon, enveloped him as he stepped inside.

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the dim light and acrid smoke, he looked around. It was a Friday afternoon so the Leaky Cauldron, as in his times, was bustling with life. The familiar interior was crowded with witches and wizards craving a bit of relaxation. Three old women sat in a corner with their heads close together over small glasses of sherry, while a group of goblins loudly competed in a game of Gobstones at another table. A few stern looking wizards debated vigorously, their arguments punctuated by wild gestures and the occasional burst of sparks from their wands.

With a bit of surprise, Harry noted that the bar hadn't changed much in fifty years; the wooden beams, the slightly stooped ceiling, and the collection of oddities decorating the walls were all as he remembered. Perhaps only the tables looked less worn out, but the chairs were as mismatched as ever.

Behind the bar the bartender, in which Harry recognized Tom from his times, was busy pouring drinks, his movements fluid and practised. The man's face, younger and less wrinkled than the one Harry remembered, had the same friendly expression that encouraged conversation and confidences, though his eyes, sharp and observant, missed nothing that went on around him.

Amidst the air, thick with smoke and filled by the sounds of laughter, lively conversations and the clinking of glasses Harry considered his next move. His plan, born of a desperation that could only be inspired by the worst situation, was risky and breakneck. A few moments ago it had seemed brilliant in its simplicity. But now, as he looked at the customers and searched among them for his potential target, doubt overcame him and dampened his resolve. He might not be caught. Worse still, his victims might deal with him personally, without Aurors. But what other choice did he have? He couldn't just walk up to the first wizard he met and say, "Hi, I'm from the future and I need to contact Dumbledore to help me get back before the whole timeline blows up", Riddle had already taken care of that.

Harry's eyes darted from a group of lively young wizards in brightly coloured robes, looking like fans just back from a Quidditch match to a rack of cloaks standing by the fireplace.

Another brilliant idea formed in Harry's mind.

Rummaging through the pockets of robes hanging on a rack seemed more impersonal and easier than trying to rob someone alive. So, with feigned casualness, Harry approached the rack next to the crackling fireplace. Under the pretext of hanging up his own top robe, Harry began clumsily rifling through the pockets of the other coats with his sore hands. He glanced stealthy over his shoulder, as if to make sure no one was watching, but really hoping he had managed to attract the attention of the bartender or one of the customers. To his surprise, he was able to grab two punches with coins and a bunch of keys before anyone noticed what he was up to.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Tom's sharp voice cut through the buzz of conversations, pinning Harry in place. Without missing a beat, the bartender aimed a stun spell at the supposed thief. Harry, driven by his instincts, leapt aside, the spell narrowly missing him and hitting the wall, where it left a scorch mark.

This, of course, immediately attracted the attention of the other customers, and the hum of conversation quietened instantly. Of course, this was exactly what Harry had hoped for, but he had to play his part to the end. What kind of thief would steal just to get caught? But the Petrification Charm Harry had been hit from his right had taken him completely by surprise.

"Don't think you're getting away, little thief," one of the older wizards said, tucking his wand into his robes pocket. He nodded at the bartender, who was just coming around the counter to approach Harry. At the same moment, Harry's heart sank as the door to the Leaky Cauldron reopened and the figure of Tom Riddle appeared in the doorway.

A very, very livid Tom Riddle.

Shit.

o.O.o

When Riddle told him that they were going to Diagon Alley to buy him some better-fitting clothes, Harry subconsciously expected a fifty years younger version of Madame Malkin, which later seemed silly and naive, since the woman was not that old. And yet he was still strangely surprised when, upon crossing the threshold of the shop (located in the same place), instead of the expected witch, they were greeted by a slender wizard in his forties who spread an aura of controlled chaos around himself. His smooth, shiny hair and thin, curling moustache gave him an eccentric appearance, and when he spoke, the distinct foreign accent in his voice only added to this impression.

"Ah, Mr. Riddle, ever so punctual" exclaimed the tailor as he walked briskly towards them. "What can I do for you today?"

Riddle nodded his head in a gesture of greeting.

"Mr. Balenciaga, punctuality is just a small way of showing respect, and you know the best how much I value your work," the future Dark Lord replied smoothly. The man called Mr. Balenciaga puffed out his chest proudly; it was clear that Riddle's words had tickled his ego pleasantly.

Harry's jaw almost dropped. While he understood sucking up to Slughorn, he did not expect flattery towards the tailor.

"Today, however, it's not I who will need your help, but my younger brother."

Harry felt Riddle's hand on his back, pushing him forward slightly. Potter momentarily had the urge to jump into the bath and scrub the spot where the older boy's hand touched him.

Balenciaga's eyes twinkled with curiosity at the mention of 'brother,' but his professionalism prevailed. "Of course, Mr. Riddle. Diego Balenciaga, at your service," he said, offering a hand to Harry.

"Harry Riddle," Harry introduced himself and returned the handshake. He felt the gaze of the grey eyes drill into the back of his head, but Riddle had nothing to complain. The git had made Harry repeat those two words until he could say them without stuttering before he left the apartment. Worst of all, it worked. Despite the bitter taste of defeat on his tongue, Harry's voice didn't falter.

"And what might young Mr. Riddle require?" the tailor asked.

"Basically everything," Riddle replied evenly. "From socks and underwear to casual and dress robes. Several sets."

"And school robes? Shall I include those too?" asked Mr. Balenciaga, gesturing to his assistant who was now standing some distance away from them.

"No, those aren't needed. My brother's home schooled."

The young witch approached them, smiling brightly, and though she too tried to remain completely professional, her cheeks reddened slightly as the elder Riddle nodded in greeting.

Seriously?

"This way, Mr. Riddle," the young woman said as she led Harry into the next room, where a wooden stool stood in the middle. Riddle and Mr. Balenciaga followed.

Lit by a tall crystal chandelier, the room even smelled exclusive and elegant, a subtle fragrance that suggested the highest quality of materials and service. Against one wall stood a row of tall, narrow mirrors, offering customers a panoramic view of their outfits from every angle. Opposite the mirrors, on shelves reaching the high ceiling, lay bales of multicoloured fabrics whose shades were vibrant and intense, as if saturated with their own magical glow. Around the dressmaking mannequins standing here and there, needles and scissors floated in the air, guided by an unseen hand, working tirelessly to complete the designs. The sight was mesmerising, a ballet of craftsmanship and magic that caught even Harry's attention.

"Let's get you measured, shall we?" the voice of Balenciaga's assistant rang out close to Harry's ear, causing the boy to flinch slightly. With a deft flick of her wand, the woman elegantly removed the top robe Harry was wearing and sent it to a hanger. Without its enveloping weight on his shoulders, Harry felt strangely exposed. "Would you stand on the stool, please?"

Wearing only his shirt and trousers, Harry stepped onto the stool, feeling uncomfortable at being the centre of attention. Mr. Balenciaga watched him thoughtfully, twirling a moustache on one of his fingers. Riddle stood beside him in a more casual pose, his hands in his pockets, clearly amused by Harry's discomfort.

As the tailor's meters danced around him, taking measurements from every possible angle, the young witch began to take meticulous notes. Meanwhile, Riddle and Mr. Balenciaga were discussing the details of the order, and Harry involuntarily began to listen to their conversation.

"I understand only the finest materials?" asked the elder wizard.

"Of course," Riddle replied smoothly, "as always, price isn't an issue. The clothes must be comfortable and fit well. I want my brother to present himself with dignity, as befits a young wizard."

Harry felt a strange, unexpected and treacherous warmth as he heard these last words. He knew that this was merely a game on Riddle's part, a necessity arising from the fact that Harry was not to embarrass him with his appearance. And yet, the very fact that there was someone who wanted Harry to present himself properly struck a chord in the boy that he hadn't known existed. Harry immediately scowled, angry at himself. It was so low, so... malfoyish. It didn't matter what he was wearing. Whether it was Dudley's oversized, washed and torn clothes, or Riddle's robes, refreshed daily with the right spell, or the finest attires sewn especially for him. Clothes were just clothes.

"Mr. Riddle, could you raise your arms and spread them out to your sides? I need the length of your arm so that the sleeves aren't too long."

Clothes like clothes. But Harry, unsure if his voice would crack, just nodded, obeying the order without objection.

"And the colours?"

"Dark robes, light shirts. Nothing extravagant. Blacks, browns, greens..."

"Nothing green," Harry objected immediately, regaining his voice. Riddle might have forced him to introduce himself with the same surname, but there was no way Harry was going to parade around in the colours of the Slytherins.

"Greens, could be navy blue," Riddle finished calmly, giving Harry a warning but slightly amused look.

"If I may?" the witch spoke quietly, cocking her head to look at Harry. "I think a set of emerald green dress robes would suit young Mr. Riddle. They'll be a perfect match for his eye colour."

The witch summoned one of the large mirrors with a wave of her wand. The mirror hovered several inches above the floor, reflecting Harry's entire body. The woman uttered a long incantation under her breath and to Harry's surprise, his reflection in the mirror wavered and when the glass panel calmed, Harry saw himself in the simple yet elegant emerald robes she had just mentioned.

"What do you think, Mr. Riddle?"

Harry just gritted his teeth.

Clothes like clothes. Even the fancy ones meant nothing. The red welts on his hands, hidden beneath Glamour, clearly reminded him of that.

o.O.o

Frozen in place by the Petrification Charm, Harry Potter could do nothing but watch as Tom, the bartender, approached him with a stern, angry expression on his face. With a swift movement, the man snatched the stolen bag of Galleons from Harry's rigid grasp. Perhaps Harry would have been able to talk his way out of it, to pretend that it was indeed his, had it not been for the fact that, at the same moment, one of the customers jumped up from his seat, shouting: "It's mine!". Then, the wizard pushed his way through the shocked crowd and angrily took his property from the bartender's hands.

The bartender turned his stern gaze back to Harry. "You've just got yourself in a lot of trouble, lad," he warned, his tone leaving no doubt as to the seriousness of Harry's situation.

And at the same moment, unnoticed by all but a petrified Harry, Riddle approached them and interjected in his trademark ominously calm tone:

"Would someone please tell me what has happened here?"

The robbed customer, completely taken aback by the question, blurted out without hesitation: "That brat just tried to steal from me!"

"In that case, please accept my sincere apologies for my brother's behaviour," Riddle said, addressing the robbed customer with a smooth, composed demeanour that hid the rage Harry knew was simmering beneath the surface. "He's young and, unfortunately, prone to act without thinking about the consequences. I can assure you, sir, that this is nothing more than a misguided attempt to draw attention to himself, a moment of foolish rebellion." Then, with one deft flick of his wand, Riddle released Harry from under the spell. Harry made an instinctive movement, as if to fly away, but was stopped by a stern warning: "Don't even think about it. And apologise. Now."

The older wizard, the same one who had immobilised Harry with his spell, stepped forward, his voice stern.

"I hope you don't think an apology will be enough, lad. This young man has just been caught trying to steal. He should be punished accordingly to deter him from such actions in the future," he said. "Tom, I'd call the Aurors if I were you," he added, addressing the bartender directly.

Were it not for the fact that the matter directly concerned him, Harry would have admired the wizard's courage in defying Riddle.

Riddle's next words, however, froze the blood in Harry's veins.

"I assure you, sir, the lesson will be well learned. My brother acted out of childish whim, nothing more. He'll face severe punishment at home, far more effective than any intervention by the Aurors."

The conviction in Riddle's voice, coupled with the obvious horror on Harry's face, seemed to satisfy the older wizard. The man stepped back and Tom, the bartender, though still suspicious, nodded in acceptance of this outcome. But before he allowed Harry to leave, he glanced at the robbed wizard. The man merely said with vicious satisfaction:

"I hope the punishment will indeed be as severe as you say."

Harry swallowed. Too bad it hadn't occurred to either of the men just how severe it would be. Maybe in that case they wouldn't have been so willing to let him walk away with this devil in human skin.

"Now, apologise to these gentlemen and we'll go home," Riddle ordered him coldly, placing a hand on his back. The touch was burning, and Harry had no doubt as to its purpose.

"Please accept my sincerest apologies. As has been said, it was a silly, childish act," he forced himself to say through a throat clenched with fear.

o.O.o

"We'll manage to send the first set of clothes by tomorrow, but the rest will unfortunately have to wait until the end of next week," Diego Balenciaga explained, his tone apologetic. He seemed genuinely concerned that preparing everything would take so long. "However, I believe that three sets of day clothes, two pairs of trousers and five shirts should be enough for the first few days. Socks and underwear will of course be sent later today."

Riddle nodded briefly. For the past two weeks, Potter had been walking around in the same robes, refreshed every night by Bug, so the new contents of his wardrobe, even if incomplete, were still a vast improvement over what the boy currently owned.

"Very well. Address it to me."

"We'll begin immediately" the young Balenciaga's assistant assured Tom as she appeared at their side with Potter at her heels.

Riddle's gaze slid towards the teen, who stood obediently beside him. Of course, Tom had warned him before they left the apartment not to even think about trying to escape, but in truth he was surprised that Potter had shown such a submissive attitude. He hadn't tried to break away during the Side-Along Apparition, hadn't made a scene in the shop and had even let go of the argument over the colour of the robes, despite his initial objections. And now he just stood there and waited, making no sudden movements that would indicate a desire to run away. Had Tom's prediction been wrong?

Impossible. Besides, such obedience was not the boy's style.

Mr. Balenciaga, twirling his long moustache, was about to add something, but at that moment the shop's door opened and the sound of bells rang out, announcing the arrival of another customer. It turned out to be a middle-aged witch, surrounded by a bunch of noisy children.

"Dear Mr. Balenciaga, I'm so sorry to be so early, but Aidan and Archie..."

The rest of her explanation was lost in the noise made by her children. Two boys, no more than eight or nine years old, jumped into the shop and, toy wands in hand, began to pretend to duel, shouting at each other the names of curses they had made up on the spot. There was, of course, no light coming from their fake wands, but at one point the uncontrollable childish magic kicked in and the taller boy was thrown backwards, flying straight at Tom, who, with an utter disgust hide beneath perfectly unreadable expression, nimbly stepped aside. The boy landed hard on the floor. A little girl, who had been hiding behind her clumsy mother, leaned over and giggled.

"Aidan! Archie! Stop this at once! And apologise for your behaviour!"

Unfortunately, neither the woman's harsher tone nor her stern face had any effect on her two sons. The taller of the boys picked himself up from the floor and stormed towards his brother again.

"My deepest apologies..."

Riddle dismissed the woman's apology with a wave of his hand, deciding that he had not let her incompetence spoil his mood.

"Please charge the usual Gringotts account," he said to Mr. Balenciaga. Abraxas was kind enough to transfer a few punches of Galleons from his family vault to Tom's from time to time, so Riddle didn't have to worry about such trifles as expenses. When the money ran out, he simply informed Malfoy. "Harry, we're leaving now."

It was then that he realised Potter was no longer by his side.

"Your brother's probably waiting outside as he left a moment ago," said Mr. Balenciaga's assistant, lifting in time one of the mannequins with an unfinished robe that would otherwise have become another victim of the bratty boys.

The corners of Tom's mouth twitched slightly, but not in irritation. So, he hadn't been wrong. Like always.

Riddle unhurriedly say goodbye to the tailor and his assistant and when he found himself outside, he stopped in front of the door, ignoring the drizzle that fell from the sky and soaked his carefully styled hair. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the magic of the tracking spell. The spell allowed him to know exactly where the boy was; if the boy knew his location, the name would just appear in Tom's mind. If he didn't, the spell's magic allowed Tom to Apparate either to the boy's immediate vicinity (if he wasn't in a space with Anti-Apparition Charm), or to the first place closest to the boy's current location.

This time, however, Potter knew perfectly where he was.

The Leaky Cauldron.

Well, the boy could at least have been more creative.

With that in mind, Riddle Apparated.

o.O.o

Riddle had come to the conclusion that he preferred when Potter showed no creativity. He struggled to contain his anger at the brat's behaviour. He seized the boy's arm tightly, yanking him out of the Leaky Cauldron. And then, in an instant, they were no longer in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley, but in the austere living room of Tom's apartment.

Tom angrily shoved Potter away from him with such force that the boy nearly lost his balance, staggering to keep himself upright. The sheer fear on the teenager's face did nothing to calm Tom's anger; if anything, it only fuelled it.

Oh yes, Potter should be afraid.

Riddle was furious, and not just at Potter's attempted escape — that was expected, even intended. No, it was the sting of humiliation, the embarrassment of being forced to offer apologies for the boy's recklessness before those he deemed unworthy, that ignited his fury. In addition to the older wizard's audacity in calling him 'lad', his infuriating condescending tone…

The boy will pay for it.

"Explain yourself," Tom demanded, his voice a cold, menacing whisper that pierced the tense air. He stood, hardly controlling his rage, and every muscle in his body tensed with barely contained ire.

Potter, so stupid or so brave, had dared to show defiance even now.

"Wasn't it obvious? I tried to get away from you!" he shouted.

Tom's patience snapped. In the blink of an eye, he had pushed Potter forward and pinned the boy against the wall with a force that left no room for resistance. The tip of his wand pressed against Potter's throat, a chilling reminder of how deadly his anger could be.

"Don't play dumb. What was the point of this pathetic attempt at theft?" Tom hissed, his face inches from Potter's.

There was pure terror in the teen's eyes, but to Riddle's amazement it was almost immediately replaced by an uncontrolled burst of laughter, which seemed absurdly out of place.

"Ah, that's what you mean. I knew I'd be caught," Potter admitted, and his hysterical laughter turned to grim amusement. "I wanted to be caught — perhaps I'd fall into the hands of someone who could actually help me return to my time. The Aurors, Dumbledore... didn't matter, as long as isn't you."

Tom's anger hit a new zenith. "Foolish boy," he sneered, contempt dripping from every syllable. "Did you really think the Aurors would help you? Did you think they'd send you away with a pat on the back and no questions asked? That they wouldn't hand you over to the Unspeakable like an anomaly to be neutralised?"

"Whatever they'd do, still beats being with you," Potter replied vehemently, using all his strength to push Riddle away from him, but the future Dark Lord wouldn't allow it. He pressed Potter harder against the wall, his wand jabbing painfully into the spot under the boy's collarbone.

"You idiot!" Riddle hissed. "Do you fancy being a lab rat trapped in the Department of Mysteries' shadows? Turned inside out by the Unspeakable, vivisected, with no hope of leaving their dark recesses, let alone returning to your own time?"

"Seems to me you're the one scared of what they'd do if they found out what monster you'd become!"

"Enough!"

"Coward! You're the one who's afraid! Admit it!" Potter spat the words in his face. "You think you can win me over with fancy clothes, a few games of chess or a vial of a potion? You're just like him. No, you're worse. Much worse. And I'll make sure you fail."

Tom finally let himself be pushed away by Potter, who uttered out his next words with the speed of a bullet. Red fury clouded Tom's vision for a moment. No one had dared speak to him like that. Ever.

"Enough! On your knees."

Potter's eyes blazed, unyielding. "In your dreams!"

"We have a deal," Tom's words were cold, his fury barely held in check by. "When you ran away, you knew exactly what to expect."

"Fuck off. And go and get treated at Mung's, because there is clearly something wro–"

"So, the harder way. Let it be. Crucio!"

Potter's attempt to evade was futile; Tom's curse was swift, striking him sharply beneath his left ribs and sending him crashing to the floor. It took mere moments before first cry came from the rebellious teenager's throat.

As the boy's screams filled the room, Tom allowed his anger to flow freely into the spell, his control giving way to a savage delight in Potter's suffering. It wasn't a gentle Crucio, oh no. Potter's agonal cries echoed off the empty walls and the slim figure writhed in pain at Tom's feet.

The boy had to learn who's in charge here.

It was a pity he couldn't keep Potter under Crucio for too long, though. If he was going to be useful, he had to remain sane. Still, Tom found it hard to force himself to undo the curse. Those screams... They were music to his ears.

He had waited so long for this.

Finally, after a few moments that must have seemed like an eternity to the boy, but was no more than two minutes, Riddle lifted the spell.

The silence that fell almost rang in his ears.

Tom nudged Potter's limp form with the tip of his shoe, distaste flickering across his face at the smell of sweat and fear. Almost without thinking, he cast a quick Scourgify, then used his foot to roll the teen onto his back, checking for consciousness.

There was pain and fear in the green eyes this time.

"Barely a warning this time," he said, looking at the half-conscious teenager. "Defy me again and you will see what it means to be punished."

And with that, he walked out of the living room.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TEN —

New beginning

Harry moaned, then slowly opened his eyes. The blurry world did not come into focus. He tried to find his glasses, but the mere strain of his muscles was enough to bring another groan of pain. He felt as if a pack of hippogriffs had run over him, and then some of them had come back to trample him into the ground. Even breathing caused him pain, so he decided to lie on the hard floor for a little longer. Five minutes, no more.

He didn't know how long Riddle had kept him under Crucio, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Was it a few seconds or a few minutes? Whatever. It had been too short to lose his mind, that was all that mattered. The spell had reached him suddenly, even though he knew it would hit him, it had taken him by surprise. Riddle had given him no time to prepare. So, he had wanted at least to endure it with dignity, to show that no matter what, he would not be broken, especially not by pain. He wasn't going to give that bastard the satisfaction, he wasn't going to scream.

He had begun to scream almost immediately.

The mere thought of this made his cheeks burnt. But the pain… It was so consuming, unbearable, unlike anything he had ever...

Suddenly his pulse quickened, the blood hummed in his ears and Harry felt as if an icy hand was squeezing his gut. A piercing sense of fear overwhelmed him. He jerked, tried to move, but his body wouldn't cooperate.

Frozen, he could only lie on the cold wooden floor and breathe, in and out, trying to calm himself somehow. To regain control of his shaking body.

Finally, after several long minutes, he began to breathe evenly. Slowly, ignoring the pain accompanying every movement, he pushed himself to the sitting position.

What was happening to him? Were these side effects of Crucio? But when he had been hit with the same spell by Voldemort on the graveyard, nothing of that sort had happened to him. What's more, he had been able to get up and fight back.

Except...

That was child's play compared to this. Until now, it had not crossed his mind that, even with Crucio, the feelings might have been different depending on who was casting it. Fake Moody hadn't mentioned this during the class.

Harry regretted that this had been added to his knowledge.

After a few moments of increasingly frantic searching, he finally found his glasses. He put them on clumsily, they were crooked, so he had to correct them, but it did little to help. Great. So not only wandless, but now almost blind. He probably damaged them when he lost control of his body. He remembered screaming, writhing on the floor, wanting only one thing: for it to end.

In any way.

His heart started beating faster again. Enough, he commanded himself firmly. He wasn't going to dwell on it. He endured it. Literally every single muscle in his body ached, but that was a good thing. He wouldn't forget the pain, he wouldn't let himself be fooled again; Riddle was a monster, just like Voldemort.

And, like Voldemort, he should be stopped.

With that thought, Harry gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself to stand. He could not lie there forever.

He had no intention of giving Riddle that satisfaction either.

o.O.o

"Argh!" a choked cry of astonishment escaped Harry's lips at the sight of Bug standing in the middle of the room. "What…  doing 'er?" he wanted to ask sharply but his voice faltered; his throat worn out from earlier screams. To retain at least a shred of dignity, he pulled the halves of his new dressing gown tighter around himself and shot a hateful glare at the intruder.

Bug, however, was not easily to intimidate, especially not by Harry. The creature responded with an equally hostile look, then spoke:

"Master Riddle has ordered Bug to inform his brother that they will not see each other today. Harry Riddle is to be a good boy, do nothing stupid and read this book by tomorrow afternoon," the house elf held out a thin, black leather-bound book to Harry, who took it in his hand reflexively. He was still processing how Bug addressed him.  Harry Riddle. That fucking bastard even dragged a house elf into his schemes. "Master said he would check tomorrow to see if Harry Riddle had read it."

Harry glanced suspiciously at the book, but he was not given the chance to express his objection or surprise as Bug continued:

"Bug brought food because master's brother hasn't eaten since yesterday. If he's still hungry, Bug will bring more. Master also ordered to drink this," the house elf pointed to a steaming mug standing next to a plate with dinner, "it will help to the throat."

And then, he just disappeared, leaving Harry alone.

Harry's first instinct was to ignore the offered food, but a loud rumbling in his stomach convinced him that would be a bad idea. Riddle was a fucking sadist, Bug even more twisted than Dobby, but starving himself would do him no good. So, Harry carefully sat down on the bed with his legs crossed and, after adjusting his broken glasses, began to eat the soup.

As he swallowed spoon after spoon of the best oxtail soup he'd ever had, he contemplated his predicament. The long bath he had taken after returning to the room helped a little. The pain still nagging at him, Harry moved slowly, cautiously, but now it was bearable. It was like soreness after an intense quidditch workout. The feeling was already familiar, and Harry knew how to cope with it. And he knew that it would pass in a few days. However, did he have that much time?

Once again, a wave of anger washed over him.

Why had he acted so foolishly, so recklessly? It was more than certain that this was exactly what Riddle had expected of him. And so, at first, Harry decided that he wouldn't be tricked, that he wouldn't try to escape. And then, as always, he acted first and thought later.

Stupid, oh so stupid! He only hoped that Riddle's plans for him wouldn't change. Harry was sick and tired of being stuck in this apartment, and the quick foray into Diagon Alley only made current restrictions more severe. After all, Riddle had made it clear that he intended to return him to the world — what else could that mean but being let out of the flat? Probably under close supervision, but perhaps another opportunity to escape would present itself sooner or later. This time he wouldn't act rashly; he would plan everything better.

Although Riddle's reaction clearly indicated that there must have been something in Harry's plan that could have worked. Riddle hadn't been furious about the escape attempt (at least not exclusively), but mainly because Harry's plan had been turning out to be more complicated and, who knows, maybe with a chance of success? Basically, everything had happened exactly as Harry had planned, and it really had looked like the bartender was going to call the Aurors. Only Riddle's intervention had saved Harry from that. It must have made him angry too. If Harry hadn't been so frightened at that moment, he probably would have picked his jaw up off the floor. It never occurred to him that Riddle could apologise to anyone. Even if only to keep up appearances.

Harry had a hunch that this was one thing the future Dark Lord would not soon forget him. So, it meant that in the near future he should pretend that the punishment had the expected result and knocked all thoughts of escape out of his mind. It would also be useful to show that he could behave and cooperate after all. Just in case Riddle decided he couldn’t trust him enough to let him out of the apartment again.

Harry swallowed the last spoon of soup and stared at the empty bowl. He was still hungry, but not hungry enough to call Bug and ask for another helping. Despite the passage of two weeks and Riddle’s assertion that if he needed anything, he should ask Bug, he still didn’t feel comfortable enough to give orders to the house elf, and he instinctively tried to avoid that particular creature. Bug would probably bring him another meal in a few hours, so Harry just would wait.

And it was then that Harry realised something that sent a shiver down his spine. Bug had said that Harry hadn’t eaten since yesterday. Did that mean he had been unconscious for that long?

Then how long had that madman kept him under Crucio?

Harry’s heart began to beat faster again.

Fighting the fear that suddenly gripped him, Harry put the bowl down on the bedside table and then reached for the book that lay next to him on the bed. He didn’t feel like reading anything, least of all the book Riddle had left for him, but over the course of the two weeks he had learned what a stupid idea it was to ignore Riddle’s study-related orders. He wasn’t a masochist, after all; it was enough that his hands were still slightly sore from the last punishment.

He sighed heavily and glanced at the title. And suddenly, in a burst of anger that replaced his earlier fear, he threw the book forward with all his strength. It bounced off the wall with a thud and fell to the floor.

The very secret wizarding arts for the bravest and courageous.

Yep, the secret wizarding arts. Harry knew exactly what it was about. Did that asshole really think that one Crucio was enough to make Harry do anything Riddle wanted? No way!

For a while, Harry just sat on the bed, thinking of more and more ways to thwart the young Voldemort’s plans. He played with the idea that, by some miracle, he had managed to outwit the older boy, expose and bring him down early, saving the lives of hundreds of innocents in the process.

It helped, his anger abated.

Much calmer, Harry decided to pick up the book. He wouldn't become a dark wizard just by looking at it or reading it. If Riddle ordered him later that he must learn a spell described in it, he would just pretend that he couldn't do it. The important thing now was that Riddle let him leave the apartment again.

Moving cautiously due to his aching muscles, Harry bent down to pick up the book lying on the floor. A few pages were crumpled and the cover wasn’t unharmed either.

Well, he hoped Riddle wouldn’t get too angry about destroying it. If he had a wand, he would fix it in two seconds.

Sighing even harder than a moment ago, he returned to the bed. He leaned against the headrest, adjusted his glasses again, and sipping the hot tea with something that should soothe his sore throat, he began reading the first chapter.

o.O.o

"Why haven’t you moved into the library? It’s easier to take notes at a desk."

Harry jerked taken by surprise as an all too familiar voice rang out over his head. The mention of notes was enough to make his heart beat faster.

"Bug didn’t mention anything about the notes," he said in a defensive tone, angry at himself for how weak his voice sounded. He adjusted his glasses, which had once again slipped down his nose, and glared at Riddle, who was leaning against the door frame. "Next time, make your orders clearer," he added, sounding more blatantly this time.

Riddle mockingly raised an elegant eyebrow in response. He crossed his arms over his chest.

„Am I to understand that you have such a good memory that you immediately remember everything you read? It’s a pity you didn’t reveal it earlier.”

„You can’t show off all your talents right away,” Harry said before thinking.

„So, I expect you to show them all when I'll quiz you. Be prepared.”

Harry had another sharp retort on the tip of his tongue when the paralysing fear hit him again, making even breathing difficult. He instinctively wrapped his arms around himself and leaned forward, burying his head between his crossed legs. He felt a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck as he began to shiver, and worst of all, he couldn’t control it.

No, not now. Not in front of him.

And suddenly, out of the blue, it was all over and he was calm again, able to breathe normally. He raised his head just in time to see Riddle slowly lowering his wand.

„Looks like my discipline methods are working,” the future Dark Lord remarked lightly, as if commenting on the weather rather than the effectiveness of the Crucio he threw two days ago.

Harry looked away, both embarrassed and angry at his body’s reaction. The adjustment of his glasses again gave him a moment to collect his thoughts. It irritated him that they kept slipping off his nose. If he had a wand, he could have fixed them in a split second, but he wasn’t going to lower himself to asking Riddle to give them to him for a while.

‘What do you want?” he asked instead.

Riddle pulled his back away from the door frame. He walked smoothly over to the bed where Harry was sitting.

„Check if you have followed my instructions.”

„I only have one chapter left,” Harry replied truthfully, resignedly handing the book onto Riddle’s outstretched hand. If Riddle wanted to quiz him on its contents, he was screwed anyway, whether he had read the whole thing or not.

Besides...

„I thought that was obvious, but apparently not. I would appreciate it if you were more prone to respect things that belong to me,” Riddle reprimanded him, looking at the damaged book with obvious disapproval.

Fortunately, the calming spell that had been cast on Harry moments earlier was still working, so he just watched as Riddle lightly tapped the book with his wand and it instantly returned to the state it had been in before the close encounter with the wall.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't make me read any dark magic books without warning,” Harry replied, not thinking much.

He managed to dodge the curse at the last moment. Judging by the sizzling sound over his shoulder, it was probably a stinging hex.

"Feel warned," Riddle replied, narrowing his eyes. He slipped his wand into his sleeve and walked over to the window, leaning against the sill. He opened the book and leafed through it. "Besides, in the case of this particular book, someone probably died so that it could be created, so you–"

"I hope you're not suggesting that–" Harry interrupted, taken aback by the sudden disgust. He felt his breakfast rising in his throat.

"That both the cover and the pages are made of human skin? That's quite common for this kind of grimoires. It's not just the content that has to be dark, the form too."

Harry couldn't bear it, he hadn't expected such an answer. At the last moment, he leaned behind the bed and vomited the entire contents of his stomach onto the floor.

"Get used to it," Riddle said flatly, and with a single movement of his wand he made Harry's vomit disappear. Meanwhile, Harry reached for his cup of tea to shake the sour aftertaste from his mouth, "Although I do find it a bit pretentious."

"A bit?" Harry repeated incredulously, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He sat down on the edge of the bed, facing the older boy.

Riddle shrugged.

"So? What do you think?" he asked, abruptly changing the subject. Seeing the hesitation on Harry's face, he added, "Be honest."

He set the book down on the windowsill and put his hands in the pockets of his black robes. He was the embodiment of ease and composure, and there was no trace of his earlier anger at Harry's escape. Or perhaps he simply chose not to show it. As always, he exuded an aura of natural authority that made a person feel compelled to follow his orders, but that was something Harry had grown accustomed to and he was doing quite well to resist the impulse.

"That totally?"

Riddle nodded.

"You wanted it", said Harry and proceeded: "It's total bullshit." He flexed his muscles in anticipation of the next curse he'd have to dodge.

"I wouldn't have said it in such vulgar terms, but I agree."

"What?!"

"You heard me."

Harry shot Riddle a murderous glare.

"Then why did you make me read it?"

"Because it'll come in handy at your interview."

"During what?

Riddle sighed slightly, his patience visibly waned.

"Potter, is there a different English being used in your times?"

"No."

"Then perhaps I speak with an accent you don't understand?"

"No," Harry replied again, his puzzlement increased.

"Then refrain from asking me these silly questions. I don't like to repeat myself."

And that would be enough for a normal conversation. This time it was Harry who sighed. Riddle's mood swings were something Harry would probably never get used to.

"But what interview are you talking about?" he asked because he was genuinely confused. And worried, because a job that required knowledge of dark magic was probably not something Harry wanted to be involved in.

"I want my employers to hire you too."

"You mean Borgin? Why?"

"Borgin and Burke," corrected Riddle. "I told you, it's time to make you more useful. As we work together, I'll keep an eye on you. Think of this as a trial period. If you do well, you'll enjoy more freedom."

"Aren't you afraid I'll try to run away again?"

"That's what probation is for. Besides, I'm counting that Friday's punishment has effectively knocked the idea out of your head. If I catch you trying to escape again, you will remember the Crucio I gave you with fondness."

A shiver ran down Harry's spine. In any case, the next time he tried to escape, he would have to be absolutely sure that it would be successful.

Riddle's lips curved into a thin smile, as if the older boy knew exactly what Harry had just thought.

"You have the interview tomorrow. Finish the book and try to remember as much as you can. Borgin and Burke will soon realise that you know nothing about black magic anyway, but at least it let you give a positive first impression."

Riddle flicked his wand and the book rose into the air and it flew towards Harry. The boy couldn't bring himself to grab it. He leaned back with a grimace on his face, trying to avoid any contact with an object that was practically a human corpse. Or at least part of one.

"Potter, don't be childish," there was a note of irritation in the older boy's voice. "When you start work, you'll have to deal with worse things."

"I'll wait."

Riddle tapped his wand against his forearm in exasperation.

"Shall I cast Imperio on you?" he asked.

"You know it wouldn't work anyway," Harry reminded him on reflex, then mentally chastised himself as a strange glint appeared in the future Dark Lord's eye.

"I'll gladly find out that for myself one day," Riddle replied calmly, straightening up. "However, I'd prefer you to simply follow my orders," he added, glancing meaningfully at the book hanging in the air.

Harry felt a knot in his stomach. But he forced himself to reach for the book.

"I expect you to have finished reading by dinner," Riddle added as he headed for the exit. "As well as that you remember as much of it as possible."

"Didn't you just say you thought it was bullshit too? Then why should I read it?"

"Because there are others for whom it's like the Bible. And, Potter, one more thing. Get dressed. Pyjamas are for sleeping."

And with that he left the room, leaving Harry alone.

o.O.o

On Monday, following Riddle's morning instructions, Harry appeared after breakfast in the living room, dressed like the older boy had ordered him. A dark green, simple robe that turned out to fit perfectly, neither too loose nor too tight. Underneath he wore one of his new black shirt and trousers. Surprisingly comfortable dragonskin boots and a ridiculous neckerchief, which Riddle also quite often tied around his neck instead of a tie, completed his outfit. Although Harry had trouble tying the neckerchief, he decided not to worry about it, assuming that Riddle, in all his perfectionism, would probably do it correctly anyway. Just as he had repaired Harry's glasses after dinner last night when he had noticed they were broken.

Harry's assumptions weren't wrong. It was the first thing the future Dark Lord did when Harry approached him and told him he was ready.

Riddle’s gaze, sharp and assessing, fell on Harry’s clumsily tied neckerchief. With a sigh the future Dark Lord stepped forward.

Harry resisted the instinctive urge to step back.

"This won't do at all," Riddle said, deftly re-tying the weird neckerchief with an effortless grace that spoke of his familiarity with those type of things. His fingers, cold and precise, brushed against Harry's neck, sending an involuntary shiver down the teen's spine. "Nobody ever taught you how to tie a foulard?"

A foulard. So that is what it was called.

"In future we wear ties," Harry replied, feeling uncomfortable at Riddle's closeness. Fortunately, the older boy quickly got to grips with tying the foulard and stepped back to once again measure Harry with a critical eye.

A frown of displeasure appeared on his forehead.

"I tried to do something about it," Harry began defensively, guessing what had caused it. "But it's even harder with a comb than with a spell."

He didn't bother to add that spells often didn't help his dishevelled hair either.

"You will pretend to be my brother. You shall present yourself accordingly, and not bring shame upon me," came the cold reply.

Harry sighed as he looked at Riddle. Perfectly tailored robes (in the same dark green colour, which was probably no coincidence), shoes polished to a shine, hair combed neatly.  Yet, it was Riddle's poise and grace that truly commanded attention, radiating a natural confidence that was captivating even to those who knew the darkness that lurked within.

So, if Riddle expected Harry, as his fake brother, to present himself as well... Surely, ff it wasn't for the fact that Harry wanted Riddle to think it was worth the risk and let him out of the flat, had the audacity to tell him that, for his own sake, he should give up his illusions. Instead, he didn't even flinch when Riddle drew his wand, guessing that the older boy was about to cast a spell on his hair.

Good luck with that.

The wrinkle on Riddle's forehead smoothed out.

Harry's face must have revealed something of his feelings, because with another quick wave of his wand, Riddle conjured up a small mirror that floated in the air. Harry grabbed it and looked at his reflection. His eyes widened slightly: he had probably never had his hair combed so neatly in his life. A parting on the left meant that the long fringe, pulled to the right, partially covered the scar on Harry's forehead.

"I want to learn this spell," Harry said in awe despite himself. He had never managed to achieve such an effect before.

A thin smirk curved Riddle's lip.

"If you do well today, I'll consider it as a reward," he replied simply.

Harry handed him the mirror. And at the same moment, out of the corner of his eye, he saw an unruly strand of hair break free of the spell. Three more followed.

Riddle's eyelid twitched. The spell was cast again. All the rebellious strands returned to their places.

"Remember, it was you who fled Ireland to find me, and I generously agreed, as your older brother, to look after you." Riddle said, tucking his wand into his sleeve. "Then behave as a grateful younger brother would. Call me by my first name and control your temper. If you start to talk back to me in front of the others, I will punish you right away. I will not allow you to disrespect me in front of other wizards."

This last one did not sit well with Harry.

"Really? You're going to curse me in front of the others?" he asked incredulously.

"I'll obliviate the witnesses later if I have to, but you will not escape the consequences. Do we understand each other?"

Harry swallowed and nodded. His heart quickened again.

"I expect you to get that job," Riddle continued. "So you will do everything in your power to convince my employers to hire you."

"I'll try," Harry replied in spite of himself. He didn't like it, but then again, Riddle could find him worse things to do than work in a wizarding dark artefact shop.

The older boy gave him a stern look.

"No. You'll do whatever it takes."

Harry sighed slightly annoyed.

"I have never worked anywhere. And you know very well that I have no knowledge of dark magic and want nothing to do with it. I'm sure they'll see that right away."

Riddle crossed his arms over his chest.

"So do your best to look eager and enthusiastic so they don't notice."

"Can't you just charm them into hiring me?"

Riddle looked at him thoughtfully, as if seeing him for the first time in his life and Harry felt foolish. Next time he should definitely think before he speaks.

"Well, well, well… Maybe one day there will be something of you after all. But this time the answer is no. It would mean keeping them under Imperio all the time, and that's an effort I'd rather spare myself. It is up to you to prove yourself."

Harry nodded. Riddle, clearly satisfied, took that as an answer. With a non-verbal Accio, he summoned the two cloaks. He handed one to Harry.

"And, of course, no more escape attempts," he said, putting on his own cloak. Harry followed his example.

"No more," he promised, buttoning up. At least not until he was one hundred percent sure it would work. But he didn't say it out loud.

"Very well. Let's go then."

o.O.o

Borgin in the past turned out to be a fifty year younger version of the Borgin Harry had come to associate with his random and infrequent visits to his shop — which, of course, wasn't mean he was young. He might have been in his late thirties or early forties. Harsh, haughty, he looked at Harry as if wondering why he had agreed to waste his precious time talking to someone like that in the first place. Mr. Burke, on the other hand... Harry had always thought that the second surname in the shop's name had been added to make the whole thing sound more prestigious, so the very fact that there was a second partner surprised him. He was even more surprised when he met him and found that of the two wizards, he seemed the most approachable. He was an old, low man with silver hairs and wary eyes, but the fact that it was him and not Borgin that Riddle's attention was focused on showed that, despite his advanced age, he was in charge. Which meant that there was hope that Harry would be hired, even with Borgin's apparent reluctance.

"I heard about your recent stunt in the Leaky Cauldron," Borgin said.

He was sitting in one of the two old and worn armchairs with his leg crossed and looking at Harry with obvious dislike. On the other side of a small table with the latest edition of the Daily Prophet on it, Mr. Burke sat in the second armchair. Riddle stood casually by the door leading from the cluttered back room into the shop, peering through the curtain from time to time to see if any new customers had entered the shop. Harry, on the other hand, stood in the middle of the room, in front of his potential employers, and really tried to put his best foot forward. But the mention of the Leaky Cauldron accident might have prevented him from doing so. He didn't dare look at Riddle — it was enough to feel the slight pulsation of his scar, it didn't hurt, but it wasn't pleasant either. Fortunately, the older boy didn't seem to know how his mood was affecting Harry's scar, and Harry wasn't about to reveal it. Besides, this didn't happen as often as with Voldemort, but rather in situations where Harry was consciously trying to guess Riddle's mood. And at that moment, it was very important thing.

When it became clear that Riddle was not going to rescue him from his predicament, Harry shifted from foot to foot, blushing slightly.

"It was stupid and completely irresponsible," he said despite himself. He began to understand why Riddle had been so angry with him. Surely the fact that Harry was going to be employed in the same shop where he worked had been planned for a long time, and a blatant attempt at theft on Harry's part might well have thwarted that plan. Who would want to employ a thief?

"Why did you do that?" asked Mr. Burke. Unlike his associate, there was more curiosity in his voice than reprimand.

Because I wanted to get caught and thus go back to my own time, Harry thought, but he didn't say it out loud. He could feel Riddle's eyes on him and knew he had to come up with a plausible reason that wouldn't make him look so bad in front of the two older wizards.

"I had an argument with Tom and I wanted to make him angry," he said, choosing the same line of defence as Riddle in the bar.

"Idiocy," judged Borgin tartly. " If you ever think of trying something similar in this shop, then–"

"I made sure my brother understood how stupid it was," Riddle interjected calmly. "The punishment was appropriate to the offence."

Harry swallowed and blushed again.

"I've noticed it," Mr. Burke said enigmatically, his brown eyes shifting from Harry to Riddle.

Harry felt much better than he had on Saturday or yesterday, but his muscles were still a little sore, which was probably evident in the way he moved. Had the old wizard put the facts together? But he certainly hadn't assumed that Riddle had used Crucio on Harry. Or had he?

"Tom's assurance is enough for me. Elgar?"

Elgar?

Borgin sighed ostentatiously.

"Only because Tom is the best assistant we've ever had. But if your brother does anything again, we'll throw you both out."

"Understandable," Riddle replied smoothly, nodding his head in agreement. "But I can assure you, sir, he won't do anything like that again."

And if I do, Harry added mentally with a hint of bitterness, he'll oblivate  you and throw Crucio at me. A shiver ran down his spine. For Merlin's sake, what had he gotten himself into?

"So? I've got a job?" he asked hopefully instead, as the conversation was getting less pleasant by the minute and they hadn't even touched on black magic yet.

"I didn't say that," Borgin said, taking the lead in the conversation again. "Has your brother told you what we do here?"

Harry nodded.

"Do you have any experience in this area of magic?" asked Mr. Burke.

"Not much, but I'm a quick study," Harry lied, remembering Riddle's words that his ignorance would come out quickly anyway. "Before I asked my brother to get me a job here, I read several books, including The very secret wizarding arts for the bravest and most courageous," he added, saying what Riddle had advised him to say at breakfast in such a situation. Surprisingly, despite his earlier warning, the older boy hadn't quizzed Harry about the contents of the book, or even discussed it with him. He hoped Borgin and Burke wouldn't either.

But the reaction of his future employers took him completely by surprise. Borgin looked at him with even more disgust, and there was a hint of disdain in Mr. Burke's gaze.

Harry felt confused.

"I told him not to even touch this ridiculous book, but he insisted," Riddle interjected with a sigh that sounded all too genuine. Harry was about to interrupt him, to say that he was the one who had practically forced him to read that book, but he bit his tongue in time, realising what he had allowed himself to be manipulated into.

Since he humiliated Riddle on Friday by making the future Dark Lord apologise to others on his behalf, now Riddle has repaid him with something similar. Harry looked like an overzealous fool. His cheeks were on fire, but not with humiliation, but with anger and his own stupidity.

Right, because Crucio, after which he was unconscious for half the next day, wasn't enough.

"But I can assure you that I will personally see to his education in this regard," Riddle added.

"If he touches anything that kills or maims him, we wash our hands of it," Burke warned.

"Understandable," Riddle bowed slightly again.

Harry didn't like this at all, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

Burke nodded to indicate that he was satisfied with this assurance.

"Then there is one more question — as I recall, you said that your brother was a minor. How old is he exactly?"

"He will be seventeen in July."

"Five months," Borgin noted at once.

"Yes, but that's not so long. Of course, if it bothers you, I won't let him take his wand to work. Although we all know that the Trace won't work on him on Nocturne anyway."

Burke waved his hand dismissively.

"No, no, no. We expect him to use magic. If any of our customers ask, he should tell them he's an adult."

Riddle smirked under his nose.

"I was hoping you'd say that, sir."

Harry felt a wave of relief and excitement wash over him. He was going to get his wand back! At least while he was working here. This presented a multitude of new opportunities.

Burke unexpectedly slapped his hands on his knees and rose from his seat.

"So it's settled," he announced lively. "We have a new assistant."

"We have a new assistant," confirmed Borgin sourly, also rising from his chair.

Harry blinked. Er?

"Tom, I think you should start his training from today. For now, let him watch and preferably not touch anything. If he survives until the end of the week, we'll let him work here."

Riddle nodded, then sent Harry a meaningful look. Well, yes, he should show his gratitude and enthusiasm.

"I won't make you regret it, sir" he assured his new employers. He was already regretting it himself, but that didn't matter. He hoped that the words about surviving a week were was a joke.

"Come with me," said Riddle, stepping through the curtain into the shop. Harry followed him. As he stood beside him behind the counter, something suddenly struck him. Not once during the conversation had the question of his salary been raised. Had he become free labour?

With all Riddle's manipulations, it didn't even surprise or annoy him. He glanced stealthily at the cursed wardrobe in the corner and remembered that his invisibility cloak and Maruders map

And so he thought that maybe the whole idea of him working here had not been so bad after all. Maybe he could find a way back to the future this way. A future just like he had left it.

"Don't even think about it," he heard a cold voice from the side.

At the same time, the ringing of the bell announced the arrival of the first customer.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER ELEVEN —

The young salesman diary part I

As the cold of February gave way to the dampness of March, even the narrow, shady streets of the Knocturn Alley showed signs of the coming thaw. Dirty puddles had formed in the uneven, previously frozen cobblestones. During the day they reflected the grey, cloudy sky, and in the evening the faint light of the few streetlamps that lit the dark alleys of this notorious street. Shop windows, not so long ago veiled by snow, now boldly flaunted their sinister wares, sending chills through the spines of the occasional passerby. Those who ventured here more deliberately moved with stealth across the slick cobblestone, now gleaming like wet dragon scales, their faces obscured by deep hoods. The air was tinged with the pungent smell of damp earth and mould, mixed with the lingering, apothecary like scent of dubious potions and the acrid smoke rising from nearby chimneys. The tickling of the nose caused by the almost tangible presence of forbidden magic added to the unease. Harry got goosebumps every time he walked with Riddle from their flat to the Borgin and Burke's and doubted that he would ever be able to get used to the atmosphere of the street and the unpleasant sensation it made on him.

Fortunately, working in the black magic artefacts shop proved to be more boring and mundane than Harry had expected. There were simple rules that Harry had to follow, especially during his first week at work: no touching anything, no talking to customers, no smiling, just stand to the side and try to look professional. He didn't mind.

Less fortunately, when he and Riddle were left alone (and this happened far too often), Riddle used these moments to force Harry to study. That bloody transmutation textbook hadn't been forgotten by the future Dark Lord. On the contrary, Riddle, with a stubbornness worthy of another cause, continued to make Harry learn the information contained in the next chapters. The same was true of mastering the Engorgement and Shrinking spells – but in this case, constant practice produced the desired results, and Harry was surprised one day to find that achieving an accuracy of a quarter of an inch was no longer as much of a problem as it had once been. Sure, it wasn't a tenth of an inch, but such accuracy no longer seemed like some unattainable Riddle's whim, invented just so he could torment Harry under the guise of teaching.

And, of course, there was black magic.

Surprisingly, it wasn't Riddle who brought up the subject but Mr Burke. The old wizard cornered Harry on his very second day of working. Riddle was advising an extremely fussy customer on a gift for his business partner, who supposedly collected cursed artefacts, Borgin was out somewhere and Harry, as instructed, was standing behind the counter trying not to show how bored he was.

"Psst, boy, come here," Mr Burke's stage whisper reached Harry from behind the curtain. Harry instinctively turned his head and the old wizard nodded at him. Riddle was so busy telling a customer about the properties of a necklace of blood-red coral that he didn't even notice Harry disappearing into the back room.

"Have you ever cursed anyone?" asked Mr Burke very straightforwardly.

Harry stood stunned for a moment. He thought of the Crucio he'd hit Bellatrix Lestrange with during the battle at the Ministry of Magic, but decided almost immediately that it was something he didn't want to share.

"Errr..." he replied very eloquently, putting his hand behind his neck. "Once..."

Mr Burke gave him a dubious look, then waved his hand as if it didn't matter anyway and turned towards the bookcase on which various books were stacked tightly.

"I hope you don't expect to sit here all day and do nothing because we aren't paying you," he said, turning back to Harry. In his hand he held a not very thick and ordinary looking book in a hard cover. "This isn't a storeroom. This is a shop. We work here."

Having no choice, Harry took the book he was offered. He glanced at the title.

Cursed items - the difference between the authentic and the forgeries.

Okay, it didn't sound so bad. Could have been worse.

"I expect you to be familiar with it by the end of the week, boy. If there's anything you don't understand, ask your brother. I am sure he will be more than happy to help you expand your knowledge," Mr Burke added, and Harry began to suspect that there were more ulterior motives in getting him a job here than he had first thought. "There are also some useful spells in there that you should know, but you can start learning them next week. I'll tell Tom which ones so he can keep an eye on you while you study. Don't let him think we're letting you sit here unproductively because you don't know anything."

Yes, it was definitely more than just being able to watch him most of the day.

And so began Harry's adventure into learning black magic, whether he liked it or not. Without fierce debates, passionate and brilliant arguments about the superiority of white magic and the moral objections to using its black counterpart. Just like that. Because his employer told him to, and Harry, to keep his job and a semblance of freedom, had to pretend to be committed. At least until he found an effective way to escape.

The book proved to be unexpectedly interesting, especially the first part which described all sorts of magical artefacts and how to check if they had been cursed. As long as the author didn't go into detail, it was quite enjoyable reading, but when Harry got to the detailed descriptions of the spells and how to cast them, he hoped that Mr Burke didn't have them in mind when he told him about the spells he should learn. Some required drawing runic circles, some complicated numerological calculations, and others memorising incantations that took two pages to describe. And they still seemed easier than the ones described in the section on how to apply simple curses to various objects. Conjunctions, prepositions and pronouns were the only things Harry understood from that part. However, he had no intention of taking Mr Burke's advice and turning to Riddle for help. The older boy seemed oblivious to the fact that Harry had been reading the book of curses in the evenings, and Harry preferred to keep it that way. Even if it meant embarrassing himself again in front of Boring and Burke.

However, it soon became apparent that Riddle was acutely aware of everything Harry was up to. During a Thursday evening chess game, when he was only a few moves away from a mate on Harry's king, Riddle enquired casually:

"How is your reading of the book recommended by Burke going?"

Annoyed that Riddle was interrupting his intense combinations of how to save his king, Harry reluctantly tore his eyes away from the board.

"Good," he replied briefly. If he moved his knight, Riddle would surely capture his pawn a moment later, but Harry would gain the opportunity to move his king, only to... have Riddle hit Harry's knight with his bishop.

No sense.

Riddle narrowed his eyes.

"So if I ask you about the classification of runic circles in relation to their usefulness in identifying curses, will you be able to give me a comprehensive answer?" he asked, leaning back in his chair.

Harry swallowed. He knew that tone only too well. In the best of cases, it foreshadowed a painful hex.

"You know perfectly well I don't know anything about runic circles," Harry said, trying to sound normal despite the sting of fear he felt.

He had only been punished once in the last week (by the stinging hex, actually, so basically it didn’t count), his new record. He didn't mind this situation continuing.

"Why didn't you come to me to explain you what you didn't understand?"

Harry blinked. Had he misheard?

"That I should do this of my own free will?" he asked.

Riddle gave him a stern look.

"Did Burke tell you to read this book or to become acquainted with it?"

"And those are two different things?" Harry decided to play dumb.

"I don't think he lent it to you to keep you entertained before sleep."

"If he wants me to learn something, he should help me," Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Riddle looked at him like an idiot.

"Potter, in his case, the very fact that he lets you work in his place is a phenomenon. Don't count on him sharing his knowledge with you on this occasion."

"Why not? I'm working for him. And for free."

"Are you serious?"

"You teach me, even when I don't want to. Why shouldn't I expect the same from Burke?"

Riddle sighed and shook his head slightly.

"I teach you because that's what you negotiated for in exchange for your help. I don't do it altruistically; I get something out of it. That's the way it works in the world outside Hogwarts. Rarely does anyone share their knowledge for free."

With that, he moved his rook. Harry grimaced; he hadn't anticipated this move. The second of his knights was knocked off the board.

"I expect you to tell me at breakfast tomorrow about ways to find out if an object has been cursed or not and how to determine whether the curse is benign or malignant," Riddle added after a moment, as Harry made his move. Slender, pale fingers grasped the pawn in an elegant manner. "And by the way, check."

o.O.o

From the very first moment Harry found himself behind the counter, his eyes constantly flickered back to the cursed wardrobe through which he had been transported to the young Voldemort’s era. He didn't fool himself into thinking he would just walk through it and return to his own time; he wasn't that naive. But he hoped that its dark recesses still hid his Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map. Unfortunately, to find out, he had to escape Riddle's scrutiny or the watchful eyes of his new employers. That wasn't so easy, especially during the first week. Riddle's suspicion was understandable – with Mr Burke's consent, Harry had got his wand back, at least for the time he was in the shop. Of course, when they returned home, he always had to give it back to Riddle, which was not easy for him. The older boy would ostentatiously cast Prior Incantato on it to see what spells Harry had cast with it during the day, which only added to his grim mood. Borgin and Burke, on the other hand, acted as if they actually expected Harry to be killed by a curse he would accidentally activated by the end of the week. It wasn't very reassuring, especially when the two older wizards seemed genuinely surprised that he had survived.

The opportunity to search the wardrobe came at the beginning of the second week. Borgin and Burke had left to visit a client who wanted to shed a collection of magical heirlooms inherited from a distant relative, and Riddle was in the back room, preoccupied with an old standing clock - a piece of furniture recently delivered by a shady character who may well have been an ancestor of Mundungus Fletcher. Riddle's orders were for Harry to sit at the counter, touch nothing, learn curse-detecting spells from a book lent to him by Mr Burke (the newest red welt mark on his left hand, hidden under the glamour so his employers wouldn't notice, was a tangible reminder of Riddle's high standards when it came to learning), while appearing to be busy working. Harry, of course, obeyed Riddle's command in his own way - as soon as he was sure that the older boy was completely absorbed in whatever he was doing, he silently leap from his chair and, glancing stealthily over his shoulder at the curtain separating the shop from the back room, tiptoed towards the wardrobe. Feeling a mixture of fear and excitement (and, against all logic, hope), Harry touched the wooden knob with his hand.

“Step away from the wardrobe. Now," a cold, merciless voice cut through the air.

Harry froze, then slowly turned around to face Tom Riddle, who was leaning casually against the doorframe of the back room. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, sharp and penetrating, betrayed a flicker of annoyance—or was it amusement?

"I thought I made myself clear about your boundaries in this shop," Riddle continued, his voice smooth and dangerously soft.

Harry's heartbeat faster. Riddle had been very clear about what Harry was allowed to do and not do. Approaching the cursed wardrobe fell into the second category.

"I was just—"

"Trying to get back to your time?" Riddle pulled his back away from the doorframe. "Or were you looking for something different in it? Something more... tangible?"

Harry watched as if mesmerised as Riddle walked gracefully over to the counter, pulled a leather bag from underneath it and placed it on the counter. An uncomfortable feeling of knowing what might be inside clenched Harry's stomach.

His hunch was not wrong. Riddle first took a piece of parchment out of his bag, which Harry immediately recognised as the Marauder's Map, and then something that made the parchment disappear. Shit, the Invisibility Cloak.

Riddle beckoned to Harry, who took a few tentative steps forward. The older boy's features still were unreadable, and Harry didn't know if he was approaching to receive punishment or for something else.

"Does it look familiar?" Riddle slid the parchment across the counter towards Harry.

Feeling Riddle's intense gaze on him, almost burning a hole in his head, he replied, trying to keep his tone normal:

"Parchment like parchment. Is it cursed?"

"You tell me."

Harry dared a fleeting glance at Riddle. Grey eyes stared at him with hungry intensity.

"Shall I cast a spell?"

Riddle shook his head in denial.

"I think you can answer that question without using magic."

Harry swallowed. Riddle couldn't find out what these objects were. And Harry had to get them back at any cost.

"I don't know what you mean."

Riddle's expression hardened. "Should I dig into the answers in your head myself?" he threatened, his voice low and menacing.

"But you promised that—"

"I promised not to use Legilimency unless I catch you in a lie," the future Dark Lord interrupted sharply, a sly smile playing on his lips. "And now, you're lying."

The air between them thickened, heavy with Harry's fear and Riddle's looming threat. Harry knew he couldn't outmanoeuvre Riddle, not yet. Despite himself, the memories of Crucio still haunted him, leaving a residue of fear that gripped him whenever he got too close, whenever the older wizard's mood darkened. The thought of Riddle attacking his mind again tipped the scales. The previous invasions had left him feeling raw and exposed and Harry was determined never to repeat those feelings. Thus, with a heavy sigh, he relented, "They aren't cursed."

Riddle leaned more comfortably on his forearms against the counter. The hunger in his eyes became more visible.

"Go on."

"If I tell you what these items are, will you promise to give them back to me?" Harry tried against common sense and the little voice screaming in his head to shut up.

"No. But if you stop lying to me and these items prove worthy of my attention, I'll consider forgiving you for today's disobedience," came the cold reply.

With a deep, steadying breath, Harry reached for the Invisible Cloak. Riddle watched carefully his every move, but he didn't stop him. Harry's fingers trembled slightly as he touched the soft, flowing fabric.

"It was my father's," he began quietly. He concentrated on his hand, which disappeared beneath the material. "Dumbledore borrowed it just before my parents were killed and gave it back to me when I was in my first year. He told me he wanted to check it."

"So? Is it authentic?" The question was asked in a tone he had not yet heard from Riddle. So normal, yet at the same time full of reverence.

"I think so. Dumbledore told me it was a real Invisibility Cloak."

Riddle carefully took it from Harry's hands. The teenager's palm materialised again. Harry reflexively clenched it into a fist.

"If it is indeed authentic, it is truly unique," Riddle said, stroking the invisible material with his pale, slender fingers. There was still admiration in his voice, but there was also a hint of greed.

Harry felt a pang of longing. It was his.

It used to be his, he corrected himself bitterly in his head.

One day it will be his again. He would just have to remember to steal it back before escaping.

"And this? What's that?" Riddle asked after putting the cloak back into the leather bag. He tapped the parchment with his finger.

Harry didn't really want to do it, but what choice did he have?

"It’s a map of Hogwarts," he confessed reluctantly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Made by my father and his friends."

Riddle's eyes lit up with a mix of intrigue and malice. "Show me."

‘I'll have to use my wand,’ he said, reaching into his robe pocket for it.

The older boy nodded.

Harry took the map and tapped it with his wand, murmuring, "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good." The words felt ironic on his lips under Riddle's watchful gaze.

Ink began to spider across the surface, lines forming corridors, rooms and staircases, dots appearing and labeling themselves with names. Riddle leaned further forward, his gaze intense as he watched the magical display unfold. When everything finally appeared, he drew the map towards him, not hiding his fascination.

"Brilliant," he breathed, tracing the paths of Hogwarts with his finger. "The level of detail is extraordinary."

Harry followed the trail of his finger, which stopped at the headmaster's office, where there was a dot signed Armando Dippet. The moment Riddle's finger hovered over it, the dot moved. It seemed that despite the time travel, the map was still working.

"And you say it was created by your father along with his friends?" queried the future Dark Lord.

"Yes, back in their days as Hogwarts students."

Harry felt a surge of pride despite himself; he had spent enough time with Riddle to know that it was hard to impress him. And the older boy's current behaviour clearly indicated that he was impressed by the creativity of the map makers.

Harry fondly straightened one corner of the map.

"You got it from Dumbledore too?"

"From Fred and George, Ron's older brothers. When I was in third year, Uncle Vernon didn't sign mine permission to Hogsmeade," he said. "So, the twins thought I could use it so I could sneak out of the castle."

"And how did they come into possession of it?" Riddle's finger made its way from the headmaster's office to the dungeons that housed the Slytherins' common room.

"They told me they stole it from Filch, the caretaker, during the detention when they were in first year. He had confiscated it from my dad many years earlier."

"And the first years were able to steal from the caretaker? This school has really gone downhill."

Harry smiled under his breath. For a moment, he forgot his fear and who was on the other side of the counter.

"It wasn't that difficult with Filch. He's a squib."

Riddle shook his head in disgust. Harry chuckled.

"Who was your father? Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot or Prongs?", Riddle asked, changing the subject.

Harry was not surprised that Riddle knew these nicknames. He was probably trying to discover the secrets of the parchment on his own and had been gifted with a dose of cutting retorts from its creators.

"Prongs. Moony is Remus Lupin, the same one who taught me the Patronus spell. Wormtail is Petter Pettigrew, the traitor who betrayed my parents to Voldemort, and Padfood—" Harry's voice trailed off.

He lifted his gaze to meet the knowing grey eyes. He didn't have to finish.

"Looks like you've earned my forgiveness" Riddle stated lightly, leaving Harry even more stunned. "How to deactivate it?"

"You should tap it again and recite, "Mischief managed"."

Riddle followed Harry's instructions and the parchment returned to an ordinary piece of paper.

Harry watched as the older boy rolled it up. Just as he was about to tuck it into his bag, Harry's hand shot forward. At the same time he realised what he was about to do and froze, horrified at his own boldness.

Riddle's gaze turned icy again.

"This isn't Hogwarts, you don't need it here," Harry said quietly, as if to defend himself.

"I'll decide for myself what I need and what I don't. Don't you dare do that again."

Harry nodded, fear tightening in his throat. He did not like what he saw in Riddle's eyes. Hunger, possessiveness, deadly threat. He withdrew his hand.

Dumbledore's words echoed in his mind: "Young Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies.

Apparently, so did the older one.

o.O.o

Harry quickly realised that all the important things happened in the back room or in the customers' houses. The front of the shop was just a facade for mundane transactions. The customers who walked into the shop, who came straight up to the counter to make their needs known, were not the sort of clients from whom Borgin and Burke made their real money. Sure, they drove traffic and bought all sorts of magical items, but they tended to be small items that didn't pose any real danger.

Or so Harry hoped.

Some of these people have stuck in Harry's mind. Last week an old witch came into the shop with nails so long and moldy that made Harry sick just looking at them. She asked with her squeaky voice if they had anything to help her deal with a neighbour who was trying to poison her beloved cats. Riddle nodded with a serious look on his face, expressing full understanding of the elderly witch's request, and then (after a suitably long search) handed her a bag of fish scales. According to his instructions, she was to scatter them outside her hated neighbour's house, which would bring bad luck to the wizard until the scales were removed. The old witch smiled nastily, paid a not inconsiderable sum, then passionately stowed away her purchases, muttering under her breath: "I won't let you torment my furry children." Harry hoped the scales were not as effective as Riddle had assured her.

On another occasion, a wizard with dark, slicked-back hair and sharp features entered the shop, casting a sinister and foreboding aura around himself. To Harry's surprise, however, he was not invited into the back room, which meant he was not as important as he thought he was. He must have been a regular customer, though, because no sooner had he crossed the threshold than Mr Burke knew what to offer him. He used a spell to summon a box from one of the higher shelves. By the time the customer approached the counter, Mr Burke was ready. With a theatrical gesture, he lifted the lid of the box revelling two rows of amulets from all over the world. Among them were Egyptian stone beetles, glazed clay tiles from Greece with painted blue eyes, and a tiny intricately carved ivory animal from the heart of Africa. After a rather lengthy and detailed discussion of each one (which Harry reluctantly listened to with growing trepidation, especially as Mr Burke moved on to praise an Indian amulet as ideal for necromantic practices), the client decided on a crocodile tooth found in one of the Egyptian tombs, which was said to provide an increase in power when casting runic spells. Mr Burke complimented the choice, carefully wrapped the amulet and, after collecting his galleons, invited the customer to return next month for another delivery.

As soon as the bell over the door fell silent, Mr Burke called out to the back room:

"Tom, we're going to need more next month. Think of something from the Middle East or India this time."

Harry's jaw dropped.

But not all customers were welcome. There were often people who wandered into the shop quite by accident. Like those two young witches who wandered from the shelves to the display cases and back again without any particular reason, occasionally giggling, until Borgin finally got annoyed and threw them out. The next customer, who also seemed to have come just to look, had already been asked out by Harry. Borgin apparently thought this was something Harry would be perfect for, and since then it became one of his regular duties. On another occasion, an Auror disguised as a customer must have been sent by his superiors to catch Borgin and Burke selling something illegal. Borgin immediately saw through his plan, and although the man offered a very large sum of galleons for a very rare set of books on dark magic (as it later turned out, two of the books mentioned by the wizard had been spotted by Harry on a shelf in a bookcase in the back room), Borgin insisted that they didn't have anything to his liking, and the wizard left the shop with nothing. As the door closed behind the Auror, Borgin spat over his left shoulder. "Bloody scoundrel," he muttered, pacing back and forth in agitation. Harry wisely decided that this was a sign to get on with polishing the display cases that bore the fingerprints of the boy who had come in here some time earlier with his mother, looking for something on her cheating husband.

But it wasn't the variety of customers passing through the shop that really amazed Harry on a daily basis, but watching Riddle in his role as an unassuming salesman, a subordinate of Borgin and Burke. Knowing Riddle's true nature and the enormity of his ambition, Harry would never have expected such a thing from him.

Harry Potter knew that Tom Riddle was a master manipulator, he had experienced it first-hand more than once. But experiencing it and seeing Riddle in action were two different things. Harry had gotten a taste of how effective Riddle could be through the Slughorn memoirs he had watched with Dumbledore. But it was only as he watched day after day the ease with which Riddle wrapped more and more clients around his finger, that Harry realised just how dangerous and efficient the older boy could be. He used his natural charm and magical abilities without remorse. Harry had also no doubt that Riddle not once nor twice used Legilimency on customers to determine what they really need. Time and again, he impressed them with his vast knowledge and excellent manners, giving them a sense of importance and good service. No wonder so many people were fooled by his charm.

Harry hoped he would never find himself in their midst.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWELVE —

The young salesman diary, part II

"…and I had to pull some strings to get this vial of bile from dragon stomachs," Mr. Borgin said, his tone self-congratulatory. "Not to mention the firedrake tails. I had to send a special request to our contact in Romania."

Harry had become familiar enough with Borgin to know that this kind of boasting served one purpose: to extract as many galleons as possible from the customer's pouch. Harry felt a sting of pity; the wizard who stood on the other side of the counter didn't look very wealthy. In fact, he didn't look like someone who dabbled in black magic either – an ordinary man in his forties, with a plainly tailored robe and a face that inspired a sense of trust. Nor did he exude an ominous, oppressive aura like some of the other customers who frequented the shop. If Harry had passed him on the street, he would not have even noticed him.

However, the ingredients he had ordered for the potion did not suggest good intentions. Even Harry, with his limited knowledge in this field, could see that.

The wizard nodded, "I appreciate your dedication, Mr. Borgin."

Meanwhile, Harry was completing the order. He carefully placed the last item, an ounce of glowing wolfberries, into the bag. He folded the top and handed it to the customer with a polite smile. "Here you go, sir."

Although Harry suspected that the few ingredients would cost quite a lot, the amount Borgin demanded after summarising the order still left him bewildered. To his even greater surprise the wizard took a clanking pouch from his pocket without any unnecessary comment or attempt at negotiation.

This wasn't very common behaviour from what Harry had managed to observe.

"It is a pleasure to do business with you, Mr. Borgin," the customer said, handing it to the other wizard.

Borgin, of course, counted the Galleons.

"I recommend myself for the future, Mr. Birkbeck" he replied, obviously satisfied, and put the money in a drawer under the counter.

As the door closed behind the customer and the accompanying sound of a bell rang through the air, Borgin's eyes widened in sudden realisation.

"Bloody hippogriff! The bag with Phyllium's left mid-legs!" he exclaimed, scolding Harry with his glare. "How could you forget that, stupid lad?"

Then the man reached out to grab a paper bag from the shelf and shoved it unceremoniously into Harry's hands. "Run after him, now!"

Harry hesitated. And it wasn't because it was raining cats and dogs outside. Riddle had been very clear about what would happen if Harry left the shop in unauthorized manner. Harry had no intention of being hit by Crucio because of Borgin's forgetfulness. At the same time, he was tempted to find out if Riddle had indeed surrounded the front door with glyphs that would immediately alert him if Harry walked out without his knowledge or permission.

And there was no chance of getting his permission, as Riddle was helping Mr. Burke to finalise a deal with a wizard who wanted to get rid of the more dubious part of his inheritance from a distant, foreign relative.

A second, equally innocent opportunity might not have presented itself.

"Didn't you hear me? Run after him!" Borgin sent a stinging hex in Harry's direction to emphasise his words, which Harry dodged at the last moment, only thanks to his Seeker's reflex honed by years of training. Giving his employer an indignant look, he tucked the packet of forgotten ingredients behind the fold of his robe and rushed outside.

The rain momentarily drenched Harry as he ran across the slippery cobbles of Knocturn Alley. He was lucky: out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of a dark cloak flashing through one of the gates used for Apparition. He thanked mentally the wizards for their strange habits, which he had been unaware of until now. Riddle had recently pointed out to Harry that it was considered impolite to Apparate and Disapparate in a shop or in the middle of the street and although more and more wizards were practising the latter, well-mannered wizards and witches generally used gates and alleyways for this purpose. One day, on their morning walk to the shop, Riddle even showed to Harry all the designated gates they passed every day. Including the one Mr. Birkbeck was heading for.

"Sir! Sir, please wait!" Harry shouted, his voice cutting through the noise of the rain.

The customer stopped and turned, a wary expression on his face. Of course, he wasn't the least bit wet, the umbrella he held in his hand certainly playing a large part in that. "Yes?"

Harry jogged up to him, wet and slightly out of breath. At least the gate shielded him now from the rain. "We forgot about this," he said, holding out the bag of forgotten ingredients.

Mr. Birkbeck's eyes lit up with recognition. "Ah, thank you, young man. Quite important, these are." He took the bag from Harry, a small smile of gratitude on his lips. "You've been very helpful."

"No trouble at all, sir."

The main thing was to keep up appearances, even if it was an outright lie. There was, after all, a future in which Riddle did not find out that he had left the shop.

(That he never worked alongside Riddle in that future was a minor detail.)

The wizard nodded to Harry then with loud crack Apparated himself. Harry was left alone. Outside.

Before any conscious thought of escape had time to settle in his mind, there was another crack.

"I hope you have a good, really good explanation," an icy voice came from behind him, freezing the blood in his veins.

Harry, his stomach clenching, turned slowly with his hands in the air.

"Believe me or not, but I have," he said, swallowing as he came face to face with Riddle, who was clearly radiating with anger.

The future Dark Lord took a step forward; Harry reflexively stepped back. Another step from Riddle and Harry's back made contact with the rough surface of the wall.

The yew wand found its way under Harry's chin, forcing him to lift his head. The tip stabbed painfully into the soft skin.

"Explain yourself" Riddle demanded, his voice low, dangerous.

"I... I was… It was Mr. Borgin's orders," Harry stammered. He mentally chastised himself for stuttering. He shouldn't show any signs of fear. He had done nothing wrong. Taking the deep breath, he proceeded: "He forgot one of the items in the order, of course he blamed me and made me run after the customer to give it to him. I had no choice."

Riddle's eyes narrowed as he leaned closer. Harry could see the icy calculation in his grey iris, searching for any hint of deception. "And you think I'm going to believe that? That you weren't planning to use this as an opportunity for another escape?" His voice was deathly calm, which did not bode well.  Barely audible over the murmur of the rain. "Tell me, Potter, have I not shown you clearly enough lately what will happen if you try again? Shall I repeat it?"

Harry's voice caught in his throat, so he denied it with a shake of his head. He could still feel the sharp pressure of the wand under his chin, the tip cold and relentless. He tried to steady his breath, his mind racing to find words that would placate the dark wizard before him.

"Potter, my patience is waning."

"He tried to curse me! I had no choice!"

"You always have a choice."

Harry's anger boiled over his fear. It's just the pain. He would endure it. After all, he wasn't going to grovel to Riddle about something he had no control over.

"Punish me if you want, feel free. But you're the one who told me to get a job in this shop!" he spatted, then continue: "Pray tell me, what was I supposed to do? Tell Borgin that no, I wouldn't run after a customer because his other paranoid employee, who claims to be my brother, told me not to leave without his permission? I'm not an idiot, I know what you'll do to me if you catch me running away again. And believe me, I have no intention of repeating it."

Not yet.

Riddle's aura became more oppressive, darker. The future Dark Lord looked at Harry intently for a moment, still pinning him to the wall with his wand. Harry's breathing had become erratic, ragged, as the boy tried to gauge Riddle’s mood and mentally prepare himself for another encounter with the Cruciatus Curse. He squirmed slightly, feeling a gentle pulsation in his scar.

"Watch your tone," came the cold warning.

And then suddenly, to Harry's astonishment, Riddle lowered his wand and took a step back.

The teen let out his breath loudly. He hated himself for how much his legs were shaking.

"You're lucky that today’s I have other things on my mind than dealing with you and Borgin's deeds. Go back to the shop. And remember for the future: my orders are your priority. Always."

Harry didn't make Riddle say it twice.

With a short "I will", he pulled his back away from the wall and, feeling Riddle's piercing gaze on him, let himself run towards the shop. It didn't even occur to him to look sideways.

o.O.o

Riddle had anticipated more resistance and defiance from Potter, so he was pleasantly surprised when the teenager adapted to his new role, assuming the guise of a polite, somewhat shy and quiet younger brother. Potter was mostly obedient and unobtrusive, showing that he could indeed behave when he wanted to. He was also quite good at serving customers, provided of course that this was limited to packing their orders and giving them change. In his spare time, when Borgin and Burke were busy with something else or had been elsewhere, Potter would sit over books or practise spells as Tom had ordered him. If their employers were lurking nearby or watching closely, he would feign busyness with mundane tasks, typically cleaning, which kept Borgin's complaints at bay. Tom found Borgin's complaints about Potter being unproductive were quite amusing, considering the boy was not being paid for his work. But apparently Borgin seemed to expect endless gratitude merely for allowing a teenager to linger in his shop. Tom didn’t mind, as long as he wasn't the one tidying the display cases. Although he did cringe slightly at the memory of a situation where Borgin had instructed Potter to clean the glass in the showcases and the teenager had asked where they kept the rags and buckets. That day, to ensure that Potter would never cause him such embarrassment again, Tom had spent the entire evening teaching the teen the proper cleaning spells.

Overall, Tom was pleased with the way Potter had behaved over the past two weeks. If the boy was going to be useful, Tom would have to loosen his leash a little. But first, he needed to ensure that Potter was sufficiently trained to prevent himself from seizing the first chance to flee — because it was almost certain that he would try to do this again.

Just as it was clear that Potter would attempt to access the wardrobe despite Tom’s explicit prohibition — and his secretly eager anticipation. Of course, Riddle could have asked Potter directly about the cloak and the parchment, but he couldn't deny himself this bit of drama. Potter had fallen into the trap Tom had set for him in almost textbook fashion. And while the authenticity of the cloak intrigued Tom, and he intended to take a closer look at the magic that created it in the future, the discovery of the map of Hogwarts was a much more welcome surprise. It fitted perfectly into Tom's plans.

When Potter had departed from the shop on his own a few days earlier had also worked to Tom’s advantage. This had helped to cement two very important beliefs in Potter: that Tom was always aware of his actions and whereabouts, and that no matter what Riddle was doing or where he was, he was prepared to drop everything to catch the runaway. What he didn't need to know was that the second was only possible thanks to Tom's foresight in making sure that Potter knew all the places in Knockturn Alley that wizards used to Apparition.

Of course at first Tom had felt angry at the thought that the cheeky brat had so quickly (and so foolishly) decided to try and escape again, but fortunately for the teen it turned out that he wasn't lying when he said that it was Borgin who had sent him after his client. Tom, although tempted, had kept his word and refrained from using Legilimency. In Potter's case, playing the wizard-of-his-word card might have done more good in the future than a single check on his truthfulness.

Fortunately, the boy was all but radiant with sincerity (which was quite rare in his case), so Tom didn't even need a surface scan of his thoughts to confirm the version presented. It suited him too — honestly, he didn't feel like throwing another Cruciatus at Potter when it was clear that the first one had made the right impression on him. Discipline, too, had to be dosed, and showing Potter that he could count on occasional forgiveness might have benefited him more in the future. Tom's goal wasn't to break Potter with pain. While it was satisfying to see the boy flinch and struggle with fear whenever Tom reminded him of the consequences of defiance, he knew that a different approach would work better with Potter. Establishing a hierarchy and setting clear boundaries were crucial and Tom had no intention of showing leniency in cases of blatant disobedience, but his experience with orphans had taught him that it wasn't fear of punishment that emotionally bound them to their guardians.

So there was pain, there was mercy — and there were lessons. Speaking of which...

Riddle stopped his musings and gestured to Potter, who had just emerged from behind a shelf, apparently having finished sweeping the floor.

''Come here,'' Tom instructed him.

The boy slipped his wand into the pocket of his robes and approached the counter without a word of compliant. Meanwhile, with a snap of his fingers, Riddle summoned two small oriental figures from the back room, looking a little like small Muggle Buddha statues.

"How is your progress with curse-detecting spells?" he asked in a neutral tone, not revealing that he knew the answer to that question perfectly well.

Riddle was almost never surprised by anything, but the fact that Burke had literally forced Potter to learn Dark Magic on the second day of his work had been truly a pleasant surprise.  Although the old wizard had a vast knowledge and had probably cast more than one dubious spell in his life, he was reluctant to share it with anyone. If Tom had started this work with the intention of increasing his knowledge in the dark arts, he would have felt frustrated. Fortunately, his goal was quite different. And since he was waiting for news from Dolohov to set his schemes in motion anyway, he could take advantage of the situation and begin to introduce Potter to the arcana of dark magic.

After all, he wasn't the one who initiated it.

"Somehow," Potter replied a little uncertainly, looking away. 'But I'll manage if it's required."

"Let me see for myself," Tom replied calmly, pointing to the two statues that stood on the counter between them. "One is cursed, the other isn't. Determine which one is safe to touch."

"Now?"

Tom looked around meaningfully. Burke had gone to Prince to pick up an order for one of their customers, and Borgin had disappeared somewhere, as usual, without saying when he would return.

"We're alone here."

Potter did not look thrilled at the prospect of demonstrating his new-found knowledge, but he had no choice. His brow furrowed as he leaned over the figures and Tom could almost see the gears in his head turning.

"Do you know that there is such a thing as magic? You have your wand for something. Looking alone won't help," Tom prompted in a perfectly neutral tone of voice.

The more time he spent in Potter's company, the more he was amused by the murderous desire he saw in the green eyes every time his jest hit its mark.

Potter straightened and took his wand from his pocket. After a short moment of hesitation, he pointed it at the figure to his right and muttered an incantation that Tom had heard for the first time in his life. It was clear that he was improvising. Tom's lips curled into a faint, amused smile. If it wasn't to his advantage, he would punish the boy for this attempt to deceive him.

The spell, predictably, did nothing. But Potter, trying to hide his lack of knowledge, turned to Tom with a look of feigned confidence.

"I think it's this one," he said, pointing to the statue he'd cast the unsuccessful spell on.

"Are you certain?" Tom asked, his voice dripping with mock concern.

In Potter's case, who seemed to be the fate's favourite and sometimes had more luck than sense, it was better not to leave important things to chance. So, Tom had decided to curse both figures, just to make sure. Nothing fatal, a simple headache-inducing spell. Weak at first, barely noticeable, but over time it strengthened to the point where the pain would knock the boy to his feet.

And then Potter would have no choice but to come to him, begging for healing and teaching, as his Slytherins used to do when he would have punished them with that curse.

After all, he had promised Potter not to push him too hard to learn black magic. But if the teen had come to him of his own free will and asked for lessons... Then the situation would have been very different.

Potter hesitated for a split second before nodding. "Yes, I'm sure."

It was good to know that, pushed to the wall, Potter was capable of a deception that even someone from Slytherin House wouldn't be ashamed of.

"If you say so," Tom said, not revealing his true thoughts. "Then take it in your hand."

"You want me to touch it?"

Riddle limited his reply to a disdainful look. After all, he had made himself clear.

Potter reached out and took the statue, his hand steady but his eyes betraying a shadow of doubt. Tom watched him closely. When the boy's fingers tightened around the statue and he didn't fall to the ground struck by a sudden impulse of pain, a flash of suspicion and a hint of satisfaction appeared in the green eyes.

Riddle hid his smirk.

"I've chosen correctly?" This time Potter didn't control himself as well as before and Tom could clearly hear the disbelief in his voice.

Riddle shrugged.

"It was your task to find out which one wasn't cursed. Time would tell. But if anything strange should happen to you, you know you can count on me."

The real question was how long it would take Potter to swallow his pride and turn to Tom for help.

o.O.o

He should have known better. Fate hated him.

Since he had appeared in the past, nothing, absolutely nothing, had gone his way. Why should it be different this time? Why should he had succeed?

At first, Harry genuinely believed he had chosen the uncursed one. After all, he had picked up the statue and nothing had happened. When Angelina had touched the cursed necklace, the reaction had been immediate. True, he couldn't remember the exact incantation or wand movement and was almost certain he'd made mistakes in both, but he felt nothing suspicious as he had turned the statue in his hands.

It had begun quite innocently, a few hours after Riddle had decided to test his skills. Harry hadn't connected the dots at first, he just had thought his head had started to hurt from exhaustion. How much can you hunch over books?

The pain had increased during the evening game of chess. Harry had quickly lost two games in a row and when he had asked Riddle if they could finish earlier, Riddle had looked at him strangely but had nodded in agreement. Harry had gone to bed almost immediately and, as he always did before going to sleep, had had a glass of water with a few drops of sleeping draught in it. And perhaps that was why he had slept peacefully through the night. But in the morning... In the morning he'd felt like he'd woken up after a week of partying. 

Now it was even worse.

Harry's head throbbed with a relentless, gnawing pain. In the morning, he had still hoped it would fade, but as the day wore on the pain had intensified, becoming sharp and insistent, boring into his skull. Any rustle caused it to escalate, and Riddle, as if to spite him, was being unusually loud today. He was having an animated conversation with a customer, and when the dodgy wizard left (for Merlin' sake, who had the idea to put that bloody bell over the door?), Riddle started drumming his fingers on the counter, rocking on that disgustingly creaking stool, and then, as if that weren't enough, he had to drop that clanking bag of galleons on the floor, which nearly blew Harry's head off.

Harry, for his part, was just trying to survive today. Borgin and Burke were doing something in the back room, so he had to pretend to be busy. He sat down on the floor behind a display case, in a place that couldn't be seen from the passage between the shop and the back room. He didn't even try to open the transmutation book he was slowly finishing reading. With his wand in hand, ready to cast a cleaning spell if need be, he sat leaning against the display case with his eyes closed, mentally praying that this damned headache wasn't caused by what he suspected it was.

He knew he was childishly delaying the inevitable.

As the world blurred before his eyes despite the glasses he still wore on his nose, and the dark spots grew to the size of fat flies, Harry felt he had to swallow his pride and admit he was wrong. As much as he hated the thought, he needed Riddle's help. Another moment and he would vomit from the pain, or worse, lose consciousness.

Taking a deep breath, Harry rose to his feet, swaying slightly as a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him. Clutching his wand tightly, as if drawing strength from it, and leaning on passing shelves, he moved shakily towards the counter where Riddle stood, still idly drumming his fingers and watching Harry with that annoyingly knowing look.

"Something wrong, Harry?" Riddle's voice was disgustingly caring.

If it weren't for the fact that Harry could barely stay on his feet, this was the moment when he could have really lost his temper and did something very, very bad.

But instead of committing the unforgivable, Harry leaned his palms against the counter. He closed his eyes, unable to collect his thoughts.

"I... I think... cast the spell wro.... Today. Yesterday." He even had trouble speaking, his words were broken, each syllable a struggle.

He looked at Riddle briefly.

"Make your mind: yesterday or today?"

"Yesterday."

"And which spell went wrong?"

It seemed this son of a bitch had no intention of making things easy for him.

"The one to… detect the curse," Harry muttered, as at the same moment a sharp pain hit him, and Harry covered his mouth with his hand to prevent himself from vomiting.

"And what went wrong with it, my dear little brother?" Riddle leaned casually with his forearms against the counter and looked at Harry intently with his cold grey eyes. A chilling smile of satisfaction played across the future Dark Lord's lips.

Harry inhaled deeply.

Someday he'd murder that bastard.

"I must have thrown it wrong. My head's… cracking."

"Oh, did you choose the wrong figure?"

The false concern was infuriating and…

"It looks like it," Harry groaned through clenched teeth.

"And what do you expect me to do about it?"

…it reminded him of Umbridge.

"Help me."

Riddle's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He tilted his head slightly, his posture still casual but his gaze predatory.

"Ask properly."

Harry's hands clenched into fists, his hatred for Riddle burning hotter than the curse-induced pain.

"Please."

"Please what?"

"Lift the curse."

"And?"

"And teach me how to cast that spell correctly."

Riddle's grin widened.

"Since you ask so nicely..."

o.O.o

"Let's start with a quick review. Tell me what you know about enchantments that allow you to check whether an object is cursed or not," Riddle said, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood casually leaning against the massive desk in his library, still in the fine robes he wore for work, the flickering candlelight illuminating his face and adding an extra touch of elegance to his classic features. It was at moments like this that Harry could hardly believe that someone like this would become a noseless, snake-faced monster in fifty years' time.

All he had to do was remember what that bastard had put him through today, and all traces of wonder and sympathy vanished.

After he had asked nicely, Riddle had indeed lifted the curse — the headache had disappeared instantly. The worst part was that Mr. Burke must have been listening to their conversation from the start (something Harry hadn't noticed before, given his condition), because when he forced himself to thank Riddle for healing him, the old wizard looked at Harry meaningfully, as if reprimanding. Riddle then smiled from the corners of his mouth and, with a satisfaction that Harry would have liked to wipe from his handsome face, told Mr. Burke not to worry any more about Harry's education, for it seemed that his stubborn little brother had finally realised that he needed the help of his elders.

Harry wanted to get back at Riddle. But he knew it was still out of his reach. That he had to play obedient and willing to cooperate.

That's why he sighed in resignation and leaned against his desk, which had recently been added to the room's furnishings. Unlike Riddle, Harry had got rid of his outer robes as soon as he got home, so he was only wearing trousers and a shirt, which were also too old-fashioned for his liking, but Harry was getting used to them. If his casual look bothered Riddle, he didn't show it. Apparently, it was enough for him that Harry dressed decently for work.

"There is no one reliable method of determining if an object has been cursed," he began, pleased to find that he still remembered quite a lot of the lecture Riddle had given him last week. "So, if one method doesn't work and we have a strong suspicion that an object has been cursed, it's wise to use another method."

Riddle nodded briefly, a sign for Harry to continue.

"Speaking of methods, we have at our disposal spells, runic circles and there are also special artifacts that detect curses," Harry continued. He would be lying if he said that the subject did not interest him. As long as it was about detecting curses and not casting them, of course. Just a pity that the book Mr. Burke had borrowed him was written in such archaic and inaccessible language. But perhaps books from his time are more beginner-friendly. "Spells are the most common and accessible method. They can reveal the presence of dark magic, but their accuracy depends on the skill and knowledge of the caster. Runic circles are more complex and require a deep understanding of ancient runes. They can provide detailed information on the nature of the curse but are time consuming to prepare. Finally, there are artefacts, which are rare and often expensive. They can detect curses with great accuracy but are not infallible. And they are generally prepared for specific types of curses."

"And which of these methods do you find most effective?" Riddle asked, his tone perfectly measured, revealing nothing.

Harry paused, thinking. "Spells can be effective, but they require power and precision, not to mention that there are many of them. Runic circles are more reliable but needed detailed knowledge. Artefacts are convenient but not always available. Besides, it depends on the situation. Most cursed items emanate black magic with such force that even basic spells can detect it. Things get worse if someone tries to hide the fact that a curse has been cast. Then it is best to use several different methods, and there is still a risk that nothing suspicious will be detected. So, to sum up: there is no best method."

Had he seen the gleam of approval in Riddle's eyes? No, he must have been projecting it.

"It's good to know that you're at least listening to what I'm telling you", the future Dark Lord said crisply. "For now, that much theory is enough. We won't even touch on the basics of runic circles for the next few months anyway."

Harry wanted to ask about the months after that but held himself back. He didn't like what Riddle's statement implied.

Riddle, with a snap of his fingers, of course, summoned the Buddha-like statue from yesterday. Holding it in his left hand, he nonverbally cast some sort of spell on it, then levitated the statue onto a small table in the middle of the room positioned between their desks.

"Show me the curse-detecting spell you tried to use yesterday."

Harry nodded with resignation, then approached the table. He scratched his head. How did it go...

"The statue should glow with a soft light for a moment when you cast the spell correctly" added Riddle, which wasn't very reassuring.

Harry took a deep breath and concentrated, raising his wand.

"Galeasian farbongen," he intoned, making a rather complicated double-eight-like motion with his wand.

He was almost certain he had got it wrong again.

Like yesterday, there was no glow. Harry glanced uncertainly at Riddle and a shiver ran down his spine as he saw the older boy's expression. He was sparse with his praise, but when it came to his displeasure, Riddle made no attempt to hide it.

"That was pathetic, Potter. Do not attempt to deceive me a second time. If you have no idea how to cast that spell, admit it rather than fabricating your own version."

Harry's eyes widened. He didn't make up his version.

"Why don't you consider that I simply don't remember the incantation correctly, instead of assuming that I'm trying to deceive you?" Harry retorted angrily. He was fed up with Riddle's mood today.

Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"What did I tell you about talking back to me?"

"You started it."

Unlike Borgin's stinging spell a few days ago, Riddle's hit its target. Harry rubbed his hurting forearm and looked reproachfully in the older boy's direction.

"Next time just say you don't remember," said Riddle, with casual elegance stepping closer to Harry. The glare the teenager threw his way didn't make the slightest impression on him. "Watch carefully." And after a short pause, Riddle pronounced clearly,exuding a sweeping motion with his wand: "Maledictum revelare."

Harry's jaw dropped. It didn't sound at all like a spell he was trying to use.

"I didn't make up that spell," he said quickly, suddenly frightened at the thought that Riddle might actually think he was trying to lie to him. As for the lessons, he'd had time to unlearn it. "I really came across something similar in this book that Burke lent me."

Riddle looked at him sceptically for a moment, as if considering the truthfulness of his words.

"Seriously. I'm not lying."

"It sounded a bit Old Turkmenian," Riddle said after a moment of musing, but more to himself than to Harry.

Harry had no idea what Old Turkmenian was, but it sounded oriental.

"You know, there was actually a paragraph that said it was a spell from the Far East..."

"Potter, you were supposed to start with the most basic spells."

Harry made an embarrassed face.

"I must have opened on the wrong side."

To the teenager's astonishment, the future Dark Lord rolled his eyes, not a trace of his earlier anger left. Riddle waved his hand, apparently deeming the matter unworthy of further investigation.

"Have you memorised the incantation and the wand movement?"

"I'm not sure. Could you show it to me one more time?"

To Harry's even greater astonishment, Riddle simply cast the spell again and the statue once more lit up with a soft glow, indicating that it had been cursed.

Harry tried to cast the spell correctly but failed again. It seemed that he had mispronounced the second part of the incantation, and the movement of his wand also needed correcting (Riddle had hit him on his left arm, so he couldn't even blame the pain on that). Riddle first had him repeat the incantation a few times, then practised the wand movement with him, and finally, satisfied with the results, pointed his head at the statue.

"Try again."

Harry tried. But even though he was sure he had done everything right this time, nothing happened.

Riddle looked at him thoughtfully, then wandlessy summoned a paperweight from his desk.

"Reduce it to a fifth of an inch," he instructed simply.

Harry, already used to not questioning Riddle's instructions, even the silliest ones, when they were studying together, followed the order and cast the spell, concentrating accordingly. Riddle glanced at the paperweight, visually assessing the result, then nodded back at the cursed statue.

"Now, with the same level of concentration, cast the earlier spell again."

Harry did as he was told. Sufficiently focused, he flicked his wand.

The statue flashed with a soft glow that disappeared after a moment.

Harry lifted his head to look at Riddle. A subtle smile of approval flashed across the future Dark Lord's lips. The corners of Harry's mouth also turned up slightly.

He had succeeded.

"Keep practising. Now you know how."

o.O.o

Harry sighed, took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. Putting them back on, he jumped down from the stool and began to stretch, feeling all numb from the constant sitting.

Shortly after opening the shop, Riddle, Borgin and Burke had Apparated to Mr. Oxley, a customer with whom they finally came to terms on the sale of his inheritance. Harry was left alone in the shop for the first time in almost three weeks — but Riddle had, of course, made sure that he was not bored enough to do something silly. As if Harry could do anything else here but sit and plan his escape. The wardrobe was out of his reach; besides he was more and more convinced that it wasn't the wardrobe but the magic in the Room of Requirement that had transported him to the past. Moreover, since Riddle had claimed the Invisibility Cloak and the Marauder's Map, Harry really had no reason to break his order and risk another punishment. Leaving the shop was out too — Harry knew already that Riddle wasn't kidding when he told him about the glyphs. He had no intention of touching those nasty dark magic books that lined the shelves, and contrary to popular belief, he had enough common sense not to rummage through the items stuffed here. He had to get back to the future to defeat Voldemort, not drop dead from accidentally touching some cursed artefact.

This meant that he really didn't have too many options, and maybe that was why he was hunched over the book about curses, making the notes Riddle had instructed him to make. Given his current occupation, at least preparing a detailed list of spells to detect curses on various objects made more sense than cramming the theory of transmutation as if he were preparing for the OWLs exam again. Writing down incantations, describing wand movements and listing their uses was a bit tedious, to say the least, but if it meant Harry could avoid some awful curse in the future, he was willing to put up with it.

But he was just a teenager, not a bookworm, and like any normal person he needed a break from his studies. Riddle probably didn't expect him to finish everything in his absence, did he?

Realising with grim resignation that it was actually quite likely, Harry hoped back onto the stool after a few more sideways bends. He turned the page, dipped his pen into the inkwell and returned to his notes.

As midday approached, the rain outside had stopped and the cobblestones visible through the strategically dirty windowpane were brightening, as if the sun had peeked out from behind the thick clouds. Harry felt a pang of longing — Riddle made sure he didn't have too much time to think about what he'd left behind in the future, but in moments of calm like this, the realisation of where he was, and what it might mean for the future of those close to him, fell on him like a huge stone, overwhelming him with its weight.

Lost in his dark thoughts, gripped by the fear of whether the future he would return to would still be the same future, Harry caught sight of a hooded figure out of the corner of his eye, apparently heading for Borgin and Burke's shop. He had time to push aside his book of curses and his notes before a bell rang in the shop, announcing the arrival of a customer. Harry jumped off his stool, mindful of Riddle's reminder not to serve customers sitting down, straightened up and looked at the newcomer.

The man who entered the shop was tall, almost as tall as Riddle, equally slender but broader at the shoulders. As he pulled the hood off his head, Harry was surprised at how young he looked — he could have been no more than a few years older than Riddle. His dark hair falling around his neck and a neatly trimmed, equally dark beard gave his sharp features an unsettling appearance that was deepened by his deep-set brown eyes. He was not sure why, but the stranger's appearance immediately made Harry think of Karkaroff, the headmaster of Durmstrang. There was something austere, aesthetic in the aura he exuded around him. Even in the clothes he wore it could be sensed. His robes were simple, but Harry had learned over the past few weeks to recognise when simple didn't mean cheap. And the one the unknown wizard was wearing was hardly cheap.

"What can I do for you, sir?" asked Harry, fighting the feeling of unease that had suddenly enveloped him. He was used to it by now; some customers just had that effect on him.

The man looked at Harry curiously, as if surprised to see him behind the counter. Before he come near him, he glanced around slowly, intently. Apparently, he did not see what he was looking for, for he approached Harry calmly.

"I'm looking for Tom Riddle," he said in a smooth, measured tone. There was a hint of a foreign accent, something exotic that added an unexpected allure to his words.

Harry felt relieved. He could help him in this, though probably not in the way the man wanted.

Forcing a casual tone, Harry said: "He's out of the shop at the moment, attending to some business with Mr. Burke and Mr. Borgin. I'm not sure when they'll be back."

"It's a pity."

"If it's important, I can pass it to him," Harry offered, but mostly out of politeness.

The man dismissed this with a sparse wave of his hand, "No, this requires a personal conversation."

Harry made an apologetic face.

"In that case, it would be best if you came tomorrow, sir."

The man didn’t reply immediately. Instead, he ran his hand over the counter with a magnetic manner, his slender fingers stopping above the statue of an Egyptian cat under which Harry had slipped his notes. The man tilted his head, looking at it.

"I don’t believe I’ve met you here before," he said unexpectedly, turning his attention back to Harry.

"I’ve only been working here for three weeks, sir" Harry replied uncertainly, feeling the man's deep-set brown eyes piercing him. He lowered his gaze, unsettled.

"I see…" the man looked meaningfully at the book about curses and the notes. Harry mentally chided himself for not hiding them under the counter. "I don’t think I’ve heard your name."

Because I haven't introduced myself, Harry replied dryly in his mind, growing more and more unsettled by this strange encounter. He would rather have been hunched over his notes.

The man looked at him expectantly again with those disturbing eyes of his.

"I didn't hear your name either, sir," Harry said before thinking.

The man laughed — and although the laugh sounded natural, it lacked sincerity.

"Then forgive the lack of manners. Aleksandr Dolohov."

Dolohov — and that was enough for Harry. He already knew where his instinctive dislike came from.

But... it wasn't the same Dolohov as the one from his time, was it? That one didn't look as if he was seventy. And the name was different too.

Whatever. A Death Eater or his father — one evil.

Unfortunately, he still had to introduce himself. The man still looked at him expectantly. Mentally preparing for what was to come, Harry returned the look.

"Harry Riddle" he introduced himself as Riddle had ordered him. And for better effect: "Tom's younger brother."

It was nice to see that stoic facade crumble, if only for a split second. Dolohov regained his composure almost instantly.

"I didn't know that Tom had a brother."

Harry offered him a thin smile. Go away.

"I also had no idea I had a brother until recently."

This earned him another burst of laughter. More genuine this time.

"Sounds like an interesting story," the future Death Eater prompted the topic.

Harry shrugged, not willing to give more.

"On contrary. Totally boring."

Dolohov nodded barely perceptibly, as if acknowledging Harry's reluctance to offer further explanation. But his gaze remained piercing.

"Well... It's look like I'll have to ask your brother for his version of the story one day. Because I'm sure it can't be as boring as you say."

"As I said, sir, he'll be here tomorrow," Harry replied politely. He was proud of himself and his composure.

"Aleksandr, not sir."

"Aleksandr" Harry relented, trying to hide his reluctance.

"It's a shame that tomorrow doesn't suit me. But I have a feeling we will meet again this week, so no loss." With these cryptic words, Dolohov tilted his head slightly towards Harry and left the shop with an eerie, predatory grace.

Harry let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

o.O.o

Harry didn’t have to wait too long to see the consequences of Aleksandr Dolohov's visit to the shop. They appeared the very next day, literally, in the form of two young wizards.

Harry was in the back room helping Riddle sort through the items that had been bought from Mr. Oxley — there were so many that even Riddle didn't seem to know where to start at first. Borgin and Burke had Apparated to Mr. Oxley's for another part and it was doubtful they would be back for more than a few hours.

Half-packed boxes occupied almost every inch of available space in the back room. Some items had already been removed from them, others were waiting their turn. Riddle had divided the items into two groups, one containing books and scrolls, the other various types of magical artefacts. Harry was to check the books first. Of course, if the spell he cast revealed nothing suspicious, he was to leave the book in question for Riddle's further inspection. Harry just handed another thick grimoire to Riddle as a bell rang in the air.

"Go and check," Riddle instructed him, nonverbally casting a spell on the book Harry had just passed to him.

Two young wizards, about Riddle's age, entered the shop. Harry glanced at them, having the impression that he must have seen them before. The first of them, the taller one, had dark blonde hair, combed sideways with the current fashion, forming a wave above his forehead. He was dressed in striking turquoise robes and his honey-coloured eyes watched Harry intently from behind stylish glasses. The other, slightly shorter and more muscular, smiled crookedly as his eyes met Harry's. He had short, dark hair and wide eyebrows that almost merged together. His robes were less extravagant, more simple but also perfectly tailored.

"Good morning," the first of them said, his voice pleasant and deep-sounding, and suddenly Harry remembered where he had seen them.

In Slughorn's memory.

"Good morning," Harry replied cautiously, not quite hiding his growing wariness.

Another pair of Riddle's Death Eaters. Great.

Before Harry had time to ask what he could serve them, Tom Riddle emerged from behind the curtain.

"Curtis, Brandon, what have I done to earn this pleasure?" he asked deceptively politely, but his smile did not reach his eyes.

"We just happened to meet on the Diagonal Alley and decided to pay you a visit," the taller of the two replied smoothly.

Riddle nodded, accepting the explanation. "Unfortunately, we're a bit busy, but I think I can spare a moment for you. Harry, go back to the back room and sort the books in the pile on the left according to subject. I've checked them, they're safe.

It wasn't a suggestion.

Harry hoped he was not the only one who felt disappointed by this unceremonious dismissal. However, the faces of the new arrivals betrayed nothing; their masks were impeccable.

He knew that even though Riddle had sent him to the back room only to disappear from the sight of his young Death Eaters, he suspected that he would still expect him to obey the order, presumably to prevent Harry from overhearing his conversation.

Harry had no intention of being dismissed so easily. He picked up the first book that came to hand — a thin, small volume with no title on the cover — and walked carefully to the curtain that separated the shop from the back room. Trying to breathe as quietly as possible, he positioned himself so that he could not only hear but also see what was going on through the gap between the fabric and the door frame.

"Little bird told me that something unexpectedly interesting pop up around here recently," a second, more brusque voice, belonging to a lower wizard, reached Harry's ears. He wondered who they exactly were; their names told Harry little.

It was also a pity that from his position Harry could only see Riddle's back. But he could easily imagine a mocking smile forming on his lips right now.

When Harry had told Riddle about Dolohov's visit yesterday, as he had suspected, Riddle had asked about everything, almost forcing Harry to repeat the whole conversation word after word, but overall, he hadn't seemed angry. If anything, he looked a little amused.

"I don't know yet, we just got a pretty big delivery yesterday. But if I come across anything interesting, I'll be sure to let you know, Brandon."

Okay, dark-haired — Brandon. So the blonde must have been Curtis.

Curtis leaned his forearms casually against the counter, his honey-coloured eyes gleaming with barely concealed curiosity.

"I think Brandon had something more alive in mind. Something that has just been sent back to the back room." He looked meaningfully at the curtain Harry was hiding behind. Riddle turned his head, following his gaze, and Harry took a step back.

"Your new colleague," Brandon said, leaning sideways against the counter. He crossed his muscular arms over his chest. "I hear he has quite an interesting surname..." his voice trailed off tellingly.

Riddle shrugged slightly.

"Yes? I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary about his surname," he said, still looking at the curtain. Harry's heart quickened. His grip on the book tightened. "But if you say so…" He turned his attention back to the two wizards.

"How about letting us judge for ourselves?" Brandon said and Harry gasped at his directness.

Their curiosity didn't surprise him; judging by Dolohov's reaction yesterday, he could have expected it. Besides, Riddle had warned him that some people could be inquisitive. But the way they behaved towards Riddle... They were not like the grovelling Death Eaters that Harry associated with his future. There was a clear sense of ease in their interactions with Riddle that could only have come from years spent in each other's company. But at the same time, it was also clear who had the upper hand and the last word.

"It seems to me that you will have an opportunity to do so very soon," came Riddle's reply, and there was a rare note of indulgence in the tone of his voice.

Harry, against common sense, approached the curtain again.

Brandon and Curtis exchanged knowing glances.

"Is there going to be another guest at Abraxas' party?" asked Curtis, apparently quick in making assumptions.

Harry could not see the expression on Riddle's face, but he could tell from the satisfied looks on Brandon's and Curtis's faces that the guess was clearly correct.

Abraxas' party? What the hell Riddle was planning?

"Perhaps." There was something in Riddle's voice that was rarely there. Something like barely audible excitement. "Now, gentlemen, if you will excuse me, I have to get back to work. I wasn't lying when I told you about the delivery we received."

Harry, mouth agape, quickly stepped away from the curtain and in two jumps found himself at the table where Riddle had arranged the books he had sorted. He opened the book in his hand to a random page, pretending to be absorbed in his reading. The sound of the doorbell informed him that Riddle's aspiring-to-be Death Eaters had left, and the future Dark Lord entered the back room a moment later.

"Potter, if I ever catch you eavesdropping again, you will be punished. And believe me, if I do it in front of my fellow Slytherins, you'll be at the bottom of the food chain, and even pretending to be my brother won't help. And you'll only have yourself to blame."

Harry turned to Riddle. His ears were ringing. He barely registered the older boy's threat.

"And don't even try to deny that you did it."

Harry nodded numbly. He closed the book in his hands, slipping a finger between the pages so as not to lose the one he had just looked at.

Fate really did hate him. When he finally came across the mention of Horcruxes, not only did it happen while he was stuck in the past, but to top it all, it was in the diary, which was written in French.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

Snakes' den, part I

Harry nervously smoothed his robes and took a deep, calming breath as he entered the living room. The crackling fire in the fireplace cast long shadows on the elegantly wallpapered walls, which usually gave the impression of cosiness, but not here.  Over the past few weeks, however, he has had time to get used to the austere atmosphere of the future Dark Lord's apartment. Riddle wasn't there yet, of course; it was Harry who should be waiting for him, not the other way around. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was nearly nine in the evening. Hadn't Riddle mentioned that the party was to start at eight?

Harry tugged at the sleeve of his robes — he wasn't nervous at all, he just didn't feel like spending the whole night in the company of pre-Death Eaters (or rather, Knights of Walpurgis, because that's what Riddle once called them, my knights, which was even more creepy than the name the older version of him had given his followers). He would have liked to return to the state of three days ago, when he knew there were some pre-Death Eaters, but they were just a vague concept to him, which his mind wisely chose to ignore. Now, unfortunately, they had taken on a more tangible form. He had already met three of them — according to Riddle, he would meet a few more tonight. He really didn't need to. Especially after yesterday's conversation, during which Riddle told him a little something about them, so that Harry didn't walk into the snakes' den completely oblivious.

It didn’t sound encouraging.

"Acceptable but your hair's tragic, really."

Harry flinched. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn't notice Riddle's quiet arrival.

He glanced sideways at the older boy and his jaw almost dropped. Harry was used to Riddle always carrying himself with elegance and spread an air of dangerous refinement, but looking at him now, he would never have said he was looking at someone who had grown up in an orphanage. In every way, Riddle looked like someone from the upper classes. The dress robes he was wearing was exceptionally elegant and perfectly tailored, its dark green colour ideally matching the pale complexion of the future Dark Lord.  His hair was slicked back and although the style was similar to the one he wore every day, it seemed even more posh. This was Tom Riddle, the man who could wrap the cream of the crop of the wizarding world around his finger.

Harry felt a shiver of horror run down his spine.

And he wanted to stop someone like that? No, he didn't — he had to.

Riddle snapped his fingers twice and Harry, blinking slightly, came back to reality. The shadow of a smile appeared on the older boy's lips, as if Riddle had guessed what Harry had just been thinking.

"Do something with it," Riddle repeated coldly, moving closer to Harry and handing him his wand.

Harry sighed, oh yes, his hair. He didn't mind how dishevelled it was, but Riddle seemed to be obsessed with it. So, without a word (and almost without emotion), he took his wand from the future Dark Lord and muttered the incantation of a spell he'd learned from him. Judging by the look on Riddle's face, the result was satisfactory.

"Concentrate more next time, the effect will be better," Riddle said, conjuring a mirror.

Harry had a look at his reflection. In his opinion, the effect of the spell was very good.

"All right," he replied, however, knowing there was no point in arguing about it.

Riddle vanished the conjured mirror and gave him an assessing look, and despite the earlier remark about his hair, there was a shadow of approval in his gaze.

"Grace really does have an excellent sense of style, she was right about you looking good in those robes."

Harry, to hide his confusion, smoothed his robes again. His dress robes were a lighter shade of emerald, which actually accentuated the colour of his eyes well, as Balenciaga's assistant had told him. They reminded a little of the ones he had worn to the Yule Ball during the Triwizard Tournament, but even he, a novice in matters of wizarding world fashion, felt that their quality and cut were nothing like the ones Mrs Weasley had bought him. He felt unexpectedly comfortable in them, confident even, and it made him uneasy too.

"Don't do that," Riddle scolded him, noticing Harry's gesture. "Balenciaga always puts a straightening spell on all their clothes, so it's an empty gesture, you're just showing people you're nervous. And if you don't want to be eaten by my Slytherins tonight, you need to look confident."

"Then perhaps I'd better stay home," Harry suggested, forcing himself to stay still as Riddle approached to fix his foulard.

He was almost certain that he had tied it properly this time — apparently it was supposed to be tied differently at formal receptions, though, because Riddle untied it and began to skilfully adjust it again.

"This is not an option. I told you that sooner or later, you must meet them anyway. Today is the perfect opportunity."

"By the way, what's the occasion for Malfoy's party?" asked Harry, lifting his head to give Riddle better access to his neck.

"The spring equinox. And his birthday. Two reasons to celebrate," the last sentence was said in an unexpectedly tartly tone.

Harry shot a quick glance at Riddle.

"And do you really think it is a good idea to introduce me to your pre-Death Eaters today?" there was a note of scepticism in Harry's voice. He wasn't the best at social interaction, but even he could sense that it wasn't entirely appropriate. The interest shown in him by Dolohov, Avery and Nott was probably just a prelude to what was to come tonight. And since it was Malfoy's birthday party, he should be the star of the show, not some boy from nowhere. "What did he do to you?" he asked, more in jest than out of curiosity. He didn't expect an answer.

"He delayed the delivery to my vault at Gringotts," Riddle replied simply. He adjusted the halves of Harry's robes a little more and took two steps back to assess the result. "Better. And please refrain from calling my friends pre-Death Eaters."

Harry almost rolled his eyes, but stopped himself at the last moment.

"Oh yes, forgive me, they are the Knights of Walpurgis after all," he said, not refraining from using his tone to express what he thought of Riddle's nickname for his followers. One worse than the other.

Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"Restrain your insolence. Today I expect impeccable manners and absolute obedience. You will be civil. Do not argue with me or talk back, especially in front of the others. If you do, I will punish you. Publicly if necessary. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry swallowed, feeling a knot in his stomach. And that would be enough for a semblance of normality.

"Crystal clear," he replied stiffly.

Riddle did not take his eyes off him, as if judging the sincerity of his words. After a moment he spoke again:

"Remember, today you’ll be officially introduced as my younger brother, Harry Riddle. You’ll arouse interest, and others will want to know as much as possible about you. Stick to the story I've made up, but don't go into too much detail. Let them wonder and guess. Total honesty isn’t good in my world."

Harry lifted his head and looked boldly into the grey eyes of the future Dark Lord. He would not allow himself to be intimidated by anyone.  Certainly not by a young Voldemort.

"I remember. Harry Riddle, your younger brother. Same father, different mothers. Orphaned, like you. I grew up in Ireland, but when my last guardians got in trouble with the law, I was left to fend for myself and decided to flee to England to find any living members of my family. And you generously agreed to look after me." Riddle really should be proud: almost without emotion or hesitation. This was just a cover so that one day he can break out of this nightmare and return to his own time.

"Stick to it. And do not embarrass me," Riddle said, scooping a handful of Fiuu Powder from a vase on the mantelpiece. He threw it into the flames, which immediately shot up and turned green. "Woody Bay Manor." He pointed to the flames with a mocking gesture. "Guests of honour ahead."

o.O.o

Head first, then the rest, without a hint of grace, of course — if Riddle had hoped that by choosing to travel on the Fiuu Network he would provide Harry with a more elegant entrance, well, he had miscalculated. Harry hated magical ways of travelling. As he covered his face with his hands because a stray piece of ash had flown up his nose and he was about to sneeze, he wondered if there were any that didn't have side effects. Probably just broomsticks.

"Pathetic," he heard the hiss above him. A sharp retort was already on the tip of his tongue when he remembered the warning he had just received. No talking back, especially in front of others.

And they were no longer alone.

"Abraxas Malfoy is coming, prepare yourself," Riddle hissed again, nodding toward the grand staircase.

The sneeze finally won, echoing loudly in the opulent hall. Harry adjusted his glasses just in time to see the wizard in question descending the white marble stairs that split into elegant spirals. Riddle's comment was unnecessary. Even without it, Harry would have recognised the progenitor of a family that had brought him nothing but misery, including the greatest of all, falling into the paws of the young Dark Lord. The traits of both Lucius Malfoy and Draco Malfoy were clearly visible in the progenitor of their lineage. And if Harry had any doubts about Abraxas Malfoy being Draco's grandfather, they had just been dispelled. The same light, almost white hair, gently curled and elegantly combed in the current fashion, the same cruel, emotionless look. He even moved in a similar way, walking slowly down the stairs, his deep blue robes swaying with every movement, adding to the elegance of his slender figure.

A fucking aristocrat in every way. And, of course, he wasn't in a hurry, although was clearly heading towards them.

When Malfoy was a few feet in front of them, he held out his hands in a gesture of greeting to Riddle. Harry was ignored.

"My most anticipated guest has finally arrived, what a relief! I was beginning to think you weren't coming at all, Tom," Abraxas said in a calm, deep voice, giving Riddle's left arm a quick squeeze as he shook his other hand.

Had Harry not known better, he might indeed have believed that this was a greeting to two friends rather than to a master and future servant. The familiarity that Riddle allowed his pre-Death Eaters to have with him really amazed Harry.

"Dear Abraxas, do you really think I could have missed my best friend's birthday? You are hurting my feelings."

"I'm happy to count on your presence. Everyone else has already arrived."

Riddle nodded, as if he had missed the allusion in Malfoy's words.

"Properly on their part."

Or maybe he did catch it.

Harry suddenly felt very, very out of place. He had to control his instinctive reluctance, his nervousness and the feeling that he was about to be thrown to the thirsty fresh meat snakes that could destroy a man with one innocent sentence. Or at least show him his place. And on top of that, pretend to be the brother of the most ruthless of them all. Great.  

He forced himself to straighten up and put on a polite, impersonal smile.

"I see you haven't come alone," Malfoy remarked, changing the subject and finally turning his attention to Harry. The tone in which he said this sounded all too neutral.

"Oh, I thought you wouldn't mind if I brought my younger brother," Riddle replied smoothly, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder in a gesture that was not missed by the watchful steel-blue eyes.

Harry suppressed the urge to shake it off.

Abraxas Malfoy looked at him intently, but there was not even a hint of surprise on his face. Which meant either that the wizard was perfectly in control of his facial expressions, or that he had made it a point of honour not to show that Harry's unexpected presence had annoyed him.

"Younger brother? I heard, but I didn't believe," he drawled almost lazily.

Feeling a squeeze of Riddle's hand on his shoulder — a silent command — Harry extended his hand. Right, the great Abraxas Malfoy wouldn't be the first to introduce himself.

"Harry Riddle," Harry said, trying not to sound too hostile. He couldn't believe he was doing it: he exchanged a handshake with Malfoy. The other wizard's hand was cool, but his grip was firm, determined. Malfoy even made an effort to smile slightly, as good manners dictated, but it did not reach his eyes, where barely concealed disdain was mixed with challenge.

"Abraxas Malfoy."

Awkward silence fell. Riddle had already removed his hand from Harry's shoulder and it looked as if his support would end there. Now Harry was on his own.

Malfoy clearly had no intention of making things easy for Harry either.

"Happy birthday," Harry added, because he had no idea what to say and it was a birthday party after all.

"Thank you," Malfoy replied curtly, then almost immediately turned his attention back to Riddle. "We shouldn't keep the others waiting."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught the slight smirk that briefly played across the future Dark Lord's face.

"After you," Riddle said, placing his hand between Harry's shoulder blades and pushing him forward slightly.

Harry took a deep breath.

Snakes, here I come.

o.O.o

"Come over here and sit down, we need to talk," Riddle said in a serious tone, gesturing to the sofa across from the armchair in which he had settled himself.

Harry's heart jumped into his throat.

Had he realised? No, that was impossible. He would have had to have seen Harry shove the journal with the mention of the Hor... the thing he wasn't supposed to be thinking about, into the gap between the floor and the stacked bookshelf in the back room. Which he had only done after making sure Riddle was busy serving a customer.

Stop. This wasn't the time to panic.

Thus, Harry sat obediently on the edge of the sofa, forcing himself to put on an innocent expression of mild curiosity on the one hand and slight concern on the other — after all, this kind of order would evoke that type of emotion in any normal person.

"I'm all ears," he said cautiously, at the same time trying to push the memory of the black journal out of his mind.

Riddle tilted his head and looked closely at him. Harry suppressed the urge to fidget. Finally, the future Dark Lord spoke again:

"Since Avery and Nott discovered your presence, there's no point hiding you from my knights any longer. By now, it is likely that everyone is aware of your existence."

Harry couldn't help himself and cringed at the sound of the word 'knight'. What an idiotic nickname. Riddle narrowed his eyes but continued:

"That's why I've decided to take this opportunity to take you to a party at Abraxas Malfoy's tomorrow. You'll get to know everyone at the same time."

Harry squirmed slightly. Even though his last two encounters with Riddle's Death Eaters hadn't left him with any particularly traumatic memories — on the contrary, they'd been surprisingly civilised — he had no intention of repeating the experience too soon. Better not to tempt fate.

"Can I say no?"

"No," Riddle replied briefly, reaching for a wine glass which appeared before him on a tray carried by Bug. The house elf then approached Harry with a mug of steaming cocoa. Harry absentmindedly took it and, out of habit, threw a "thank you" in Bug's direction. He was met with a hateful stare, as if he had at least mortally insulted the house elf up to three generations back.

Harry sighed and, playing for time, took a sip of his warm drink. He closed his eyes and, against his will, a satisfied smile appeared on his face. Bug's cocoa was the best he had ever tasted.

"I really don't think it's a good idea," he said calmly. There was none of the usual steely note in Riddle's voice that meant zero tolerance for discussion, which implied he could afford to be frank without fear of receiving a stinging hex.

"You're going to meet them sooner or later anyway, isn't it better to get it over with? Besides, there will be a lot of other people at the party, so your presence will be a bit lost in the crowd," Riddle replied, taking a sip of his wine. Instead of putting the glass down, he began to turn it in his hands.

Okay, so it looked like they were going to have a long but civilised conversation. As long as he didn't think about the hor...., it would be fine.

Harry wrapped his fingers around the warm mug and crossed his legs in a more comfortable, relaxed position.

"They're going to eat me alive," he grumbled, realising he wouldn't wriggle out of his presence at the party. On top of that, at Abraxas Malfoy's. "I've been behaving myself lately!"

Riddle smirk.

"It's not a punishment, it's a necessity." He took another sip and finally put the glass down on the coffee table next to the armchair he was sitting in. "But you're right, there's a good chance my Slytherins will eat you alive. So let me tell you a little about them, so you don't walk into a snake's nest completely unprepared. What a brother I'd be to let you do something so stupid."

"Exactly the one I expect," Harry muttered sarcastically, the next moment dodging a curse that was sent his way. The spell flew over his shoulder, which meant Riddle wasn't aiming to hit him with it.

Harry looked at him reproachfully; his sudden movement had caused some of the cocoa to spill out of the mug and onto his shirt. It was a good thing that Balenciaga used to cast cleaning spells on all his clothes; the stain disappeared almost instantly.

With a smile that did not bode well, Riddle tucked his wand into his sleeve and settled himself more comfortably in the armchair. His forefinger trailed idly over the edge of the wine glass.

"When we went to Hogwarts, Abraxas Malfoy was two years above me," Riddle began, rightly considering the question of Harry's presence at the party settled. "Of course, he didn't pay any attention to me at first: a boy from nowhere, with no connections and a surname that meant nothing to anyone." The future Dark Lord scowled slightly, as if the memory of his first year at school still made him angry. "But I soon began to stand out and make a name for myself. When Abraxas became a prefect, he had to take more interest in others, especially younger Slytherins, and that's when our paths really crossed for the first time. By fifth year, when I also became a prefect and he became a head prefect, we were already close. So close, in fact, that he had no hesitation in sharing what was his with me when I graduated Hogwarts.”

"So completely voluntarily," Harry sneered, unable to contain himself.

Riddle, surprisingly, smiled leniently.

"Actually, yes. He thinks it'll keep me in line, that I'll never turn against him. That he'll become indispensable, irreplaceable." The smirk that appeared on Riddle's face made the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand up. He didn't know Malfoy, didn't even like him, but at that moment he felt sorry for him. "He doesn't know that I don't really need his gold, his Galleons. I've managed without them in the past, I'll manage without them now. But since he insisted..." Riddle reached for his glass and took another sip. He looked at it carefully, raising it to eye level. "Malfoy is useful, I don't deny that, but for very different reasons. His name counts, it's recognisable. He has connections and acquaintances that I intend to make use of soon. Of course there are others who are just as influential, but with Abraxas it will be faster. The luxury with which I surround myself, thanks to him, is merely an add-on, a pleasant nuisance that Abraxas uses to fool himself into thinking that he is a special to me."

Harry was speechless. He had not expected such honesty from Riddle.

"Aren't you afraid I'll tell Malfoy what I've just heard?"

Riddle's gaze hardened.

"Just try."

o.O.o

"Try not to get into any trouble," Riddle threw in seemingly carefree manner, although the glint in his eye clearly suggested that nothing but unpleasant things awaited Harry if he didn't follow the suggestion.

"Me and trouble? You've offended me," Harry replied in an equally casual tone putting his hand to his heart. He didn't talk back, so Riddle had nothing to complain about. But if he had intended to show Harry off like a well-trained pet, he was sorely mistaken. Even the little dogs could bite.

Malfoy just gave him a disdainful look.

"Of course he's free to make himself comfortable. The ballroom, foyer and garden terraces are at the disposal of my guests. If you wish, I can instruct my house elves not to serve him anything alcoholic if you're worried about his behaviour," Malfoy said to Riddle, as if Harry wasn't standing between them.

"It's really kind of you, but I think Harry will behave reasonably. Will you, Harry?"

Harry gritted his teeth. And although he hadn't thought about it before, he unexpectedly found himself wanting to get drunk. Why not?

"I think I can drink three glasses of wine with no apparent side effects," he replied, ostentatiously reaching for the one on the silver trays of alcohol that were floating among the guests. He had not even had time to touch the glass with his fingers when the tray was suddenly lifted out of his reach.

"I think you should stick to pumpkin juice," Riddle replied coldly. "It's better for you if I don't catch you with anything else in your hand. You're still a minor and under my care."

Harry just glared at Riddle.

"I will definitely tell my house elves to block your brother's access to alcohol," Malfoy said in a lazy tone, as if it were nothing humiliating. "I think that will solve the problem," he added dismissively. "Now, let me introduce you to some of my guests. My my father's cousin, is the head of the Department of Magical Locations, and he recently indicated that he might need a new assistant, and if I remember correctly..."

Harry's ears perked up, but he didn't get to hear what Malfoy was about to say because his ramblings were interrupted by three giggling witches, their cheeks flushed from the alcohol they had consumed. They approached them holding empty wine glasses.

"Abraxas, where have you been? We've been looking for you. It's not nice to run away from guests like that," one of them said, poking Malfoy playfully in the chest. She pursed her lips and made a sulky face. A lock of her neatly pinned up curly black hair swayed.

"It is also impolite not to welcome newcomers, my dear Ada," Malfoy replied, taking two glasses of wine from the tray and handing them to the witches. Riddle, to Harry's surprise, also took one and handed it to the third witch.

"Ada, Madelline, Aspara, you all look gorgeous," Riddle greeted the girls with a charming smile. Two of them returned it sincerely, but the third did so with obvious reluctance.

This time it was Harry who smirked. Wasn't everyone in awe of the young Dark Lord? What a surprise.

"I think my husband will be delighted to finally enjoy the company of the two most important men in his life," the one who showed the least enthusiasm said tartly, taking a good sip of wine. The taller and slightly older looking witch took the glass from her friend's hand.

"Aspara, I think you should switch to something less... head-busting," she said quietly. "But perhaps you're right, we shouldn't keep the gentlemen any longer. Let's get some fresh air." And, ignoring the protests, she pushed her friend towards the wide-open double doors of the balcony.

Riddle nodded at them.

"Ladies, join us later," he offered kindly and then allowed himself to be pulled into the crowd by Abraxas Malfoy.

He didn't even look in Harry's direction, who was unexpectedly left alone.

The band occupying the stage began to play a lively waltz louder, causing some of the guests to rush onto the dance floor. Harry, after being pushed the second time, decided it would be better to move to a quieter spot away from the crowd. 

He took a deep breath and looked around the ballroom (who on Merlin's beard had such a place in their house?!) to which he and Riddle had been led by Malfoy moments earlier. The room was large and bright, filled to the brim with elegantly dressed wizards and witches of all ages. Three huge crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and the white stucco walls were decorated with floor-to-ceiling mirrors on one side and huge windows on the other. Tables were set up under the windows, and the amount and variety of food on them probably exceeded that served at the Hogwarts feast. There was also a corner with comfortable looking armchairs and sofas where guests could rest when they were tired of partying. On the two shorter sides of the ballroom were balconies with richly ornamented balustrades against which the guests leaned to look down on those gathered on the dance floor. Although Riddle had mentioned that Harry would blend into the crowd, the teenager had not expected so many guests.

Taking another look at the balconies, Harry decided that they would be a good vantage point. Since Riddle had already dragged him here, he might as well take advantage of the situation. Perhaps he would spot someone in the crowd who could help him in the future. However, he didn't get the chance to reach the stairs leading to the balconies in peace, as he was stopped halfway by an all-too-familiar-looking wizard in deep purple robes.

"Oh, what a surprise! I didn't think we'd meet again so soon. Harry? Am I right? Harry...?

If Harry hadn't overheard Riddle's conversation yesterday, he might have thought the surprise in the wizard's voice was genuine, it sounded so authentic. He resisted the urge to turn on his heel and ignore the hand extended to him. It couldn't be worse than a handshake with Malfoy. Besides, that was exactly why Riddle had dragged him here.

With a grim resignation, he plastered a false smile on his face. He knew only too well why his surname hadn't been mentioned and what was expected of him.

"Yeah, that's me. Harry Riddle. Curtis... Curtis Nott, right?"

Harry was rewarded with a wide, bright smile, though the honey-coloured eyes that peered at him from behind the vivid purple rimmed glasses remained alert.

"I can see you have a very good memory."

Another wizard, whom Harry recognised, stepped in behind Nott.

"Brandon Avery. We've also met before."

o.O.o

"You met Curtis Nott and Brandon Avery yesterday when they came into the shop," Riddle continued when he had finished talking about Abraxas Malfoy. "They, along with Everett Rosier and Secundus Lestrange, shared a dormitory with me for seven years, since we were in the same year."

"And they survived? Unbelievable," Harry snorted.

Riddle just looked at him.

"They were useful. They still are," he replied simply. A slight smirk appeared on his lips. "Although I must admit, sometimes I felt like murdering them."

Harry didn't know what to say. He had a strange feeling that it wasn't said as a joke.

"So? What should I know about them?" he asked with resignation in his voice. He reached for the cookie Bug had just brought and dipped it in cocoa. Before he popped it into his mouth, a few crumbs flew onto the couch, causing Riddle's forehead to crease in annoyance.

Harry wasn't going to let that bother him.

"Try to eat more neatly," the future Dark Lord said, disappearing the crumbs away with a wave of his hand.

Harry was beginning to hate his display of the wandless magic.

"I'll try," he promised without meaning to. Riddle had a strange fixation with keeping things tidy. "So?"

Of course, all four of these names sounded all too familiar. Nott, Avery, Rosier, Lestrange…

"As for Nott, Curtis currently works as a journalist for the Daily Prophet. His mother's cousin is editor of the paper. His older brother helps their father run the publishing company, so Curtis had to choose between taking a secondary role in the family business or finding his own career path. Knowing his ambition, sooner or later he'll get his uncle out of his job, which is what I'm counting on. If he catches up with you at a party, be prepared to be flooded with questions. He's great at getting information out of people. Although, of course, he's no match for me."

"No match for you," Harry muttered, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable. He didn't have particularly good memories when it came to the press and journalists, and it didn't look like that was going to change.

Riddle took a sip of wine.

"He knows the basics of Legilimency, but I don't think he would try it on you. However, if you sense something, the Thought Warding Curse should act as a shield, which will surely scare him away. Of course, should it come to that, I expect you to report it to me right away."

It didn't sound encouraging. Harry just nodded.

"Brandon Avery is just as inquisitive as Curtis. It was no coincidence that they were the first to come into the shop when Aleksandr told the others the news about you."

"What does he do?" asked Harry, remembering Avery's stocky, muscular figure. He didn't look like a journalist, more like a thug involved in coercion and threats. He reached for another biscuit.

"He's an apprentice at St Mungo's. He's training to be a healer," Riddle replied.

Harry choked on. He coughed a few times to clear his throat of the remains of the cookie, then blinked to rid himself of the tears that had started to form in his eyes.

"A healer?!" he repeated in bewilderment. "A Death Eater healer? By Merlin, what the hell is going on?"

He couldn't believe what he'd just heard. Death Eater as a journalist it made some sense, but Death Eater as a healer?

Riddle narrowed his eyes.

"Don't use that term," he ordered him sharply, surprising Harry even more.

"Okey," Harry relented, still shocked. "But... but it doesn't make sense. How could one of your De... followers end up as a healer? Aren't they supposed to, I don't know, like hurting people?"

Riddle sighed and shook his head.

"You really are narrow-minded," he said as if in rebuke. Harry decided not to feel offended by this. "Practically all of Brandon's family is involved in healing. His mother is the chief of St Mungo's, and his two older sisters also work there. Brandon, of course, has no intention of being stuck there for the rest of his life, but if he wants to help his father run his private clinic in the future, he will have to complete the training to be officially recognised as a healer."

Well, okay, presented that way it made a bit more sense, but still…

"And what is Avery's father doing in his private clinic?" asked Harry, full of bad feelings. Until now he hadn't even known that private healers existed. But his knowledge of the magical world in general was limited, and the longer he stayed in Riddle's company, the more he realised that.

Riddle looked at him in a way that sent a shiver down Harry's spine. He had a feeling he wouldn't like the answer.

"He takes care of everything the others would like to hide from the ministerial healers," the future Dark Lord replied calmly. "When you've been hit by a dark curse during some dodgy activities or have messed up a ritual you weren't supposed to know about, it's good to have someone who knows how to put you back together again."

This was the answer Harry had feared. Brandon Avery had chosen his career not because he was an idealist who wanted to help others, but because he was a cunning opportunist, a wolf in disguise pretending to be tame. Something of Harry's thoughts must have been reflected on his face, for Riddle smiled with satisfaction.

"I see you're beginning to understand," he said. "But let's move on to another of my... Slytherins. Everett Rosier. A spoilt only child whose arrogance could only be matched by Abraxas Malfoy. His family made their fortune in wine production and trade. Everett knows he doesn't have to lift a finger to inherit it all and he shows this very clearly."

Riddle didn't even need to give any more details for Harry to imagine what Everett Rosier might be like in a face-to-face encounter. Immediately, a picture of Draco Malfoy flashed before his eyes.

"His was the one I most often felt like killing," Riddle added casually, taking a sip of wine.

o.O.o

"Wine?" Everett Rosier asked, pointing to the golden tray hanging between them. "From the best vineyard we have in France. A small gift for Abraxas and his guests on his birthday," he added, flashing a smile of even, white teeth.

Harry, mindful of Riddle's opinion of Rosier, tried not to fall for the wizard's friendly charm. With his softly curling dark blonde hair, the freckles on his straight nose and the dimples that appeared when he smiled (and he smiled a lot and often), he gave the impression of innocence, while his easy-going manner encouraged an air of casual conversation. Yet it was he who evoked the most murderous impulses in Riddle. Surely someone like that should have been approached with caution.

Or perhaps it was because he radiated such cheerfulness and openness that it was hard to believe that someone like that could belong to Riddle's circle. He even stood out in appearance from the others with his few extra pounds.

"I've already had one, it was really excellent," Harry lied, remembering Riddle's order. He had no intention of admitting that his fake older brother had forbidden him to drink alcohol, but he suspected that Rosier would not let him off easily.

"All the more reason for you to have another," Rosier insisted, scooping some pudding onto his spoon. He ate it with obvious delight. "It goes very well with cheese, especially these," he pointed with his spoon at a platter filled to the brim with various sliced and diced cheeses.

"Everett, give him a break, you can see he doesn't want to," Nott chimed in, putting some pickled mushrooms on his plate.

Harry might have been grateful for his intervention, if not for the realisation that he was probably only doing it to further his own agenda.

When he and Avery had caught up with Harry a few moments earlier, he had dragged him towards the food tables where Rosier was already waiting for them. Harry would have liked to get away from their company, but he didn't know how to do that without antagonising them from the start. On the surface, the boys were friendly — Nott, of course, was trying to find out something about him, but so far he was doing it tactfully, surprisingly only asking how Harry was enjoying the party, Avery was more reserved than he had been with Riddle, but without being as overtly hostile as Malfoy, and Rosier, on the other hand, treated him as if they had known each other for years rather than five minutes.

"But I'll gladly take your advice" Nott added as an afterthought, approaching the cheese platter. He scooped a few thin slices onto his plate.

"Have some more of that pecorino," Rosier advised him, putting it on his plate as well. "Harry, you should help yourself too. It's excellent even without the wine."

Harry decided that he could take this advice.

The music had quietened down a bit and the tables were getting crowded, so Rosier suggested they move to the terrace. To Harry's surprise it was quite pleasant outside: the late March air was crisp but not cold. The terrace was bathed in the soft light of paper lanterns floating above the guests. The gentle murmur of the sea, heard from afar, mingled with the muffled buzz of conversation and the sounds of music coming from the ballroom. Harry looked around, but the way the terrace was lit made the darkness around seem even denser and more impenetrable. Harry briefly wondered what the surroundings must be like in the daytime. According to Riddle's word this was the Malfoy summer manor, where Abraxas had taken up residence in order to become independent.

Summer manor house with full-size ballroom.

He really stopped to wonder why Draco Malfoy was such an asshole.

Rosier and Nott leaned against the balustrade in a relaxed pose, occasionally nibbling food from plates that levitated within reach of their hands and sipping wine. Avery slipped his hands into the pockets of his robes and looked around with an unreadable expression on his face. Harry stood next to him, waiting for them to resume their conversation, grateful for the plate of food because, although he wasn't hungry, snacking on it kept him occupied. There were several other guests on the terrace, and when one of the group moved, Harry noticed the three witches who had approached Riddle and Malfoy earlier. The one who had probably drunk a little too much looked sad, and her friends looked like they were trying to comfort her somehow.

Nott focused his gaze on Harry and shook his head as if in disbelief, then sighed ostentatiously. Harry arched an eyebrow questioningly, preparing himself for the inevitable.

"I can't get used to the idea that Tom has a brother. It's so... unexpected."

Harry supressed a sigh. Here we go.

"Me too," he said, "until recently I had no idea either."

This, of course, had the desired effect. But it wasn't Harry who asked for it, it was Riddle, so he decided not to worry about it. If anything, Riddle would sort things out.

"How so?"

Harry shrugged. He forked a little tomato and, to gain time, chewed it slowly.

"I grew up elsewhere," he said finally, heeding Riddle's warning not to reveal everything at once. "It wasn't until my previous guardians got into trouble and I was left on my own that I remembered I could have a family in England. I decided to take a chance, and that's how I found Tom."

Nott, Avery and Rosier nodded in understanding.

"And where did you grow up?" Rosier was immediately interested. With elegance effortless, he raised his glass to his lips and took a sip.

"In Ireland, in Dublin," Harry replied, praying inwardly that they wouldn't start asking him what it was like because he wouldn't know what to say. He also hoped that in the wizarding world the animosity between the Irish and the British was less than in the Muggle world.

"That would explain a lot," Avery said, speaking up for the first time since they joined Rosier. "So you're Irish?"

"In half. My mother was, my father was from here."

"Were..." Nott immediately picked up the past tense of the verb.

Harry thought of his real parents to sound convincing.

"They are both dead. But... it's not a subject I like to talk about," he added, which was essentially true. And he hoped to cut off any uncomfortable questions.

Unfortunately, this had the opposite effect. Rosier got excited.

"Wait, wait. Does that mean Tom is half Irish too?" he asked with a strange glint in his eye.

Harry shook his head.

"I don't think so. We had the same father, but different mothers. I know nothing about his."

A collective 'oh' came from all three throats.

"So you were raised by your common father?" Nott probed further. It looked as if he hadn't picked up on the allusion or had chosen to ignore it.

"From my mother, until she died. I saw my father maybe three times in my life. That was three too many," he added, to make it clear that he had no warm feelings for him. "When my mother died, I started wandering from one guardian to another until I ended up here. I met Tom and he let me stay with him."

The trio exchanged looks of surprise, their expressions mixed with intrigue and disbelief.

"Just like that? He just let you move in with him?" Avery finally said, his tone sceptical, clearly trying to reconcile what he had heard with the behaviour of the Riddle he knew. Harry was not at all surprised by his confusion. He suspected that if the supposed brother hadn't been a time traveller, he would have been thrown over the threshold.

It didn't change the fact that he had to come up with a plausible explanation.

"We met at the beginning of February. I'm still sixteen, so he let me stay with him, got me a job, started teaching...."

Besides, he also made me swear an oath of obedience, cast a tracking spell on me, put a magic muzzle on me, and when I tried to escape, he held me under the Crucio for so long that I lost consciousness, that sort of thing, the usual brotherly interactions, he added bitterly in his mind.

Nott straightened up abruptly.

"He started what?!"

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER FOURTEEN —

Snakes' den, part II

"What else you need to know about Secundus is that he has two brothers. The eldest, Primus, is the head of the family and runs the law firm with his uncle, his late father's brother," Riddle continued, his wine glass almost empty. He set it back on the coffee table. "He got married last year, presumably for love, although I suspect Madelline's family fortune played a role in his decision."

"It sounds like marrying for love is something to be despised," Harry interjected, unable to contain himself.

Riddle's response was a meaningful look.

Harry waved his hand dismissively. This was about the pre-Death Eaters, after all.

"So, Primus is the oldest. I guess Secundus is the middle one," Harry concluded.

"Your perceptiveness never ceases to amaze me," came Riddle's snide remark. Harry ignored the jab. "Secundus assists his brother in the family business, and the youngest, Tertius, is still at Hogwarts, in his sixth year. You won't meet him tomorrow, of course."

Harry sighed. "I was supposed to meet all of them," he grumbled.

Riddle smiled ominously.

"Don't worry, you'll get to know him. And it'll be soon."

o.O.o

Soon after they were comfortably seated in their armchairs, the others joined them. Tom, of course, took the central seat, with Abraxas, Primus, Secundus, and Sebastian surrounding him, sitting like an entourage around their king. For the moment, however, his courtiers were unaware of their subordinate position, still believing themselves to be his close friends, not tools to be used.

Abraxas Malfoy, always the picture of aristocratic elegance, lounged to Tom's right. His pale blond hair caught the light as he turned his head, his steel-blue eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Tom, concealing his irritation behind a facade of politeness. Primus Lestrange, tall and imposing, sat with a straight back and a calm, confident demeanor. His handsome face exuded kindly interest. His younger brother, Secundus, appeared more relaxed, his brown eyes flickering with a mixture of curiosity and intelligence, though when they met Tom's grey eyes, a hint of caution appeared in them. To Tom's left, Sebastian Selwyn, with his roguish charm and easy smile, leaned back in his armchair, spreading an air of casual confidence.

One day, they would crawl to him on their knees, kiss the hem of his robes, and call him their lord, just like those Death Eaters in the graveyard Riddle had seen in Potter's memory. One day. Sadly, not yet.

For the time being, both he and they had to play roles for which they were not destined. So Riddle pretended not to notice the irritation in Abraxas' eyes, letting Malfoy think he was hiding his true feelings well. Nor did he pay any attention to Selwyn's overly casual pose, or the conviction that sometimes emanated from Primus that he was doing Tom a favour by treating him as an equal. In time, he would teach them otherwise.

"Abraxas, you know how to throw a party," Primus Lestrange said, raising his glass to Malfoy, his voice calm and measured. Thanks to the silencing spell, the music from the other end of the ballroom could be heard but did not interfere with the conversation. "The food is exquisite, the music excellent and the wine..."

Abraxas smiled, a glint of pride in his eyes. "One must maintain standards, Primus. After all, what is the point of wealth if not to use it?"

Secundus laughed slightly. "Touché. Brother, you should follow his example. I don't think our clients would be offended if we served them wines from the Rosier vineyards. It's from Everett, isn't it?"

Abraxas inclined his head slightly. "Yes, it's a gift from Everett. This year, he outdid himself."

"I'll have to tell him to do the same for my birthday," Sebastian said, taking a rather large sip of wine. "Too bad they don't make Firewhisky. If they did, I'd be a regular customer."

"If they started, I would personally recommend that Everett cut off your access to it," Abraxas laughed.

Sebastian gave him a look of indignation, though there was a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"I would have bribed him. Or sent Aspara to him, then he'd give it to me for free, just to get rid of her."

Primus shook his head disapprovingly.

"You underestimate her. Madeleine always speaks highly of her."

Sebastian squirmed ostentatiously.

"Because she doesn't live with her every day," he retorted tartly. "If she grumbled at her like she does at me, she'd be sick of her too."

"You know, women have their own needs," Primus began in an expert tone. "If you satisfied her from time to time, she would probably be less annoying."

"I'd have to force myself to touch her first," Sebastian said, feigning a shudder of disgust.

"You're exaggerating," Tom said lazily, joining the conversation. With a wave of his hand, he summoned another glass of wine from the tray. This single, effortless display of wandless magic had, of course, not escaped the attention of his Slytherins. And that was the point. "Your father could have chosen an uglier wife for you," Tom added as he gracefully grabbed the glass floating towards him and took a sip, smiling under his breath.

Sebastian's eyes gleamed with keen interest and hunger for knowledge.

"Tom, I hope you know that showing off wandless magic like this is cruel? At least tell us where you learned it if you don't want to teach us."

The looks of the others expressed similar sentiments; wielding wandless magic wasn't something common among wizards. Abraxas pressed his lips together slightly, though the corners of his mouth still curled upwards.

"I was taught by a wizard from Cappadocia," Tom replied mercifully, deciding that after weeks of demonstrating his new skill to his Slytherins, he could finally satisfy their curiosity. "I spent several months in his company."

He did not add that after the wizard had shared all his knowledge, he had killed him without remorse because the price demanded for his teachings was too steep. Tom hadn't set out on his journey to Albania to leave Rowena Rawenclaw's tiara in the hands of some old man living in a cave. Such details were irrelevant.

"Cappadocia..." Primus Lestrange repeated thoughtfully. "You never mentioned traveling so far on your journey. You must tell us more about it. You were gone almost a year and a half, and we don't know what happened to you during that time."

Riddle suppressed a feeling of irritation and a growing desire to curse Lestrange. He didn't like being told what to do. Unfortunately, for the moment, he still had to endure this impertinence.

But he didn't have to reveal all his secrets.

"Abraxas' birthday party is not an appropriate occasion for tales of my travels," he replied evasively, raising his glass in Malfoy's direction. "I don't want to divert the attention and interest he deserves today."

"As secretive as ever," Secundus sighed, seemingly to himself, but loud enough for the others to hear.

One day they would fear him enough to keep such thoughts to themselves. Or not have them at all.

Sebastian smiled mischievously. It was clear that dropping the subject of Aspara had served him well.

"Speaking of secrets, where's your elusive brother? I heard you brought him with you. I'd like to finally meet him."

Abraxas' lips tightened further, and his knuckles whitened slightly as he gripped the stem of his glass.

"The last time I saw him, he was on the terrace with Curtis, Brandon, and Everett. But have no fear. Sooner or later, he will grace us with his presence, and you will have the opportunity to meet him," Riddle said calmly, feigning obliviousness to Malfoy's reaction. Perhaps he couldn't yet throw the Cruciatus Curse at his Slytherins every time they displeased him, but he had plenty of other ways in his arsenal to punish them and subtly show them their place.

"I've met him," Abraxas spoke up, his voice perfectly controlled. "Tom, with all due respect, I'm not impressed thus far."

Riddle shrugged elegantly.

"You don't choose your family," he said. At the same time, he looked at Selwyn meaningfully. "But I can assure you there is potential in him. It just needs to be awakened. He's still young, which is good, because I'll be able to shape him in my own way," he added with a sly smirk.

"How old is he?" asked Secundus.

"Sixteen. But he'll be seventeen at the end of July."

"He's young indeed," concluded the younger Lestrange brother.

Primus raised his glass in Riddle's direction.

"If you need advice, I have experience." Secundus didn't even flinch, although Tom knew that Primus had taken his role rather seriously and had proved to be a strict and demanding guardian, unlike their gambling addicted father. "I've heard your brother is quite a troublemaker," added Primus, taking a measured sip of wine.

This time it was Riddle who showed extraordinary composure, though inside he was raging with the desire to throw Crucio at Potter again. That was why he had been so angry when he had found him in the Leaky Cauldron; he knew that this matter would come back to haunt him more than once. Dolohov must have found out and told Primus.

"What did he do?" Abraxas was immediately interested.

Primus looked at Tom as if to ask if he could tell them. Riddle nodded almost imperceptibly; if Primus didn't do it in front of him, he would probably do it when they were alone. That way at least Tom would be able to steer the conversation.

"He was rumoured to be caught stealing in the Leaky Cauldron."

Tom sighed so that he sounded like an older brother tired of his younger sibling's antics.

"Unfortunately, it's true. He did it to spite me," Tom admitted.

Abraxas scowled in obvious disapproval. He was being too theatrical for Tom's taste. Secundus frowned slightly, while Sebastian burst into genuine laughter.

"Well, you've got yourself quite a brother," Selwyn stated lightly, still inappropriately amused. "You know what? I like him already."

Riddle remained calm.

"Of course I dealt with him. Enough to put such ideas out of his mind for the future," he assured them. They couldn't doubt that Tom was in control of his younger brother. "Unfortunately, old habits die hard sometimes."

His Slytherins must have guessed how Riddle had punished his younger brother, judging by the expressions on their faces. Abraxas didn't bother to hide his satisfied smile, Sebastian shrugged his shoulders as if acknowledging it as a natural consequence of such behaviour, although an uncharacteristic seriousness lingered in his eyes. Secundus, meanwhile, went slightly pale. He had been fourteen when his five-year-older brother became head of the family.

Primus looked at Tom knowingly.

"Younger brothers have that. They just need a firm hand; you can't indulge them."

"I have no intention of doing so. Fortunately, Harry is a quick learner," Tom added to conclude the subject. "But since we're on the subject of advice, I'm going to need your help, gentlemen," he said in a more serious tone. At the same time, he waved his wand, discreetly casting an anti-eavesdropping spell on them. He could have done it wandlessly, but for now, he didn't want to reveal the extent of his skill.

The atmosphere around him changed instantly. Everyone straightened up, their faces more serious and expectant.  Even Abraxas stopped sulking.

"With what?" asked Primus immediately, his confident tone suggesting that whatever Riddle needed, he could safely consider it taken care of.

"I have to meet Dippet at Hogwarts and I'd like to avoid meeting Dumbledore on that occasion. I need you to come up with an excuse to get Dumbledore out of the castle for a day or two."

Abraxas smiled confidently. "I think that can be arranged. Some sort of time frame?"

"By mid-April at the latest."

His Slytherins exchanged knowing looks. But before either could add anything, Sebastian Selwyn sprang to his feet.

"Oh no, she's coming here!" he groaned, hastily placing his glass on a nearby table. "Excuse me for a moment, but I'm still too sober for her company."

o.O.o

"The company and behaviour of Sebastian Selwyn can be deceptive, don't let him fool you," Riddle advised, moving smoothly on to the next Slytherin. "If I had to point to the most talented among my Slytherins, it would be Sebastian. At first glance, he doesn't give the impression, although he enjoys playing and pushing the boundaries of magic almost as much as I do."

"Oh, a rival, then?"

Riddle gave an icy, predatory smile.

"Not at all. I said 'almost'. Mind also that, for some reasons Abraxas thinks of him as his best friend. And true friendship among Slytherins is rare. We don't have friends, we have allies."

"Or followers."

"I see you're beginning to think like one of us. It's a shame you convinced Tiara to put you in Gryffindor. I think you would find your place among the snakes," Riddle said in such a tone that it was hard to tell whether he was teasing Harry or being serious.

Harry regretted telling this Riddle for perhaps the hundredth time. But it had been either the truth or a pretext for Legilimency, and he preferred to avoid the last at all costs.

"Is there anything else I should know about Selwyn before I meet him?" he asked, to change the subject. He'd already drunk the cocoa and eaten the biscuits, so he had nothing to occupy his hands with, and it was becoming increasingly awkward to sit on the couch opposite Riddle and just talk to him. Inappropriate.

Riddle, unlike Harry, seemed completely relaxed. He looked towards the fireplace where the wood was burning. The glow of the crackling fire illuminated his face.

"One of his ancestors invented Fiuu powder, which has made the Selwyns incredibly wealthy. Sebastian is the only son of the current head of the family. And he recently married, but fortunately not for love. If you're lucky, you might be able to avoid his wife."

With his luck? No way.

o.O.o

Harry had finally found his way to the balcony and, leaning his forearms against the intricately carved balustrade, he looked out over the sea of guests enjoying Malfoy's birthday party. Somehow, he had managed to slip away from Nott, Avery, and Rosier, who were now dancing with a group of young witches on the crowded dance floor. They weren't alone in their revelry; the band had struck up a lively tune, prompting more guests to join in. Even Harry found himself tapping his foot to the infectious rhythm, as if the melody itself were compelling him to do so.

At the other end of the ballroom, Riddle sat in an armchair, surrounded by his loyal followers, all engaged in lively conversation, their attention focused on the future Dark Lord. Even from a distance, it was clear that they were drawn to him like moths to a flame, ready to be burned to please him. Pre-Death Eaters, no doubt. Harry felt an instinctive dislike for them, though he recognized none of them except Abraxas Malfoy.

At one point, Riddle raised his head and looked directly at Harry, their eyes locking for a moment. The others followed his gaze as if they had just been talking about him. Harry forced himself to nod, keeping his composure and hiding any trace of surprise or intimidation.

Harry was watching with a neutral expression as Malfoy and Riddle rose from their seats almost simultaneously when his brief respite was interrupted. He jerked as another pair of forearms casually leaned against the balustrade next to him.

"Quite a view, isn't it?" came a soft, slightly slurred voice and the smell of alcohol filled the air. Harry turned to see a tall, dark-haired wizard with a mischievous smile and a glass of Firewhiskey in his hand. The man's dark brown curls fell freely around his neck, framing a handsome face with a straight nose and high cheekbones.

Harry shrugged, not really knowing how to answer. "Yeah, it's... something."

The wizard, about Riddle's age or a little older, seemed harmless and friendly at first glance. If he had shown up at Borgin and Burke's, Harry would have thought he had wandered there looking for something to impress his friends, not due to malicious intent. On the other hand, the fact that he was the first to speak to Harry made the teenager wary. No one who had spoken to him of their own accord this evening could be an innocent, random guest.

Another pre-Death Eater?

The man, hearing Harry's response, chuckled and took a sip from his glass. "Sebastian Selwyn," he introduced himself, holding out his hand with an exaggerated flourish. "Nice to meet you."

Harry shook it, trying to hide his disappointment. So, he was right.

"Har–"

"–ry Riddle, I know," the wizard finished, waving his free hand dismissively.

Harry's brows furrowed. One more time an unpleasant feeling of being gossiped about seized him.

"How do you know?"

Selwyn grinned shamelessly.

"You're the only person here I don't recognize. That makes you Tom's brother by default. Process of elimination, really."

Tom's. The name was spoken so simply, so freely. So naturally.

What about 'Voldemort'? What about 'my lord'?

Something of Harry's surprise must have been reflected on his face, as Selwyn seemed to interpret it in his own way. Unexpectedly, he put his arm around the teenager's shoulder. With his other hand, still holding the glass of Firewhiskey, he gestured towards the throng of guests below.

"What you see here today is nothing compared to the crowd that turned up for Septimus' birthday party last year, but he is, after all, the head of the Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy, and Brax is merely his heir. Oh, and the Order of Merlin, First Class, certainly played its part. But there are some interesting figures here too, and since I hear you're not from here, let me tell you a bit about them." Selwyn pulled Harry closer, and the teen was once again enveloped by the distinct scent of alcohol on the older wizard's breath. "Where to start... Oh, I know, look over there," he said. Harry's eyes involuntarily wandered in the direction indicated by the glass of golden liquid. "See that man in the dark red robes talking to those two witches? That's Nihel Petau, the French ambassador and the nephew of Brax's grandmother, Genevieve. A terrible bore, if you ask me. If he catches you, he'll talk your ear off. Even Clotilda, Brax's mother, the woman in the gold dress, cannot stand him. See the look on her face?" Sebastian chuckled slightly, then pointed his glass at a not-so-tall, stocky wizard in dark, plain robes who was standing near the entrance with a grim expression on his face. "And here we have Manfred Carrow, Chaser and former captain of our national Quidditch team. I'm surprised he has the guts to show himself in public after what he did to our team at the last Quidditch World Cup. I regret all the Galleons we spent with Brax on the opening match; I haven't seen anything more embarrassing in a long time. But he's Viola's brother, so his parents must have sent him to represent them tonight. Although he's not fit for that either..." Selwyn tsked, shaking his head in disgust.

Harry kept quiet, letting him speak, as he was already getting lost. His brain was still processing the information that some Malfoy had been awarded the Order of Merlin, and a first class one at that. What was wrong with this world?

"Oh, and look over there," Selwyn made a sudden movement, forcing Harry to turn the other way. The alcohol in the glass swayed, spilling out slightly. "It looks like Brax has finally gotten his way and snatched your brother for himself. And managed to present him to Rowle. He's the head of the Department of Magical Locations. He's the shorter one. The other, taller one, who is also talking to them, is Septimus, Brax's father."

Harry forced himself to look in the direction Selwyn indicated. Though the conversation was drowned out by the sound of the music and the general hustle and bustle, it was clear from the gestures and facial expressions that Riddle was in his element and had just wrapped another wizard around his finger.

Harry felt a knot in his stomach and involuntarily clenched his hands into fists. Riddle and Ministry officials were not a combination that boded well.

Selwyn fortunately missed his reaction, too busy picking out more familiar and influential faces from the crowd.

"And what are they doing here?" he asked himself, sounding genuinely puzzled.

He took a sip of Firewhisky, then pointed to the group standing at the food tables. The wizard, who looked a few years older than either Riddle or Selwyn, had his hand lightly on the back of a witch of about the same age. The two of them were talking to another witch who was clearly older than them. And while the women, despite their age difference, looked similar and radiated the same unforced elegance and ease, the man, though dressed appropriately for the occasion, seemed to be looking for an opportunity to sneak back home. Harry's eyes narrowed as he took a closer look at the wizard. There was something strangely familiar about him...

"Who is it?" Harry asked, wanting to hear the answer as much as he dreaded it. No, that would be impossible…

"Those younger ones are Charlus Potter and his wife Dorea. They're talking to Adele Avery, Brandon's mother. I hear you've already met Brandon, by the way."

Harry nodded reflexively. His ears buzzed and his heart began to beat faster. In the photo album Hagrid had given him, there was a picture of his father with his side of the family. Harry remembered that when he had taken the photo out of the album and turned it over, there were names written on the back. He knew them all by heart. Uncle Charlus and Aunt Dorea, second row from the right. Though they were definitely older in that photo, when Charlus Potter raised his head and looked around, as if sensing that someone was talking about him, Harry recognized one of his family members. A younger, living one.

Within reach.

"You've met Curtis and Everett as well," Selwyn added, bringing Harry back to the present.

"I've already had the pleasure," Harry replied.

Unfortunately, he added mentally, thinking only of how he could free himself from Selwyn's company and approach the Potters, if only for a moment. An unimaginable longing overwhelmed him.

Selwyn smiled broadly. "You will have to meet the rest of us, we're all looking forward to it."

"I'm waiting for that too," he pushed himself to say, trying to extricate himself from Selwyn's grasp, but for someone drunk, the man had quite a bit of strength.

"Brandon's sisters are probably around somewhere. Their father and Clotilda are cousins. Hmm... maybe they're dancing…"

Selwyn made another sharp movement, this time again towards the dance floor, and suddenly Harry felt all the wizard's verve evaporate almost instantly.

"Oh no. She. And she's with Primus," he groaned, disgust clear in his voice.

Harry, who had tried to turn away to keep his relatives in sight, glanced reluctantly at Selwyn, recognizing the name.

"There, that witch in the violet dress. Aspara Selwyn, née Shafiq. My beloved wife." He said the word 'beloved' in such a way that left no doubt about his true feelings for her.

Harry sighed and searched the dancing crowd for the woman in question. He was surprised to recognize the witch he had seen twice before, the same one who had probably been the only one to show resentment towards Riddle.

As she twirled around the dance floor in the arms of a haughty, handsome wizard, she looked much prettier and happier than when he had first met her.

Harry felt a little sorry for her. Probably Selwyn wasn't the only one unhappy with the marriage. But that was none of his business, he was no expert on matters of the heart — quite the opposite.

"But the less about her, the better," Selwyn said, finishing his Firewhiskey. He let go of Harry to reach for his wand and almost immediately summoned another glass from the tray floating among the guests below. He also dropped the empty one, which to Harry's surprise didn't fall on the heads of the dancers below, but instead flew silently away somewhere behind them.

"Still too sober," Selwyn muttered to himself, then took another massive gulp, emptying half the glass in one go.

Harry took the opportunity to look over at the Potters. They were still talking to Mrs Avery. Good.

Selwyn must have misinterpreted Harry's behaviour again, because he suddenly spoke up:

"Forgive me, I seem to have forgotten my manners. Would you like one?" He raised his glass so there was no doubt what he was asking. This time he sounded much more cheerful.

Harry shook his head, forcing himself not to stare at the Potters so obviously, as it would eventually seem suspicious to Selwyn.

"No, thanks."

Selwyn raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile playing at his lips.

"Let me guess, Tom doesn't want you to drink, does he?"

Harry flushed slightly but eventually nodded. Accepting that he would not soon be free of Selwyn's company, he glanced furtively at the Potters one last time. Just keep an eye on them and find an excuse to approach them, he thought. The whole night was still ahead of him. He had time.

"Yeah," he admitted, sighing slightly.

A mischievous smile again appeared on Selwyn's lips. "And you comply? I'm a little surprised, as I've heard that you have a knack for trouble."

Harry looked at him questioningly.

"I’ve heard about your stunt at the Leaky Cauldron," Selwyn added casually.

Although Selwyn's tone was merely amused, Harry could feel himself heating up at the mere mention of the incident. It wasn't because of the punishment he had received afterwards; rather, he wasn't a thief and didn't want others to perceive him that way. Yet it seemed this label was starting to stick to him more and more.

The irony of his degradation from Chosen One to thief was almost comical.

"Doing something like that to spite Tom, you have the nerve," Selwyn added lightly, still looking at him, the amused smile never leaving his face. Suddenly, though, seriousness crept into his eyes. "But be careful. When he gets angry, he can be..."

"Unpleasant, I know. I 've experienced it firsthand."

Harry mentally chided himself for the admission, but something about Selwyn's demeanor made him feel different than he did around the other Slytherins. Perhaps it was due to Selwyn's openness and directness?

After all, Selwyn was one of Riddle's Slytherins. He had probably been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse more than once. Or had he not? Harry had already noticed that Riddle had a strangely familiar relationship with his followers. But the gravity in Selwyn's eyes couldn't have come from nowhere.

Selwyn didn't respond, merely taking another sip of his Firewhisky.

"I've done far more foolish things in my life," Harry said, surprising himself. Since Riddle had decided to tarnish his reputation from the start, Harry realized he needed to manage his own public image. Besides, it would be unwise not to seize this innocent opportunity to test the magical restraint Riddle had placed on him a few weeks ago. Fortunately, the Potters were still engaged in conversation at the table, albeit with someone else.

Where to begin? His mind raced through memories: a troll, Mr. Weasley's car, Hagrid's Acromantulas, dementors, the Hungarian Horntail, the rescue mission at the Ministry of Magic, the cursed wardrobe...

Maybe with the troll?

"Once, when I was eleven years old and a friend of mine locked herself in one of the Ho..." He furrowed his brow. Suddenly he couldn't remember where Hermione had locked herself in. Or even who Hermione was. She was someone important, that much he knew. He shook his head, slightly annoyed. "Never mind."

Almost instantly, all the memories came flooding back. Harry realized what he had just experienced, and a shiver ran down his spine.

So that's how it worked.

Selwyn was still looking at him expectantly.

"Go on, don't be shy. If it's something Tom doesn't know, rest assured I won't tell him."

Harry tried to mask his true feelings with a fake smile.

"Maybe it's better not to share. I've only known you for ten minutes."

A hearty, rich laugh answered him.

"Oh, I almost had you, but I see Tom has prepared you well."

o.O.o

"Well, you’re right, Aleksandr can be intense,” Riddle said, his lips curling into a slight smile when he heard Harry's opinion on Dolohov. "Yes, that's a pretty good description," he added, as if in afterthought.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. The word "intense" hardly did justice to the unease he felt about Dolohov.

"What does he do for a living?"

"Officially or unofficially?"

"Is there a difference?" Harry asked.

"Officially, his family runs betting operations on Quidditch matches, broom races, and wizarding duels. Unofficially, they're one of three families that rule Britain's criminal underworld. Their advantage over the other two families lies in their Russian relatives involved in similar enterprises. Unfortunately for Aleksandr, he's the younger brother's son, so he won't inherit the family business. And he is... ambitious."

Harry raised his hand in a halting gesture.

"I don’t think I want to hear about it.”

Riddle shrugged, a gesture so ordinary it seemed unfitting for someone destined to become one of history's most powerful dark wizards in the future.

"As you prefer. You've already met him, anyway. Perhaps it'll soothe your Gryffindor heart to know that another one of my Slytherins is an Auror."

"Who?!"

Riddle grinned like a dragon eyeing a sheep grazing in a meadow. Bastard, he was doing it on purpose.

"Alastair Macnair is an Auror," he repeated calmly. "What’s more, he was in the same year at Hogwarts as Primus and Aleksandr.”

Great. A lawyer, a criminal, and an Auror sharing the same dormitory in the past. They were probably still helping each other and covering their backs.

Harry shook his head in distaste. How could someone supporting Tom simultaneously aspire to become an Auror? It defied logic.

"How did the three of them start supporting you?" he asked, genuine curiosity overriding his feigned disinterest. Anything related to the pre-Death Eaters shouldn't pique his interest, and yet it did.

It was logical that wizards sharing a dormitory with Riddle for seven years had fallen into his trap. He could even understand why Malfoy had started supporting and sponsoring him, but students four years older? Riddle was only in his third year when those trio were preparing for their final exams. Harry knew from experience how he approached younger students; the age difference between them was like a chasm. Perhaps it would be more understandable if Riddle came from an influential, pure-blood family. But he had come to Hogwarts as a boy from a Muggle orphanage, with a name that meant nothing to anyone.

"It was due to my personal charm.”

Harry looked at Riddle doubtfully.

"Primus is Secundus's brother, so I was in contact with him from the beginning," Riddle surprisingly decided to elaborate. "Alastair was captain of the school Quidditch team that Avery and Selwyn played on. And Aleksandr just needed to be impressed with the right magic."

"And as a third-year, you were already capable of showing it?"

Riddle's gaze turned sharp. "Do you have any doubts?”

Harry sighed, eager to change the subject. "Back to Macnair, is there anything else I should know about him before I meet him?"

"Oh, you won't meet him tomorrow," Riddle said casually. "He's still on the continent, finishing up helping to catch Grindelwald's followers. But he's supposed to be back in a few weeks at the latest."

"Will someone else from your pre... er, Slytherins not be present?" he asked resignedly.

He would really like to get this over with. Judging by the reactions of the pre-Death Eaters he had already met, his appearance would not go unnoticed. Obviously, he could not count on anonymity at any time. Either the Chosen One or the brother of a magical genius.

"Alphard Black, but that's because he's still studying at Hogwarts."

Harry's heart beat faster. Not just the surname sounded familiar...

o.O.o

"Your surname sounds familiar," Rowle said thoughtfully, looking at Tom closely. "Though I can't recall meeting another wizard who shares it."

A flicker of irritation crossed Riddle's eyes, though his expression remained one of polite indifference. He did not, however, deign to answer.

"Perhaps, dear uncle, it's because Tom received an award for special services to the school a few years ago," Abraxas interjected, overly eager to cast Tom in the best possible light.

Ever since Tom had hinted at properly punishing his brother for the incident at the Leaky Cauldron, Abraxas' mood had visibly improved. Of course, his Slytherins must have guessed that nothing but Crucio was out of the question for such a transgression.

"The Daily Prophet wrote about it for weeks," Abraxas added, noting Rowle's still-puzzled expression.

"Ah yes, it was in connection with the case of that poor girl who was murdered," Septimus Malfoy, Abraxas' father, chimed in unexpectedly. "What was her name..." he mused, idly swirling the Firewhiskey in his glass.

Despite his initial aloofness and condescension, Septimus Malfoy had taken a liking to Tom. Apparently, like his son, he saw potential in an orphan from nowhere and thought it would be advantageous to make him his protégé.

Tom inwardly recoiled at the thought, but he played along with the purebloods' expectations. The Malfoys' patronage occasionally proved useful, though not at present — he had no interest in the position of assistant to the Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Locations. If he were to change his path and enter the Ministry of Magic, it would be in a position that offered access to knowledge and opportunities for further development. In fact, he had already chosen a department — all he had to do was subtly steer his Slytherins towards it and make them think they were the ones helping him.

But first, he had to conclude his current objective - his gaze drifted to Alexander Dolohov, who had been lingering by the buffet for an unusually long time, as if awaiting something. Or someone.

Riddle smiled slightly.

"Wasn't that when Hogwarts was in danger of being shut down?" Rowle finally recalled. "I remember now... Poor girl... But I always thought that half-breeds shouldn't be allowed wands," he added with obvious disgust. "It's a good thing the culprit was caught."

"Tom deduced who was behind the attacks on the students and aided in catching the half-breed," Abraxas added, looking at Tom with calculated admiration.

Mr. Rowle raised his wine glass in a toast.

"In that case, we have you to thank for my daughter being able to continue her education."

Riddle nodded slightly, accepting the compliment. When he had released the basilisk from the Chamber of Secrets, he had been more curious about how much havoc the ancient creature would wreak, but the other benefits were not insignificant either. Apparently, he could still capitalize on the fame he'd garnered from the capture of the offender.

"I just did what every prefect should do. The wellbeing of the students and the school was my priority," he lied smoothly.

"As modest as ever," Abraxas sighed. "You've done what Dippet and Dumbledore couldn't do for an entire year. But it's hardly surprising. Uncle, you should know that Tom was the only student this decade to achieve the highest grades in both O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. Even Dumbledore didn't manage that feat. In the Dueling Exam, he disarmed the examiner in under seven minutes."

"Five," Riddle corrected, concealing a self-satisfied smile behind his glass. "Abraxas, I am flattered by your complimentary words. I hope you'll forgive me if I excuse myself for a moment. This way, you can continue your praise, and I won't risk blushing at the next compliment." Tom nodded in Rowle's direction. "It was a pleasure to meet you."

Rowle returned the gesture, though his nod was curt.

"Perhaps our paths will cross again," he said, glancing at the elder Malfoy with a hint of amusement. "Surely someone who has managed to impress your son must be no ordinary wizard."

"Believe me, he is not," Septimus replied enigmatically, eyeing Riddle intently.

Freed from the company of the Malfoys and Rowle, Tom approached the buffet table, stopping a few paces from Dolohov. Aleksandr, who had evidently been observing him closely, took the cue immediately and approached Tom a moment later with his characteristic grace.

As expected.

"Interesting conversation?" Aleksandr's low voice rang out beside Riddle as Dolohov leaned over the table and placed pickled herring on his plate.

"I've had more interesting ones," Tom replied, setting his empty glass on a levitating tray. With a subtle flick of his fingers, he summoned a plate and fork and, mirroring Dolohov's actions, helped himself to some sausage rolls.

"Well, let's hope this conversation will not disappoint you," Dolohov said, elegantly scooping the herring onto his fork and turning away from the table.

Riddle also turned away. Sensing the direction the conversation might take, he put his fork down on his plate and made a spare gesture with his right hand, casting a non-verbal, wandless anti-eavesdropping spell on them. He did it discreetly, but openly enough to ensure that Aleksandr would not fail to notice.

"Now we can talk freely."

Aleksandr arched his eyebrow, visibly impressed.

"I see you've expanded your repertoire. "Wandless and non-verbal. You continue to impress, Tom."

Tom took a small bite of sausage roll and, after swallowing it, said casually, "Practice makes perfect. And this is only a fraction of my capabilities."

He hadn't lied to Potter when he said that as far as Dolohov was concerned, all he had to do was impress him with the right kind of magic. Back at Hogwarts, it had been Parseltongue. These days... Well, they weren't children anymore, so the magic should be more advanced. And darker, of course.

That's why, before heading off to Eastern Europe, he had allowed Aleksandr to challenge him to a duel. Unlike his lengthy and playful duels with Sebastian, where he'd let the game stretch out and Selwyn try new tricks, Tom had taken Aleksandr down in under five minutes. When he returned from his trip, it took even less time — just three and a half minutes, and Aleksandr hadn't managed to throw a single curse. And instead of bitterness, when the older former Slytherin rose from his knees, there was only a look of recognition in Dolohov's eyes, an acknowledgement of Riddle's undeniable power.

It had been at that moment that Tom had known for certain that Aleksandr was his.

"Perhaps another demonstration is in order," Dolohov suggested, a hungry gleam in his eye.

Riddle looked at him briefly.

"Who knows, maybe as a reward, if your information satisfies me..."

Aleksandr straightened, his eyes sweeping over the crowd dancing in front of them.

"I think so. I have a name for you: Hepzibah Smith."

Tom's interest piqued, though he kept his expression neutral. The name was familiar — a regular at Borgin and Burke's. An old, slightly plump woman who was always trying to get on his good side. And even flirt.

"Go on," Tom prompted, his eyes drifting to the balcony where he could see Potter engaged in conversation with Sebastian.

"My family tried to free some of the items belonging to her collection." Dolohov continued in a low voice.

This immediately aroused Tom's alertness.

"Did they try to liberate this?"

Alexander shook his head slightly in denial.

"No, though I think they knew about it too. After all, it's no secret that Smith considers herself a descendant of Helga Hufflepuff. It was all about the music box."

Tom had heard of it, too, but over the centuries so many wizards and witches had claimed to be heirs to ancient lineages that it now drew only pitiful smiles.

In his case, however, this proved to be true. So would old Hepzibah Smith prove to be the key he needed so badly?

"A music box?"

"My mother insisted. It was said that it belonged the tsar's family."

That explained everything. Though Dolohov would never admit it openly, the rumours about his family clearly pointed to a connection with the Russian Tsars who had been murdered years ago.

"Did they succeed?"

"Unfortunately, no," Dolohov replied, a rare note of frustration colouring his tone. "Smith proved craftier than they anticipated. But that was when I was still at Hogwarts, so I don't know the details."

Tom's mind raced with possibilities. "Can you find out more?"

"I think so, although it will take some time. It's still a sensitive issue for my father. To this day there are rumours in my family about what might be in her collection."

Tom nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on Potter. The boy seemed distracted, his attention repeatedly drawn to something out of Tom's line of sight.

"If the rumors are true, then this information definitely deserves a reward," he finally said, slowly finishing the rest of his sausage roll.

Meanwhile, Aleksandr also finished his herring and followed Riddle's gaze.

"It looks like your brother is settling in well," he remarked in a seemingly casual way, though with a clear undertone.

Riddle, satisfied with what he had just learned, decided that this time he would indulge Dolohov's curiosity.

"How about joining them and disrupting their little tête-à-tête?" he suggested, hoping that from the balcony he could better see what had so captured his charge's attention.

"After you," Aleksandr replied with a slight bow, gesturing for Riddle to lead the way. A satisfied smile played across his thin lips.

As they made their way through the partying crowd, Tom's sharp eyes spotted a tray of sobering potions floating nearby. With a fluid motion, he picked up a vial and tucked it discreetly into his pocket. Dolohov, ever observant, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I want to have a word with Sebastian in private, so I would be grateful if you could look after my little wayward brother," he said to Dolohov as they climbed the stairs to the balcony.

Aleksandr smirked slyly.

"Oh, a private meeting? Have I pleased you that much?"

Tom reached the top of the stairs.

"When you've finished with him, you can hand him over to Primus and Secundus. They haven't met him yet," he added dismissively. "But take as much time as you need."

Aleksandr did not reply, but the satisfaction radiating from his magic was almost palpable.

Tom, meanwhile, had already turned his attention to Potter and Selwyn, who were still engaged in a lively conversation. Though to call it a conversation was an understatement; Sebastian dominated the exchange, gesticulating vigorously, while Potter listened, interjecting occasionally.

Riddle smiled inwardly. This was going perfectly according to his plan.

Wearing one of his friendly, innocent expressions, Tom walked imperceptibly towards the talking pair. Aleksandr followed like a shadow.

"Sebastian, I hope you're not trying to talk my little brother to death," he said lightly, joining their conversation. Potter jumped slightly, startled by his sudden arrival, while a broad grin appeared on Sebastian's face. He made a clumsy gesture with the empty glass in his hand, inviting them to come closer.

"We were discussing Quidditch," Sebastian replied in a voice that suggested he was already far from sober. Tom suppressed a flicker of annoyance; that was something he would deal with in a moment. "We were exchanging experiences. Did you know that your brother played as Seeker at school?"

"Yes, he mentioned it," Tom replied curtly, looking at Potter intently. Somehow the boy managed to keep an innocent expression on his face. It looked as if he was beginning to learn.

"Harry was just telling me how the Whomping Willow destroyed his broom when he fell off during a match. His teammates were more concerned with saving his life than the equipment," Sebastian continued, clearly amused. "I didn't know they had such aggressive trees in Ireland," he chuckled.

"And Sebastian, in turn, shared some of his exploits on the Slytherin team," Potter added, a hint of genuine amusement in his voice.

Sebastian? That's interesting. He really hadn't suspected it would turn out to be so simple.

"Just don't tell me you told him how you charmed the Bludgers before the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff match," Aleksandr said in his deep, vibrant voice.

A wide, mischievous smile answered him. Dolohov sighed.

"Tom, I hope you'll agree that your brother could benefit from some more sensible company after what he's obviously been exposed to by Sebastian. I wouldn't want him to think that we're all like him. I volunteer, of course."

Tom had been waiting for this.

"I don't mind," he said, silencing Potter with his eyes, as the latter already had an objection on the tip of his tongue. Potter looked up at him reproachfully from under a fringe of his black hair, which could clearly use a refreshing of the combing spell.

"Harry, how about a walk in the gardens? Judging by the concentration of alcohol around us, I think we could both use some fresh air," Dolohov suggested. Potter sighed with evident reluctance, glanced once more at Tom as if deluding himself that he would be spared this, then nodded resignedly, pulling away from the balustrade

"We'll join you later," Tom assured him, knowing full well that this would be of no comfort to the boy.

As Harry and Dolohov disappeared down the stairs, Tom turned his full attention to Sebastian.  Selwyn swayed slightly, his usual composure beginning to crumble under the influence of alcohol.

"I see you weren't joking when you said you wanted to get drunk," Riddle remarked sourly, reaching into his pocket. "Unfortunately for you, I want to talk."

Sebastian grimaced ostentatiously when he saw what Tom was holding.

"Do you know how much time and whiskey it took me to get to this point?"

"I have my suspicions," Riddle replied, handing Selwyn a vial of the potion. Sebastian took it and held it between his fingers as if it were poison. Tom, leaning his forearms against the railing, tilted his head and looked at him intently.

"You're a cruel man, Tom Riddle. Absolutely beastly. You know that, don't you?"

"Drink it," Riddle commanded firmly. The change in his demeanour was immediate and striking — he was no longer a polite guest trying to make a good impression, but a wizard accustomed to having others obey his commands.

Sebastian sighed and, looking at the bottle with obvious disgust, uncorked it and drained the contents in one gulp.

Hiding a satisfied smirk, Riddle remembered he wanted to check what had attracted Potter's attention earlier. He glanced in the direction the boy's gaze had fled, just in time to see Charlus Potter and his wife Dorea, née Black, saying goodbye to Abraxas and heading for the entrance.

Riddle furrowed his brow.

The Potters? Why had Abraxas invited them?

Meanwhile, Sebastian, standing next to Tom, shuddered as the potion took effect. When Riddle looked at him again, the flush had faded from his cheeks and his eyes were clearer and more focused.

"There," Sebastian said, his voice noticeably gloomier. "Happy now? I hope whatever you have to say is worth sacrificing what promised to be a thoroughly enjoyable evening of indulgence and forgetting my harsh fate."

Tom's lips curved into a small smile. "Oh, I assure you, Sebastian, what I have to propose is far more intriguing than any fleeting pleasures this party might offer. You might even manage to forget that you have a wife."

Sebastian straightened his robes, curiosity replacing his earlier whining, though Tom noted the slight tightening of his jaw at the mention of Aspara. "Well, don't keep me in suspense. What grand scheme have you cooked up this time?"

Tom moved closer to Sebastian, his voice dropping to a barely audible whisper. "I have recently come into possession of a most... unusual magical artifact. A map, to be exact. I would like to duplicate it. I could do it myself, of course, but I thought of you. I think it could be a unique experience, as it's a very unusual map."

Sebastian's eyes widened in interest. "Go on."

Riddle slipped his wand out of his sleeve and discreetly cast an anti-eavesdropping spell for the third time that evening.

o.O.o

That evening was a complete catastrophe.

It wasn't that they hadn't made it to the gardens at all, because Sebastian's wife had changed her dancing partner and Primus Lestrange had bumped into them on the way out. Nor was it that the Potters had left before Harry could say a word to them. It wasn't even the fact that when Malfoy's summoned house-elf (who, to Harry's astonishment, turned out to be a very, very young Dobby) had offered Harry a glass of pumpkin juice and Harry, out of habit, had thanked him, drawing reproachful looks from everyone around him.

This disaster was about something else entirely.

Harry looked around at the wizards surrounding him, sprawled elegantly on sofas and armchairs, and his stomach clenched with fear as he grasped the gravity of the situation. These weren't just Slytherin students anymore; these were young, ambitious wizards with connections in every corner of magical Britain. The foundation upon which Voldemort's future empire would be built.

Abraxas Malfoy, with his aristocratic charm and his family's political clout, could open doors in the Ministry that would otherwise remain firmly shut. Selwyn, though outwardly charming and carefree, had both the wealth and the social influence to aid Malfoy in his machinations, and the fact that they were supposedly friends did not help. The Lestrange brothers, cool-headed lawyers, had the knowledge and ability to manipulate the law to their advantage. Alexander Dolohov's criminal connections provided a network of underground resources and information. Curtis Nott's position at the Daily Prophet allowed him to control the narrative in the most influential newspaper in the British wizarding world. Brandon Avery, a trained healer, offered valuable medical expertise and access to St Mungo's. Even for Everett Rosier, whose connections extended beyond the borders of magical Britain, Riddle was likely to find a use. Not to mention the absent Alastair Macnair, the Auror currently battling Grindelwald's followers.

Harry realised, with a sinking feeling, that Tom Riddle was weaving an intricate web of power and influence that touched every significant aspect of wizarding society. With these men at his side, Tom Riddle had eyes and ears everywhere, from the highest offices of the Ministry to the shadowy corners of Knockturn Alley. It was a stark contrast to the ragtag group of Death Eaters Harry had encountered in his own time. These weren't desperate, outcast dark wizards rallying behind a resurrected Dark Lord. No, these were the cream of pureblood society, young, ambitious and at the start of promising careers. With a shudder, Harry realised that by the time the wizarding world understood the threat Tom Riddle posed, it might be too late. The foundations of his power were being laid right here, right now, in this very room, and Harry was witnessing it all, helpless to intervene.

And just as he was losing himself in his gloomy thoughts, a snippet of conversation in which Malfoy and his beliefs played a central role reached his ears.

"...therefore the problem with our society," Malfoy continued, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal glass, "is that we've become far too lenient with Modbloods. They're intruding into our world, diluting our traditions, and weakening the magic that flows in our veins."

Primus Lestrange nodded in agreement, his handsome face taking on a serious expression. "I couldn't agree more, Abraxas. I was once confronted with a case where a Modblood witch demanded equal treatment in a field traditionally dominated by purebloods. Such audacity!"

"Imagine something worse," Nott interjected with genuine concern. "Recently, some deranged Modblood started flooding our newsroom with howlers because we wouldn't print his petition to abolish the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. He claims that not being able to share his secret with his friends is a restriction of his civil liberties."

"The Modbloods are getting more and more outrageous," Avery concluded. "Not long ago, my mother had to explain to one of them, who was demanding that we help her Muggle brother injured in their stupid war, why magic cannot be used to heal non-magical people. She threatened to sue us!"

"Such insolence," Rosier said, shaking his head in disgust.

"Brother, do you recall that case where a Modblood wanted us to sue our Ministry of Magic on his behalf because they wouldn't let him put protective spells on houses belonging to Muggle members of his family during the war?" the younger Lestrange, Secundus, asked rhetorically, his voice promising a story that would cause widespread outrage. "Imagine that, he had the nerve to come into our law office, throw a pouch of Galleons on our desk, and tell us to take care of it. On top of that, he chose us because he heard we were the best."

"Oh, I hadn't heard about that. How did it end?" asked Selwyn.

Primus Lestrange took a sip of Firewhiskey before answering.

"We reported the illegal use of magic in the presence of Muggles to the Aurors, as it turned out that he had already cast protective spells regardless."

Harry felt his blood boil with indignation. But he managed to hold his tongue. It doesn't make sense to speak up now, he said to himself.

Then Aleksandr Dolohov entered the conversation.

"You know, if they're so bossy and have the audacity to impose their demands on our world, to change our laws, especially those regarding magic in a Muggle presence, perhaps we should consider a more... proactive approach," Dolohov suggested, his deep voice carrying a menacing undertone. "After all, if they're so inferior, why let them into our world in the first place?" he finished, looking meaningfully in Riddle's direction.

Unable to hold back any longer, Harry burst out, his voice cutting through the murmur of agreement. "That's absolute rubbish!"

All eyes turned to him, a mixture of surprise and indignation on their faces. Tom Riddle's gaze was particularly piercing, a warning glint in his grey eyes.

Having had an earlier conversation with Selwyn, Harry already had some ideas how to speak to get around the restrictions of the Thought Warding Curse, so he continued undaunted: "I learned in Ireland with a Muggle-born witch who is the most brilliant, capable magical person I've ever met. Her background has nothing to do with her abilities or her right to be a part of our world. What's more, she perfectly understands the laws governing the magical world and would never, ever put anyone in danger of exposure."

A heavy silence fell over the corner where they sat. Dolohov's face contorted in disgust, while Primus Lestrange's eyes narrowed dangerously. Sebastian Selwyn, though looking more amused than offended, also looked at Harry intently, with an unexpectedly thoughtful and sober expression.

It was Riddle who broke the silence, his voice dripping with mock disappointment.

"Congratulations. You have just ruined any good impression you may have made on my Slytherins tonight in ten seconds. I must admit, I'm impressed, I didn't expect such stupidity even from you."

"I don't give a damn," he retorted angrily. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to this bigoted nonsense."

It was only after the words left his mouth that Harry realized what had happened. Though it had seemed utterly impossible a moment earlier, the stunned expressions on the faces of the pre-Death Eaters only grew, their eyes darting back and forth between Harry and Riddle as they processed what they had just witnessed.

Harry had said the last sentence in Parseltongue.

Riddle's lips curled into a barely imperceptible smirk.

"Don't thank me, little brother. But don't waste a second chance, because you can't count on a third." And then, switching smoothly to English, he spoke directly to Malfoy, "Abraxas, are you sure there was no alcohol in that drink your house elf gave my brother?"

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

Tightrope walks

Harry stifled another yawn and blinked repeatedly, trying to focus on the text in front of him. He sat leaning against the headboard of his bed, Charms for Intermediates in his lap. He tried his best, but the words of the second chapter blended into an incomprehensible pulp that stubbornly refused to make any sense in his mind. The soft, flickering candlelight from the chandelier above his head only added to his sleepiness.

He had secretly hoped that their late return from Malfoy's party — practically at dawn — would earn him a day off. But for Tom Riddle, exhaustion from lack of sleep was apparently no excuse for cancelling the study session. Harry's day, which began with the loud crack of Bug's Apparition announcing breakfast, was spent mastering curse detection and removal, as well as practicing Charms. As if that wasn't enough, Riddle had ordered Harry to read the first three chapters of the book on spells by Monday. Harry knew Riddle well enough by now to understand that 'read' in his dictionary was synonymous with 'learn by heart'.

Harry really couldn't wait for Monday's morning quiz. He felt like he was preparing for O.W.L.s again.

He sighed, rubbed his tired eyes, and faced that boring paragraph for the third time. Once again, he lost focus, his thoughts involuntarily drifting back to the spacious, lavishly decorated ballroom at Malfoy Manor. Harry could still feel the weight of the outraged, disgusted stares of the pre-Death Eaters when, unable to tolerate any more of their nonsense, he had his little outburst.

Then Riddle's intervention had come — Harry still didn't know why the older boy had done it, and the fear of becoming entangled in a more complicated scheme had made his hair stand on end — and the outrage had been replaced by palpable shock.

There had been barely concealed resentment in Abraxas Malfoy's narrowed eyes, as if it had just dawned on him that Harry was in fact Riddle's brother, and he was not pleased about it. A deep frown had appeared on Primus Lestrange's forehead, his expression thoughtful as he had swept his gaze from Riddle to Harry and back again. Sebastian Selwyn, after a moment of complete bewilderment, had smiled broadly and shaken his head as if the whole situation amused him. Aleksandr Dolohov had stared at Harry intensely, as if seeing him anew. The faces of Brandon Avery and Curtis Nott had shown an almost comical dismay. Secundus Lestrange had maintained better control of his expression but had been betrayed by a firm grip on the armrest of the armchair. Everett Rosier, who had been by then as friendly towards Harry as Sebastian Selwyn, had moved away slightly, his chair scraping, a flicker of fear passing over his face. He had avoided even looking in Harry's direction for the rest of the party and had not exchanged another word with him.

Riddle, meanwhile, had remained sprawled comfortably in his chair, radiating an almost indecent satisfaction.

Harry shook his head vigorously, trying to rid himself of the memory. He turned his eyes back to the book, but the words seemed to blend.

"The quintessence of Charm-casting is predicated upon the delicate equilibrium between the triad of intent, incantation, and wand movement. This tripartite foundation constitutes the crux of all Charm casting, with each element serving to buttress and amplify the others in a complex display of magical forces. The caster's intent functions as the primordial magical impetus, while the incantation acts as..."

Harry sighed heavily, trying to process the information. And then he read the paragraph again. And again. The fourth time he finally understood. So many complicated words to convey that casting spells was a combination of intention, incantation and wand movement. It was fortunate that the textbooks of his time were written in more straightforward language.

That one innocent thought about his times was enough to make his mind go astray again. And in a direction even less desirable than a moment ago.

What if, by being introduced to the pre-Death Eaters, he had altered the course of history forever? Until now, his presence in the past had been limited to staying in Riddle's flat and working in the shop, and the only people who knew of his existence were Borgin and Burke and the customers to whom he was an anonymous salesman. So far Riddle required him to do nothing but study; working in the shop was just an excuse to keep an eye on him. What if Riddle was now forcing him into more frequent contact with his followers? What if he fulfilled his chilling promise and really did start to change his destiny? After all, Harry had seen him talking to the others. These didn't seem like innocent conversations, but rather plotting and scheming.

What if these changes caused someone to die too soon, or prevented someone from being born? What if it affected Ron and Hermione? Or even himself?

Suddenly, Harry's breath came in short, sharp gasps. The room spun around him, his heart pounding against his ribs as if trying to break free, his grip on the book tightening.

Oh, no, no, no. Not again. Not now.

Desperately trying to cling to something to distract his mind, he unexpectedly thought of the Dursleys.  A memory flashed through his mind — a flickering television screen, seen through the crack of a door. The Dursleys' living room, with its floral wallpaper and almost clinical tidiness. Dudley and Piers, shoving handfuls of popcorn into their mouths and sipping beer, stolen from one of their fathers, with obvious nervousness. On the screen, a young man frantically checked his hand as it began to fade. Harry couldn't recall the film's title, having missed the beginning, but he remembered the plot — a teenager, like himself, transported back in time. And when his actions began to cause too much change, he started to disappear.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, then another. He closed his eyes, focusing on the sensation of air filling his lungs, then leaving them. In, out. In, out. The panic began to recede, like waves pulling back from the shore. Slowly, steadily, his heartbeat normalized.

Harry opened his eyes and looked at his hands.

He turned them over slowly, examining them carefully. He clenched them into fists a few times, digging his nails into the sensitive flesh, then stretched them out.

They were solid. Real. Undeniably there.

And then, completely unexpectedly, he burst into loud, uncontrollable laughter. It must have been really bad for him if the Muggle film Dudley had secretly watched was now Harry's reference point.

The grim truth, however, was that he had no idea about time travel and its implications. Even after he, Ron and Hermione had gone back in time to save Sirius, he had never thought about the deeper implications of what they had done. Dumbledore had let them do it, and that was enough for Harry to believe it was safe.

Only then it had been three hours, not forty-nine years.

His breathing began to quicken again.

Stop, Harry commanded himself. This kind of brooding would lead nowhere.

He needed to concentrate on the here and now. On the fact, for example, that there was an already empty bottle of sleeping potion on his bedside table, and that he was about to face his first night in many weeks without its soothing power. Although, he reflected wryly, it hadn't exactly had a calming effect on him.

Something else, then.

Something like a black diary, written in French and containing a reference to the Horcruxes, which he stuffed under a bookcase so that no one but him would find it.

Something like figuring out how to convince Riddle to stop making him repeat Hogwarts material and start teaching him more useful things. Since Riddle was so eager to teach him new things, why not use him to learn something that might help Harry in the future? Like duelling.

Yes, that was better.

Getting the diary was still out of his hands for the time being; he would have to wait until Monday for that.

However, the conversation with Riddle...

But for that, he would need Riddle to be in a good mood. So, with a resigned sigh, he returned to his reading.

o.O.o

The emerald flames in the ornate fireplace of Samphire Manor flickered and roared, suddenly spitting out a tall, dark-haired figure. Tom Riddle stepped onto the polished oak floor of the entrance hall, brushing a speck of ash from his immaculate robes.

The opulent surroundings in which he found himself immediately suggested a woman's hand. The walls were covered in pastel wallpaper with delicate floral patterns, vases overflowed with fresh bouquets and airy curtains fell softly to the wooden floor. Samphire Manor was the dowry of Aspara, née Shafiq, and it was evident that she had made sure that at least the surroundings were to her taste.

A house-elf, dressed in a pristine white cloth emblazoned with the intertwined crests of Selwyn and Shafiq, bowed so low that its long, pointed nose almost touched the floor. "Welcome to Samphire Manor, Mr. Riddle, sir. Master Sebastian sends his deepest apologies, but he is currently engaged in conversation with the mistress. Daffodille will show you to the library."

Riddle's eyebrows lifted slightly as his perceptive eyes spotted the subtle signs of the mentioned 'conversation' that disturbed the otherwise perfect surroundings. A delicate porcelain figurine lay shattered not far from the staircase. It seemed that the argument had started here. "I see."

The house-elf followed his gaze, flushing slightly as it saw the remnants of its lady's explosive temper. With a snap of its fingers, the figurine's remains vanished.

"Please follow me, sir."

As they walked, raised voices echoed across the distant room — the woman's vehement accusations punctuated by the man's angry replies. At one point, a loud bang resonated through the hall; the house-elf flinched. A moment of silence followed, only for the argument to resume with renewed vigour.

Tom suppressed a smirk. Aspara truly possessed a fiery character, but what else could you expect from a witch whose mother was from the Highlands?

"Master will join you shortly, sir," the house elf squeaked as the high double doors swung open silently before them and they finally reached the library. The elf then disappeared with a soft crack.

While not as grand as the one in the Selwyn family's main residence, Samphire Manor's library was impressive in its own right. In this vast room, with shelves lining all three walls, dark leather armchairs and a massive wooden table in the centre, over which hung an elaborate chandelier, the magic of the family collection lingered in the air. Riddle felt a pleasant tingling at the back of his neck — regrettably, his private library was still too small to evoke a similar effect.

Suspecting that Sebastian would be occupied for some time with his domestic issues, Riddle decided to indulge his curiosity. He approached one of the bookcases, his long fingers trailing lightly over the spines of the books. Their titles seemed innocently at first glance — mostly household spells, some works on runes and numerology, even a few romance novels that presumably belonged to the lady of the house. But Riddle knew better. The tingling in his fingertips intensified, confirming his suspicions.

With a subtle flick of his wand and a non-verbal incantation, Tom dispelled the illusion charm protecting one of the bookcases. The air shimmered, and the true nature of Sebastian's collection revealed itself. Gone were the mundane titles, replaced by works that would make even the most liberal-minded wizard raise an eyebrow.

Secrets of the Darkest of the Art, Magick Moste Evile, Forbidden Runes of the Ancients — these were just a few of the titles that now adorned the shelves. Tome's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. Finally, something interesting.

One title in particular caught Riddle's eye: Blood rituals: how to enhance the power. With practiced ease, he slid the book from its place, then opened it. His grey eyes gleamed with interest. He had encountered magical rituals on his journey, but he knew he had barely scratched the surface.

The yellowish pages were filled with dense text, complex diagrams, and annotations in a spidery handwriting he didn't recognize as Sebastian's. Riddle skimmed through a few pages, his attention caught by an intricate sketch of a runic circle needed for one of the described rituals. He was so engrossed that he almost didn't hear the door open. Almost.

With unhurried grace, Tom slid the book back into its place and turned slowly towards the door.

"I see you found my little collection," Sebastian said with a hint of teasing rebuke in his tone, although devoid of any real anger. "I should have known that leaving you alone in my library wasn't a good idea."

Tom shrugged, feeling no remorse. "You could at least have secured it differently than your father did with his." He reached for another, less suspicious, though far from innocent, position. "I'll borrow this one."

Selwyn tilted his head at the title embossed on the cover. "Don't tell me you suddenly felt the need to brush up on the basics," he teased, but a second later understanding came. "Oh, you're not borrowing it for yourself."

"What kind of elder brother would I be if I didn't take proper care of his education?" Riddle replied smoothly, tucking the book into an enchanted leather pouch he produced from his robes. "And speaking of family matters, what was the fuss about this time?" he asked, deciding there was no point in pretending he hadn't heard Sebastian's 'conversation' with his wife.

He wasn't particularly interested, but he knew that people liked to complain — and if they could do it in front of someone, they felt more connected to that person.

Sebastian sighed, running his hand through his already tousled hair. The wrinkles in his robes began to smooth themselves out, thanks to cleverly woven charms, but it was clear from the weariness on his face that the argument had been violent. As always.

"Turns out we've been invited to my in-laws' today," he said with a wryly smile.

"You could have said. I would have come on Monday."

"If I'd known earlier than an hour ago, I certainly would have," came the tartly replied. "And to think I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this woman..."

Riddle's gaze flicked meaningfully towards the hidden bookshelf.

Sebastian burst into laughter. "I'm not quite that desperate. Yet." Then, as if shaking off his sombre mood, he clapped his hands together with renewed vigour. "But enough about her. She's Floo'd off to her parents' alone, which means I have the whole day free of her particular charms. And if memory serves me right, which it probably does, because you made me sober up, you mentioned at Brax's party that you had a certain interesting map. Shall we get to it?"

Riddle nodded and walked over to the large table in the centre of the library. From the leather pouch in which he had placed the book moments ago, he pulled out the map. He spread it out on the table, his deft, pale fingers smoothing the corners.

Sebastian slipped his hands into his pockets and casually approached the table. He looked at the map from above, then closed his eyes and took a deeper breath, quite as if he was smelling the magic it was imbued with.

"The magic literally oozes out of it. I suppose it needs to be activated?"

Tom nodded. He drew his wand with fluid grace, tapping the parchment lightly. "I solemnly swear that I am up to no good."

Sebastian chuckled at that. "Someone had a nice sense of humour."

His amusement quickly turned to genuine amazement as the map's magic took effect. Riddle hoped his own expression had been more restrained when Potter had activated it for the first time in front of him.

"By Merlin's beard," Sebastian breathed, leaning closer. The bright daylight streaming in through the library's high windows illuminated his face. His dark eyebrows drew together in concentration and his usually mischievous brown eyes widened in surprise. "What is this and who made it?" Sebastian's fingers hovered over the parchment, not touching it, as if afraid it would all disappear at his touch.

Tom watched his reaction with carefully concealed satisfaction. He had known the map would impress his old schoolmate, but the sheer awe on Sebastian's face exceeded even his expectations. It was moments like these that reminded Tom why he kept Selwyn around — the man's enthusiasm for playing and experimenting with magic was second only to his own.

"This, dear Sebastian, is the Marauder's Map. An enchanted piece of parchment that is not only an extremely accurate map of Hogwarts that even shows secret passages, but also the current position of every being in the castle. Quite impressive, don't you think?"

Almost an extremely accurate map, Tom corrected himself mentally. It didn't show at least two secret rooms: The Chamber of Secrets and the Room of Requirement. Rather unfortunate, especially in the case of the latter, but he already had an idea of how to remedy that.

Sebastian let out a low whistle, the sound echoing softly in the large, book-lined room.

"Understatement of the century, Tom. This is... well, it's bloody brilliant. Whoever created it was a magic genius." He straightened up, running a hand through his unruly dark curls. His eyes, when they met Tom's, were bright with excitement. "I've never seen anything like this before. The magic involved must be... extraordinary. Not to mention the spellwork." Sebastian paused, then asked with evident hesitation: "Where did you get this?"

Tom, naturally, had no intention of revealing the map's true origin so he slipped into the lie he had prepared.

"It was brought into the shop by a wizard clearing out his grandfather's estate," Tom explained, his voice smooth and convincing. "Borgin, the old fool, couldn't see its value. So I bought it from him for myself." He allowed a small, self-deprecating smile to cross his lips. "It took me a while to discover how to activate it, but eventually it revealed its secrets to me."

Sebastian nodded, seemingly satisfied with the explanation. He turned his attention back to the map, his fingers now tracing specific paths across the parchment. Tom recognized the route to the Slytherin common room — Sebastian must be searching for Tertius or Alphard.

"Merlin," Sebastian murmured, a note of wistfulness in his voice. "Imagine if we'd had this map during our Hogwarts days. The possibilities would have been endless. We could have ruled the school from the shadows."

Riddle couldn't help the smirk that tugged at his lips. "We ruled it anyway," he said, merely a statement of the fact. Then, steering the conversation back to his purpose, he added, "We can't change the past, but we can at least take a closer look at the magic used to create it."

As he spoke, his thoughts drifted to Potter, the unwilling time traveller currently under his control. If the boy had any sense at all, he would be diligently studying the charms book Tom had assigned him.

Sebastian straightened up, his keen eyes studying Tom's face. "And that's why you want to duplicate it?"

Tom allowed a sly smile to spread across his handsome features. "Not only, but that's one of the reasons."

Understanding dawned in Sebastian's eyes, and his lips curled into a broad, knowing smile. He shook his head, chuckling softly. "Poor Harry. You don't trust him, do you?"

"I know him well enough to know that he has an extraordinary talent for getting into trouble. It's better to keep an eye on him. And the original is too valuable, so Tertius and Alphard will get a copy."

Sebastian tilted his head, curiosity mixed with carefully masked jealousy in his voice. "Are you going to let them keep it?"

"If they satisfy me," Tom replied evenly. He hadn't considered it yet, but he thought that this kind of reward would be suitable motivation for young Tertius and Alphard. They still had more than a year of learning ahead of them and would certainly find a proper use for the map.

Sebastian nodded; his expression suddenly businesslike. He straightened his posture and pulled his wand from his sleeve with a practiced motion. "Then I understand the copy has to be accurate?"

"One to one," Tom confirmed, reaching into his leather pouch again. "I want to replicate not only its appearance, but all of its magical properties."

"Have you tried to decipher any spells that have been cast on it?" Sebastian asked, his wand now hovering over the map, ready to begin work.

"Yes, but I haven't spent much time on it. I've identified some key enchantments," he admitted. He placed a bundle of his notes on the table for Selwyn to go over later. "You've got it all written down here. There's a complex variation of the Homonculus Charm for tracking individuals, a series of Unplottable Charms that reverse to reveal hidden areas, and some intriguing spells that I've never seen before. I think they were created by the map's authors."

Sebastian's eyes lit up at the challenge presented before him. "You were right," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "It will be a fascinating project."

o.O.o

Riddle's slender fingers played idly with a captured pawn, the smooth black piece a stark contrast against his pale skin. His lips curved into what could almost have been taken for a sincere smile, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across his face. His characteristically icy grey eyes held an unusual glimmer of... was it joy? Excitement? The unexpected change in Riddle's demeanour threw Harry off balance, almost causing him to forget the strategy he'd been working on for the past few moves.

"Check," he said, moving his knight with genuine satisfaction. Finally.

"Clever move, Harry," Riddle praised, while easily manoeuvring his king out of danger. "You're improving."

Harry snorted and leaned back in his armchair. "Yes, well, when you force someone to play chess every night, they're bound to pick up a thing or two."

And yet, despite his sarcastic tone, Harry felt an unwelcome flicker of pride at Riddle's words. He squashed it immediately, disturbed by his own reaction.

"Interesting," Riddle mused, his eyes glinting. "I'll have to remember that forced repetition works so well on you. Could be useful."

And just like that, any warmth Harry had felt vanished faster than a snitch at the start of a Quiddtich match.

"Only for chess," he clarified quickly, his voice sharp.

Riddle's gaze slid meaningfully from the board to the small graveyard of white pieces accumulating on his side. "Perhaps not so effective," he corrected himself, moving his rook dangerously close to Harry's queen.

Harry immediately decided it would be wise to escape with it.

"Give me time," Harry retorted, surprising himself with the almost playful edge in his words. After two months of captivity, these evening matches had become... well, not enjoyable, exactly, but certainly less fraught than their daytime interactions.

"As much as you wish," Riddle replied lightly. As he contemplated his next move, Harry studied him. The older boy was practically radiating satisfaction, like a cat that had gotten into the cream. Was it related to his disappearing for most of the day? What had he done to improve his mood so much?

It was unsettling but Harry wasn't going to stoop to asking questions. That would mean admitting he cared enough to notice such things. So for the next few moments, they played in silence, disrupted only by the occasional pop and crackle from the fireplace and the soft click of chess pieces on the board.

It was Riddle who eventually broke the silence.

"Have you read the first three chapters of Charms for Intermediates?"

Harry, busy plotting the rescue of his imperilled knight, sighed in annoyance at the interruption.

"Yes, I've read it. But it could have been written in less complex language. Some parts I had to read four times before I understood what they were about," he complained. By the time he had made notes later, he had gone so far as to ask Bug to bring him coffee — something he still usually tried to avoid. "Books in my time manage to explain things without giving you a headache. And in simpler words."

Riddle's eyebrow arched elegantly. "Perhaps you should finally get used to it. Or next time, I suggest you write down all the words you don't understand on a separate list. I'd be more than happy to explain their meaning to you."

Harry shot Riddle a murderous glare, recognising in the suggestion an order thinly disguised as helpful advice. Great, more work. In a small, spontaneous act of defiance, he used his knight to knock over one of Riddle's pawns with unnecessary force.

"Oops," Harry said, not sounding sorry at all, as the beaten pawn rolled with a click across the chessboard, almost knocking down another, also belonging to the older boy.

Riddle's eyes narrowed slightly, but his good mood seemed unshakeable. He made his move, capturing Harry's knight, and said, "By the way, there's a book waiting for you on your desk in the library. I expect you to read it by the end of the week. Without complaint."

"Let me guess. Something about Potions or Herbology?"

Since they had covered Transmutation and Charms, it seemed a logical assumption. But why Riddle had made him repeat material from Hogwarts, Harry still had no idea.

"Something a bit more... challenging this time. A book on the basics of curse casting."

Harry's hand froze over his rook, the capture of which he'd been delaying as long as possible. He knew his loss was only a matter of a few moves now.

"Curse casting?" he repeated dully, glancing briefly at Riddle.

"Yes," Riddle confirmed calmly, a note of warning in his tone. The earlier amusement had vanished from his gaze. "And as I said, no complaining."

Harry's heart seemed to stop. He was about to protest vehemently when a treacherous thought crossed his mind. What if he could use this to his advantage?

His pulse quickened as he lowered his eyes, pretending to contemplate the board while his mind raced. He knew learning dark magic was inevitable; Riddle had been very clear about this during their negotiations, and everything he had done since then proved that he was not joking. He hadn't pushed Harry too hard yet, and Harry had spent enough time with him to know that he would if he wanted to. So, it was just a matter of time and Riddle finding the right... motivation. And his methods of encouragement could be painfully effective, as he'd shown when teaching Harry to remove curses.

But it was a line that Harry wasn't going to cross. Or so he thought, until he had gone back in time.

Besides, for now it was just a matter of reading the book. He would worry about practice when Riddle started demanding it of him. Maybe by then he would have found a way to get back to his time?

"Actually," Harry began, moving his rook to a more defensive position, "May I have a proposition for you?" He paused, steeling himself. He lifted his gaze, looking directly into the grey irises. He could do it. "I'll read the book by Friday but in exchange, you will have a practice duel with me on Saturday."

A predatory interest immediately appeared in Riddle's eyes.

"Well, well, well… This is unexpected," he said slowly, looking at Harry closely. He made his next move, taking another of Harry's pawns off the board. But he didn't put it down; he twirled the captured pawn between his long fingers.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. He knew this was a bad idea. But if he had said A…

"And I won't complain," he added.

Riddle tilted his head. The pawn froze.

"And now it's getting even more interesting." He made a gesture with his hand, as if to encourage Harry to continue. "Pray tell me, Harry, why should I agree to this when I can just make you do anything I want?"

Harry took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady.

"Look, I'm well aware of your... capabilities," Harry began, then paused, gathering his thoughts before continuing, "But you said before our first negotiations that you would prefer me to cooperate with you willingly. You also promised to take care of my education, didn't you?" His eyes met Riddle's, a hint of challenge in them. "Focusing on one area of magic while completely ignoring others could be considered... negligent."

Riddle's lips twitched slightly, as if in a smile that was suppressed at the last moment.

"Negligent? My, my, using my own words against me. You're really learning, Harry."

Harry faked a nonchalant shrug, nipping in the bud the treacherous warmth evoked by another praise from Riddle's lips. He knew he had more cards to play, but the thought of using this one caused an unpleasant clench in his stomach.

Was he really willing to sink to this level?

Harry's fingers ghosted over his last pawn, hesitating. No, he told himself firmly. They were just words. Tools to get what he needed. It didn't mean anything beyond that. The end justified the means, didn't it?

Taking a deep breath, he steeled himself, his fingers absently moving his last pawn to shield his king.

"Besides," Harry continued, forcing casualness into his voice, "I think I performed quite well at Abraxas Malfoy's party. Don't you think that deserves a... reward?"

His ears buzzed and his heart started beating like crazy again. It was a good thing they had chess between them, he could concentrate on the board.

Riddle snorted, the sound somewhere between amusement and irritation. The captured pawn was put down with a sharp click.

"A reward? For following instructions?" his voice dripped with sarcasm. "Or for saving your reputation after your passionate rant about that Mudblood witch?"

Harry grimaced, unpleasantly surprised by both Riddle's irritation and his choice of words.

"Speaking of reputations," he retorted, his temper flaring, "if you're so concerned about mine, why did you tell your Slytherin buddies about the incident at the Leaky Cauldron?"

"I didn't," replied Riddle coldly, and from the way he moved his bishop Harry deduced that he was really getting angry. It was a touchy subject. "They found out on their own. The wizarding community in Diagon and Knockturn Alley is small, Potter. Gossip spreads faster than Fiendfyre. You'd do well to remember that in the future."

Harry winced at the use of his last name. This wasn't going well. He forced himself to take a calming breath, reminding himself that he needed this more than Riddle did, even if he still felt outraged by the fact that Riddle had called Hermione Mudblood.

"Right," he said, trying to sound contrite. "I'll keep that in mind."

Riddle's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at Harry's unexpectedly measured response. He leaned back in his armchair, his gaze sharpening as he reassessed the boy before him. The surprise in his eyes gradually gave way to a calculating gleam, as if he were seeing Harry in a new light.

"Well, well," Riddle murmured, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "You must really want this if you're trying to manipulate me."

Harry felt his face flush with a mix of embarrassment and anger. "I'm not—"

"Oh, but you are," Riddle cut him off, his dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "It's clumsy, sure, but I have to admit, I'm intrigued." He steepled his fingers, his expression turning serious. "Alright, Potter. Let's talk straight. Why should I agree? You can pretend to play nice, but we both know you're still my enemy. Only an idiot gives his enemy a weapon."

A chill ran down Harry's spine, settling like ice in his stomach. Riddle rarely laid things out so plainly. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with the weight of what was about to unfold. This was it — the real negotiation was about to begin.

Harry swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He knew he'd have to choose his next words very carefully. Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on the table between them, the chess game momentarily forgotten,

"You're right," Harry started, hating how his voice betrayed his nervousness. He took a steadying breath and pressed on. "We are still enemies, I'm still a threat to you. But that's exactly why this could work in your favour." He held Riddle's gaze, willing himself not to look away. "If you train with me, you'll know my fighting style inside out. Every move, every spell — it'll all come from you. I won't be able to surprise you."

Riddle's lips curled into an amused smirk. "Clever, Potter. But don't flatter yourself too much. You're not a threat — merely an inconvenience." He lounged back in his armchair, the very picture of casual superiority.

Harry felt a flicker of anger at Riddle's dismissive tone, but he seized on the opening. "If I'm just an inconvenience, then you shouldn't mind if I'm well trained."

"Inconveniences have a way of becoming burdens," Riddle retorted, his tone deceptively lazy. His fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrest. "So instead of concentrating on more important matters, my future self will have to deal with you. Besides, by training you, I'd be giving away my own techniques. Try again."

Frustration bubbled up in Harry's chest. He ran a hand through his messy hair, mussing it further. "But I can't attack you now anyway, thanks to that bloody oath. And in the future? Voldemort's got a fifty-year head start. You'll have ages to learn new tricks I won't know about. I won't have that chance."

"A fair point," Riddle conceded, his smirk widening. "But I still think the risks outweigh any potential benefits. Besides, I already know what you're capable of."

"It looks to me more like you are afraid of losing."

The amusement immediately disappeared from Riddle's eyes.

"I thought we had discussed the question of the superiority of my skills over yours long ago, Potter."

Harry felt an unpleasant grip on his stomach, but he pressed on, knowing he was treading on thin ice. "As you can see, not really. So maybe a little reminder?"

"I don't need a duel with you for that."

Okay, that was stupid. Judging by the look on Riddle's face he was thinking the same thing.

"I could even demonstrate it right now," he offered with a sly smile.

Harry let out an exasperated sigh, slumping back in his chair. This wasn't working. He needed to change tactics, and fast. Taking a deep breath, he decided to try another angle.

"Without proper training, I'll be a liability. If I can't defend myself, I could inadvertently mess up your plans or draw unwanted attention. Teaching me to duel would ensure that I can protect myself and, by extension, your secrets."

"A moment ago you admitted that we are still enemies, and now you are talking about help? What an unexpected change of heart," Riddle's voice dripped with mock surprise. "And here I was under the impression that Gryffindors were more constant in their feelings."

Harry felt heat creep up his cheeks. His arguments were not that bad. Well, okay, he may have had a problem with precision, but that was due to lack of sleep at night. If he had slept well, he would have been more eloquent.

But before Harry could formulate a defence, Riddle waved his hand dismissively.

"Besides, you're in no danger here. You should be more concerned about accidentally triggering a curse at work than facing a physical attack. Better to focus on that."

Grasping at straws now, Harry countered, "But what if one of your Slytherin lackeys decides to have a go at me? Maybe they get jealous or something?"

"That's not an option. I know how to keep my people in line."

Harry slumped, sensing another dead end.

And as he desperately searched his mind for more convincing arguments, Riddle unexpectedly came to his aid.

"You know, Potter," the older boy began, his voice soft, "you're still no match for me in a battle of wits. But I have to admit you're right about two things." He paused, letting the tension build. "I prefer your voluntary cooperation. As amusing as punishing you can be, your defiance becomes tiresome in the long run. And as your... teacher," his lips curled around the word, "I shouldn't neglect any area of your education."

A flicker of hope sparked in Harry's chest, but he quickly tempered it with caution. Experience had taught him the hard way that with Riddle, there was always a catch.

"Alright, Potter, here's the deal," the future Dark Lord said, his tone casual but laced with challenge. "You want dueling lessons? Fine. But for every hour we spend on that, you spend an hour on practising dark magic. Tit for tat."

Harry's gut twisted. "Wait, what—"

"Ah-ah," Riddle cut him off with a warning wave of his finger. "I'm not finished. Each new offensive or defensive spell I teach you will be paid for with a dark spell. And you pay in advance."

"That's not what I—"

"Take it or leave it, Potter." Riddle's voice hardened. "Oh, and don't expect me to go easy on you. Wasn't it you who wanted a reminder of how outclassed you are?"

Harry knew his initial proposal had been a mistake. But this... This went far beyond what he had originally suggested.

Yet it also opened new possibilities. As much as it pained him to admit, Riddle was indeed powerful and incredibly talented. Harry had experienced this firsthand during their first duel, and each subsequent day spent in Riddle's company only solidified this impression. He knew that if he ever wanted to beat Riddle, he would have to become better himself.

And to achieve that, he needed to learn from the best.

"If I agree," Harry began cautiously, "can I trust that you'll take our duelling lessons seriously? That you'll actually teach me?"

Riddle's lips curled into a smirk. "I'll put in exactly as much effort as you do in learning dark magic, Potter. No more, no less."

It did not sound good, but it was fair.

"And will it be just learning dark magic, not... using it on others, right?"

Amusement flickered in Riddle's eyes. "We have already established that I will not force you to use dark magic on anyone else. I keep my word once given. Unless, of course, you decide to do so yourself."

"No way," Harry shot back immediately.

"Oh?" Riddle raised an eyebrow. "You might want to use that knowledge in our duels, you know. Surely you don’t harbour the delusion of besting me with basic disarming charms?"

Harry's response was swift and reckless. "When it comes to you, Riddle, I won't have any scruples."

As soon as the words left his mouth, Harry realized his mistake. He'd essentially admitted he might use dark magic in the future. A flash of triumph in Riddle's eyes told him the slip hadn't gone unnoticed.

Determined to mask his misstep, Harry decided to press on. Steeling himself, he met Riddle's gaze.

"Never mind. I agree to your terms," he said, surprised by how steady his voice sounded. "Do we have a deal?"

"Yes, we do," replied Riddle, inclining his head. Once again radiating the same satisfaction as when they had just sat down for an evening game of chess, he looked pointedly at the board between them. "Shall I make a move, or do you see that you've lost?"

The question sounded almost metaphorical, and Harry hoped it didn't refer to what he had just agreed to. Either way, he had no intention of giving up without a fight.

"Of course we continue."

He lost after the third move.

Riddle waved his hand over the board, putting all the pawns back in their places.

"Fancy another round?"

Harry shrugged and stifled a yawn. As the excitement of the negotiations wore off, he felt a sense of weariness. But he wasn't in any hurry to go to bed or read that book about curses.

"We can. But I'm white this time."

"As you wish," agreed Riddle, watching Harry intently as he made his first move.

As Riddle's hand hovered over his black pawn, he spoke again, his tone deceptively casual. "Ah, before we begin — I believe you ran out of your sleeping potion yesterday, didn't you?"

Harry stiffened, caught off guard by Riddle's perceptiveness. "Yes," he replied cautiously, eyes fixed on the board.

"I didn't buy another vial, but if you need it, all you have to do is ask," Riddle said, moving his pawn to face Harry's. His voice was almost soft, but there was a command in it. "Don't try to acquire it yourself. I prefer to maintain control in this matter — it's far too easy to overdose or become... dependent. I wouldn't want to have to pull you out of any addiction."

The game started again.

o.O.o

As the new week dawned, Harry's attention returned to the black journal tucked under a bookcase in the back of Borgin and Burke's. While French was still as incomprehensible to him as Latin, that was a concern for another time. First, he had to retrieve the journal, a task that proved more challenging than he'd initially anticipated.

Monday and Tuesday crawled by at a painfully slow pace, with the constant presence of Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke. The two salesmen barely moved an inch from their shop. While one served customers, the other sorted purchased items in the back room, and vice versa. To Harry's growing frustration, their watchful eyes followed him more closely than usual, as if they sensed he was up to something.

To make matters worse, Riddle's good mood from the weekend had vanished, replaced by an increasing irritation. Harry had already learned that when the future Dark Lord was in such a state, it was best to stay out of his way.

That was why Harry forced himself to maintain an appearance of engagement, following his superiors' orders with feigned enthusiasm, even managing not to grimace when helping sell suspicious artifacts. In his spare time, he buried his nose in a book on curses that Riddle had cleverly disguised as another transmutation book.

The irony wasn't lost on Harry — using a book on dark magic as cover for his own nefarious plans.

He even kept a straight face when Lungus Fletcher (Harry couldn't help but think the similarity to Mundungus Fletcher's name was no coincidence) rushed into the shop on Tuesday. The wizard spent more than two hours eagerly bargaining with Riddle for every Knut, trying to push as many of his brought items as possible. Harry involuntarily admired Riddle's patience and perseverance as he finally emerged victorious, the purchased items, most likely not from a legitimate source, ending up in boxes in the back room.

The opportunity to retrieve the diary finally presented itself on Wednesday. Mr. Borgin went to see one of their regular customers, Mrs. Smith, to present her with some items specially reserved for her from the late French wizard's collection. Mr. Burke, on the other hand, went to see Mr. Prince, an elderly wizard whose potions were occasionally sold in their shop. Riddle, even more irritated than the day before, stood at the counter reading a book he had bought from Fletcher the previous day. A better opportunity might not arise again.

"If you don't need me for anything, I'm going to the back room to continue reading that book on curses," Harry said to the older boy, the said book tucked under his arm.

Riddle lifted his head from the book he was reading and looked at him skeptically.

"Since when did you become so interested in learning black magic?"

Harry blushed slightly. "We have a deal, remember? I want to finish it by Friday so I can kick your ass in the duel on Saturday," he shot back with a fake, cocky grin.

Riddle's look became even more skeptical. "Gryffindor delusions. But don't worry, I'll make sure you get rid of them after Saturday," Riddle said ominously, then waved his hand dismissively.

That was all Harry needed.

When he was out of Riddle's sight, Harry let out a sigh of relief. He placed the book of curses on the table between the armchairs usually occupied by Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke, then walked over to the bookcase where he had hidden the journal. It was fortunate that it couldn't be seen from Riddle's position, but unfortunately, someone had stacked a pile of boxes in front of the bookcase, impeding access.

Harry stood in front of it and scratched his head.

In theory, he could have used Accio to summon the journal, but Riddle would still take Harry's wand every day when they returned from work and check what spells had been cast with it during the day. Harry was not in the habit of throwing Accio when he wanted to reach for something, and Riddle unfortunately knew this, so using it now might rise suspicions. That left a manual solution. He had to move the boxes quietly, then bend down to pick up the journal.

The boxes proved to be unexpectedly heavy, and although Harry pushed against them with all his might, they did not move even a quarter of an inch. It was as if someone had magically sticked them to the ground. Harry sighed and decided that a different approach was needed — perhaps if he moved each of the boxes individually, he could get to the bookcase.

Sticking out of the box at the top were items that Harry recognised as the ones Fletcher had brought yesterday. Harry bent down and slid his fingers under the box. His face flushed from the effort, he clenched his teeth and tried to lift it. The result was the same. Feeling a mixture of anger and frustration, Harry tried again. Suddenly, he swayed, lost his balance, and reflexively put his hands out in front of him to prevent a fall.

One of his palms touched a comb on the top. A sharp, searing pain instantly pierced it and spread like wildfire to the rest of his body.

Harry screamed.

o.O.o

Tom Riddle sat behind the counter, soothing the irritation caused by Borgin's decision to pay Hepzibah Smith a personal visit by immersing himself in a diary he had acquired from Fletcher the previous day. The faded ink on the yellowed pages told of magical wonders from the Antipodes, penned by an English wizard and explorer at the turn of the seventeenth century. As he absorbed the tales of Aboriginal magic, a sudden, chilling scream pierced the air, shattering his concentration.

His head snapped up, and his grey eyes narrowed as they darted toward the back room. Simultaneously, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a customer approaching the shop's entrance. With lightning reflexes, Tom's wand was in his hand, and an intricate illusion spell flowed from its tip, conjuring the image of a crowded room for the potential customer, effectively discouraging entry. The spell also sealed the door, ensuring their privacy.

As he crossed the threshold, a single glance was sufficient to assess the situation. Harry Potter lay on the floor, his body jolted by uncontrollable convulsions. The boy's eyes had rolled back, showing only whites, and a thin lines of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth and nostrils. A tangible aura of dark magic permeated the air, almost palpable to Tom's heightened senses.

Tom's anger flared. Stupid boy, he thought.

His wand was raised, a curse-breaking spell on the tip of his tongue, when an unexpected thought entered his mind and stopped him. Why should he save Harry Potter?

The Oath of Submission prevented Tom from directly killing the boy but allowing a curse to do the job... that was an entirely different matter.

A cold smile spread across Tom's lips as he considered the implications. With Potter gone, the threat to his future would disappear. No prophecy, no Chosen One, no equal to challenge his rise to power.

No more dealing with Potter's daily defiance and stubbornness.

Only a fool would squander such an opportunity.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

Unexpected debt

Tom Riddle was no fool. He was pragmatic. And while part of him urged him to let Potter die, another part was vehemently against it — and the strength of that internal opposition surprised even Riddle himself. Tom had long ago learned to listen to the whispers of his intuition; one of the Albanian mages he had met on his journey had told him that intuition was nothing more than a manifestation of genius, mental processes too rapid for even his brilliant brain to comprehend. Tom had liked this explanation very much and had trusted his intuition even more since then.

And now his intuition was screaming at him not to let Potter die.

So Riddle decided not to let him die.

 a flick of his wand. The air around the boy shimmered, a riot of colour swirling around him. Malevolent dark tendrils radiated from Potter's left hand, intertwining to form a sinister web that seemed to pulse and spread with ominous intent. Eyebrows furrowed in concentration, Tom held the spell, the wrinkle on his forehead depending as fresh shadowy lines appeared, confirming his worst suspicions.

This wasn't a simple curse, one that would take only seconds to remove. Tom narrowed his eyes, trying to identify the curse, but to his growing frustration, the only thing he could say about it was that it was exceptionally nasty. Another diagnostic spell revealed that it was sucking the life force out of Potter far too quickly.

He took a measured step back, his keen gaze sweeping across the cluttered back room. The sheer number of potentially lethal objects surrounding them was overwhelming. They had recently purchased too many artifacts, and Riddle hadn't had enough time to familiarize himself with all of them, so he wasn't quite sure what kind of curses were actually on them. And, of course, the teen couldn't have had the decency to collapse next to whatever he'd touched — that would have been far too simple, far too helpful. Trust Potter to be cursed, and you could also be certain it would be something particularly nasty.

Anger flared anew in Tom, threatening to shatter his usual cool demeanour. How could Potter have been so careless? So foolish? He had clearly warned the boy of the dangers lurking in the shop. Did the moron think Tom was saying all that to scare him? And now, because of the idiot's recklessness, Tom was forced to waste his valuable time and energy cleaning up this mess.

Taking a deep, calming breath, Tom pushed his fury aside. He needed to focus. The curse was complex, and without knowing which item had triggered it, removing it completely would be challenging. Time was of the essence; every second the curse remained active it wreaked further havoc on Potter's body. The situation wasn't helped by the fact that Tom didn't know exactly what the devastation was; all he knew was that Potter was in mortal danger.

Riddle's mind raced through possible solutions, weighing each with clinical detachment. Taking Potter to St Mung's was not an option — too many questions would be asked, too many eyes watching. The back room of Borgin and Burke's was hardly an ideal location for complex curse-breaking, but moving Potter posed its own risks. Mainly for Potter, so Tom could try.

But there was another problem. Without knowing exactly what had hit Potter, the solutions at Tom's disposal required the assistance of at least one other person — someone not only skilled in healing, but also familiar with dark magic.

The thought of having to turn to someone else for help hurt Riddle's pride, but pragmatism won out. Besides, he was going to take on the burden of casting the spell anyway. The other wizard would only assist and support Tom with his magic.

And intervene if something went wrong, although the chances of that were extremely small.

Once the decision had been made, Riddle cast diagnostic spell on Potter again to see how much time he had. To his growing annoyance, it turned out to be far less than he had thought; the curse was working faster than he had suspected.

Time was now his main opponent. The corners of Tom's mouth twitched in a slight smile, relishing the challenge. This was something he could handle. What he was about to do was risky, as risky as breaking the curse itself, but Riddle was not one to be deterred by potential consequences. At worst, the boy would die — though it would be preferable if he survived, if only so that Tom could properly punish him for this idiotic stunt.

With an intricate series of wand movements, Riddle began to weave a spell that would envelop Potter in a cocoon where time would flow much more slowly than in the outside world. It was a dangerous move, for a moment's inattention could result in the boy's instant death. The air shimmered and distorted as if the boy were lying behind rippling water. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, Potter's convulsions began to subside.

Tom concentrated, putting all his willpower into forming a protective cocoon. For a heart-stopping moment, it seemed as if the curse might break through. But then, with a final burst of magical energy, the cocoon took hold.

Potter lay motionless on the floor, suspended in a bubble of frozen time.

Another diagnostic spell revealed that the intended effect had been achieved; the curse had slowed its destructive spread.

Tom breathed slowly, feeling the effects of the complex magic he had just performed. He had bought them some time, but the stasis field wouldn't last forever. It was time to call for help — not help, he corrected himself mentally, but assistance — as much as he wanted to avoid it.

"Bug!" Tom called sharply, his voice laced with irritation.

With a soft pop, the house-elf appeared, his large eyes widening at the scene before him.

"Master calls for Bug?" the elf squeaked.

"Listen carefully," Tom began harshly. "Go to St Mungo's, find Brandon Avery and tell him I urgently require his presence at my flat. Do not mention Potter or what you've seen here. Simply say it's a matter of life and death. Is that clear?"

Bug nodded vigorously, his ears flapping. "Yes, Master. Bug understands. Bug will fetch Healer Avery right away!"

With another crack, the elf disappeared, leaving Tom alone with the frozen form of Harry Potter. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the boy. Even unconscious and on the brink of death, Potter was causing him no end of trouble.

In moments like this Riddle wondered if knowledge of the future was really worth it.

o.O.o

As the flames flickered green, Brandon Avery hurried out, hastily shaking the ash off his pristine white healer's robe.

"Tom, what's wrong? Your house-elf appeared completely out of the blue and—" Brandon broke off abruptly, his eyes widening in surprise as he looked around the room. While waiting for his arrival, Riddle had had time to prepare his living room. Furniture was pushed against the walls, the thick carpet was rolled up and leaned against a corner, leaving an empty space in the middle of the room, in the centre of which lay the motionless body of Harry Potter. The teenager was still wrapped in a cocoon that slowed the passage of time, but even so, his back was arched and his mouth was open wide, as if he was about to scream, but the sound had not yet escaped his throat. "Isn't that your brother? What happened to him?"

Tom's lips thinned, suppressing a flicker of annoyance at the barrage of questions. "He touched something he shouldn't have," he replied curtly. "I've managed to slow the spread of the curse, but that doesn't solve the main problem; removing the curse itself.”

Brandon's healer's instinct kicked in. He nodded absentmindedly at Riddle's explanation and knelt beside Potter's inert body. With each successive diagnostic spell, the concentration on his face deepened. Riddle saw little point in this examination, but he didn't stop him. After a brief moment of contemplation, Brandon glanced over his shoulder at Tom, his bushy eyebrows furrowed.

"Tom, it doesn't look good," he said, his tone serious. "This curse... I can't identify it, but it looks like it's draining both magic and life."

"It also works in such a way that it absorbs any magic directed at it," Riddle added in a calm tone. He had discovered this when he enveloped Potter in that time-slowing cocoon. "And it’s strengthened by it."

Avery's eyes widened up. "Merlin's crap! What are you guys selling in that shop?!"

Riddle shrugged his shoulders, at the same time handing Avery the book he had been flicking through only moments before. "I warned him not to touch anything. Maybe this will finally get through to him."

"If we save him," Brandon muttered grimly as he rose to his feet. He took the offered book.

"We will save him. I even have an idea how," Tom replied curtly, feeling his excitement grow involuntarily at the thought of the magic he was about to perform. Until now, he had only read about this spell. "The description begins at the bottom of the page. I'll need your assistance with this. It's our best chance at breaking the curse."

Brandon's eyes scanned the description, his face visibly paling as he absorbed the intricacies of the spell. "Tom, this is... incredibly advanced magic. I've heard of this kind of curse-breaking, but I've never tried anything like it. Are you sure this—"

"I'll be casting the spell," Tom cut him off, his voice sharp. "All I need you to do is act as a stabiliser and support me with your magic when necessary. Can you do that, or should I find someone else?"

Brandon straightened. A flash of indignation at the suggestion that he would be unsuitable for the task crossed his features.

"I just want to make sure that you are aware of the risks involved. If something goes wrong, your brother will die.”

"If we do nothing, he will die too."

"I could ask my father."

"No. I don't want this to spread." Brandon opened his mouth, probably to reassure Tom that his father, known for his discretion, wouldn't tell anyone. But that wasn't the crux of the matter. If Brandon's father were to treat Potter, he might discover something — something that might lead him to suspect that Potter wasn't really Tom's brother or, more dangerously, that he was from the future. It was a risk Riddle couldn't afford to take. "Besides, I'm confident in our abilities. We can do this ourselves," he lied smoothly.

And if we don't, well... Potter's death would be inconvenient, but hardly a tragedy, Riddle added mentally. At least it would save his future self the trouble of dealing with the boy.

Brandon struggled with his thoughts for a moment, biting his lip, clutching the book tighter and glancing once more at the spell described in it, but Riddle knew what his answer would be. Avery was, after all, one of his Slytherins, and they all shared a desire to push themselves to the limits, far beyond what was normally considered safe.

"I'm in. Just tell me what to do," Avery said finally, his determination clear.

Riddle suppressed a smile. "We'll start by making runic circles." With a wave of his hand, Tom summoned crayons that would be used to draw the circles on the floorboards. He handed one to Brandon. "Let's get started. Follow my lead strictly."

With practiced precision, Tom began to draw intricate runes around Potter's still form. His movements were fluid and confident, each stroke of the wax crayon leaving a clear white mark. Brandon mirrored Tom's actions on the opposite side, and with each symbol his focus increased. Though not as proficient as Tom, it was clear that he also was no novice in the art of runic magic. His hand moved with growing confidence as they worked in tandem, following Riddle's lead without hesitation.

As their circles grew and intertwined, the air itself seemed to thicken with magical energy. It crackled and pulsed, growing denser and more palpable with each completed symbol. Tom's grey eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he felt the magic building, layer upon intricate layer.

Suddenly, Riddle stopped and with a deft flick of his wrist summoned a small, silver dagger. Avery, concentrating on duplicating Tom's every move, froze with his crayon an inch above the floor, a flicker of alarm crossing his features. Riddle, doing nothing about Avery's apparent confusion, pressed the blade to the inside of his left hand and cut gently. Blood spurted out. Brandon's eyes widened, but he remained silent, watching intently as Tom used his own blood to inscribe the next rune, binding his magic even more tightly to the runic circle.

The effect was immediate. The air seemed to thicken even more, and the freshly drawn bloody rune flashed with an eerie crimson glow. Tom passed the knife to Brandon, his gaze brooking no argument.

Understanding dawned in Brandon's eyes. He simply asked, "The same?" and when Tom inclined his head, Avery followed suit, cutting his own palm and adding his blood to another rune on his side of the circle. The surge of power that followed was almost overwhelming, causing both wizards to draw in sharp breaths. The glow of the illuminated runes lit up their faces.

They continued this way, alternating between the waxy crayons and their own blood, each crimson rune amplifying the circle's power exponentially. By the time they neared completion, the magic in the air crackled. It was so dense it was almost suffocating, pressing down on them with an almost physical weight.

"Enough," Tom said at one point and his lips curled into a satisfied smirk as he surveyed their handiwork. Their two intertwined runic circles were a display of skill that no runic master would be ashamed of, each symbol perfectly placed and humming with power. He could feel the magic flowing through him, through Avery, lurching towards Potter's numb form, powerful magic that he held in check, eager at his command.

"The circles’ magic should absorb the curse but be prepared. If it starts to slip, use your blood to support the circles," Tom instructed Avery, taking up a position beside Potter's head. He knelt down and cradled the boy's head, his hands squeezing it tightly. A jolt of malevolent energy surged through Tom's body, but the protective magic of the runes worked. "Hold his legs tightly," he ordered Brandon.

Avery nodded and knelt on the other side, pinning Potter's legs to the floor with all the strength of his muscular arms.

The two wizards looked into each other's eyes. There was a mixture of fear and determination in the brown eyes, but Tom was sure that Avery wouldn't let him down. Avery gave a brief nod, signalling his readiness. Tom's gaze flickered briefly to the book of spells lying open on the floor. Taking a deep breath, Riddle started to chant, his voice resonating with power as he began the arduous and exhausting process of pushing the curse out of Potter's body.

As the spell built up, and Tom felt the curse fighting back with savage intensity. It writhed like a living thing, slippery and vicious, constantly seeking new ways to evade his magic. Sweat trickled down his brow as he poured more and more of his power into the spell through the guttural words that came from his throat. Brandon's presence faded into the background, becoming little more than a conduit for additional magical energy. Tom's world narrowed to the intricate dance of power between himself, the curse, and Potter's fading life force. Never before in his short but intense life had Riddle had to face such a vicious force. He knew the curse was violent, evil, but it wasn't until he tried to push it away that he realised just how much.

But Tom Riddle was no ordinary wizard. He was powerful, cunning and cruel. What had begun as a reluctant rescue had become personal, no longer just about saving Potter. Now it was about proving himself, showing his superiority over the strange magic itself.

The minutes stretched on like hours. Tom's body began to tremble from the effort of maintaining the spell, his throat worn out from the endless stream of incantations. Just when he thought they were making progress, the curse struck back with renewed force and intensity.

Potter's body rose abruptly from the floor, a desperate cry escaping his lips. The runes flickered dangerously, dimmed for a moment, as if burned out. Brandon's grip on Potter's legs tightened, his knuckles white with the effort of keeping the boy still. Concentrating on fuelling the circle with his own power, Avery didn't even notice blood dripping from his nose.

The runes shone again, but their glow was faint, muted.

"No," Tom growled through clenched teeth. He would not be defeated, not when he had come this far. With almost inhuman effort, he reached deeper into not only his magic, but Avery's as well, drawing on reserves he didn't even know existed.

The surge of power that followed was like a tsunami, untamed and unrestrained. It coursed through Tom like lightning, setting every nerve ablaze. Riddle had no idea how he had managed to channel it into Potter's inert body. But he had. The room itself seemed to warp and bend under the onslaught of pure, unfiltered magic. Everything blended into one — Potter's scream, the rattling of furniture, the distant sound of breaking glass, the guttural roar coming from Tom's throat.

Suddenly, the magic and the curse inside Potter stretched taut like an overstretched rubber band and, with a deafening snap, released all at once. Tom would have been swept backwards had it not been for the bloody runes that anchored him. The curse erupted from the boy's body, a writhing mass of dark energy caught and destroyed by the meticulously crafted runic circle. Simultaneously, Riddle felt a strange link forming between him and Potter, a thread binding them together. The sensation was so fleeting, so ephemeral, that it vanished before he could fully comprehend it. The air crackled with residual magic as silence fell, leaving only a faint, smoky residue that smelled of burned hair and something darker, more primal.

As the magical surge subsided, both wizards found themselves utterly drained. Brandon slumped forward, his arms shaking. His robes were soaked through, as if he had been doused with water, and blood trickled from his nose, mixing with sweat and dripping onto the floor. He gasped for air, his chest heaving with every breath.

Tom fared no better. He fell back onto his heels, his limbs as heavy as lead. His lungs burned as he gulped down air, desperate for oxygen. Sweat plastered his usually immaculate hair to his forehead. When he tried to wipe it away, he noticed a smear of blood on his sleeve. His own nose had started bleeding.

Instinctively, Tom reached for his wand to clean himself up. But his fingers refused to cooperate. They felt numb and clumsy, unable to grip the smooth wood. The simple act of grasping his wand now seemed beyond his capabilities.

For a while, they both just panted, slowly coming to their senses, as the realization of what they had just achieved together began to sink in.

It was Avery who first managed to straighten up and meet Riddle's gaze. "Tom... we... you did it. I felt it," he gasped between breaths. "The debt. It formed. You really saved his life."

So that's what that strange feeling of connection was. A life debt.

Tom tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

"Yes, I saved him," he repeated. His mortal enemy. And now Potter owed him.

As the absurdity of the situation sank in, he laughed. Loudly, maniacally.

o.O.o

The first thing Harry became aware of was pain. It radiated through every fibre of his being, a dull, persistent ache that seemed to have no beginning and no end. He tried to open his eyes, but even the slightest movement sent shockwaves of agony through his skull. A moan escaped his parched lips, a sound barely audible even to his own ears.

A grim thought flashed through his mind: he had regained consciousness in this state far too often lately — sore and drained of energy. The difference this time was that he couldn't remember what had brought him to this state. His mind felt foggy, memories just out of reach. He tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate, every muscle crying out in protest. A wave of nausea washed over him and he fell back against the pillows, breathing heavily.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Potter," a cold, disturbingly familiar voice came from the side. "I was beginning to think it would never happen."

Riddle. Harry didn't even bother to open his eyes. He wanted to talk back, to reply with something witty, but his throat was dry as a bone.

"If it weren't for the fact that you're still more usefully conscious than not, I'd be more inclined to practise taking your consciousness away, since that means no rude responses," Riddle said, and Harry could almost see the infuriatingly arrogant smile on his lips. Almost, because he still refused to open his eyes.

Harry forced himself into a sitting position; the vulnerability of lying down in Riddle's presence was too much for him to bear. Even in his current state. When he finally managed to do so, he felt something cold touch his lips and Riddle's command reached him: "Drink this."

Harry finally lifted his eyelids and although the world was a blur of indistinct shapes, he realised that he was in his room — not his room, he mentally corrected himself, the room he occupied in Riddle's flat would never become his room. A glass containing a greenish liquid that looked nothing like water was floating in front of him. Harry hesitated.

"Drink," Riddle repeated, irritation seeping into his voice. "Believe me, if I wanted to get rid of you, I wouldn't have tried to poison you just after nearly driving myself to magical exhaustion saving your life."

Harry, still reeling from what he'd just heard, mindlessly reached for the glass and downed its contents in one gulp. Riddle did what?!

He grimaced and put the glass down on the bedside table. Whatever Riddle had made him drink, it tasted awful. But it worked immediately; Harry could feel his strength and energy slowly returning and the pain in his muscles lessen.

"What... what happened?" Harry forced himself to ask, avoiding Riddle's gaze. The future Dark Lord sat in the armchair opposite his bed, a book flying off with a swish into the library, clearly having been read earlier.

"You tell me. For four days, I've been wondering what made you rifle through things you shouldn't even be touching," Riddle said icily. His tone, previously stern, was now as frosty as an Antarctic wind.

Harry felt the knot in his stomach tighten with fear. The memories slowly returned, with a certain black journal playing a central role — a journal that Riddle could not have known existed. "I was unconscious for four days?" Harry asked, deciding to play for time. He reached for the bedside table and found his glasses. He put them on and immediately regretted it, preferring not to see how Riddle narrowed his eyes.

"Yes, Potter. Four days. Four days of wasted time and energy because you couldn't follow one simple rule." He leaned forward, hands resting on his knees, and his voice lowered to a dangerous whisper. "Now I'm going to ask you again and think twice before you lie. What did you really do?"

Harry's mind raced, searching for a plausible lie, despite Riddle's warning. He couldn't reveal the truth, the stakes were too high. He had to find out what the Horcruxes were. "I... I was just curious," he stammered, hating how weak his voice sounded. "There were so many strange objects, and I—"

The curse struck without warning, no incantation uttered, no time to react. Harry bent in half. A few seconds and it was over.

"Fuck, Riddle," he spat through clenched teeth. Was it Crucio? Or something else?

"I warned you, no lies. My patience with you ran out four days ago," Riddle said, his voice devoid of remorse as he slowly rose from his chair. With predatory grace, he walked over to Harry's bed and sat down on the edge. He grabbed Harry's chin with a firm grip and despite Harry's attempts to wriggle free, he couldn't escape. Riddle forcibly turned his head, locking eyes with him. "If you lie to me again, I'll Legilimize you," he threatened.

Harry's heartbeat faster. He tried to look away, but Riddle held him. Grey eyes stared into his with disturbing intensity, but he remained stubbornly silent, despite the terror growing within him.

"What were you doing before you activated the curse?"

Silence. Jaw clenched. Jerk.

Nails dug deeper into his chin.

"I won't ask again, Potter," Riddle's voice was low, dangerous.

Harry felt a foreign presence probing at the edges of his mind. He knew Riddle was doing it deliberately, to intimidate him — and it was working. Fighting the growing panic, Harry snapped, "You promised you wouldn't do this."

He hated how the sense of betrayal and fear in his voice was all too evident.

Riddle's nails bit deeper into his flesh.

"Provided you're honest with me. Now you're not."

Harry swallowed hard, his mind racing. He knew he could not lie. But he wasn't going to tell the whole truth either. Unfortunately, he needed to say something, anything to get Riddle off his back without revealing too much. "I was... looking for information," he said finally, reluctantly.

The alien presence still lingered at the edges of his consciousness, but no longer pushed to invade.

"Information about what?"

"About..." Harry hesitated. About time travel, he wanted to say, but something in Riddle’s gaze compelled him to whisper, "About Horcruxes."

Riddle went utterly still. And this was more alarming than any other reaction.

"About Horcruxes?" repeated the future Dark Lord calmly, too calmly. The shivers ran through Harry's spine. At that moment, all he could manage was an almost imperceptible nod. "And why, pray tell, were you looking for information about Horcruxes?" The question was asked again in that terrifyingly deceptively smooth tone.

Harry tried to turn his head away, but Riddle's grip on his chin was unyielding. He didn't want to give anything away, not that easily, but the curse and the four days of unconsciousness had weakened him like nothing else in his life.

"I... I wanted to know more about them. To... to understand them better," he said, closing his eyes.

The sharp sting of a nail digging into the soft skin of his chin forced his eyes open again.

"And did you succeed?"

"No," Harry admitted reluctantly. He had no intention of revealing any more, but a foreign presence pressed against his mind, a clear threat. Either he would divulge everything, or Riddle would tear it from his thoughts. And Harry wasn't prepared to endure another brutal invasion of his memories.

"Some time ago, I found a journal in the back room, and while looking through it, I came across a reference to Horcruxes," he confessed reluctantly. Riddle remained silent, clearly expecting him to continue. Harry sighed in resignation. "It was in French, so I didn't learn much anyway."

Pale fingers finally released his chin. Riddle straightened, widening the gap between them.

"And what does this have to do with the curse that almost killed you?" he asked.

Harry shrugged and leaned back against the headrest. His chin still ached.

"I hid it under a bookshelf so you wouldn't find it, and when I tried to move the boxes to get to it, I lost my balance and accidentally touched something."

He felt a wave of despair wash over him. It was his only clue, his only lead to understanding what the Horcruxes were. And now it was lost.

Riddle just stared at him for a moment, his intense gaze boring into Harry, but he had nothing to add. Eventually the future Dark Lord stood up and paced restlessly, as if he couldn't decide what to do next, but eventually he stopped and leaned against the windowsill.

"I forbid you to seek out any information about the Horcruxes on your own," he said finally. "And if you ever come across any information about them again, you are to inform me immediately. That's an order, do you understand?"

Harry seethed in silence, furious at his own stupidity.

"Potter, I asked you a question," Riddle's voice sharpened like a well-honed blade.

Harry forced himself to nod.

"Reply in words."

"Yes, I understood," he snapped.

"Drop that attitude. I'm not finished with you yet," Riddle warned him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Since we're talking about them, I think you should tell me everything you know about them," he added, and Harry's heart sank.

No, not that. The bitter truth was that he knew almost nothing about them. Except that they were crucial, important enough for Dumbledore to task him with retrieving a memory from Slughorn, but not revealing anything beyond what Harry needed to complete the mission.

However, he wouldn't admit this to Riddle. The older boy seemed convinced that Harry knew what Horcruxes were, and Harry silently hoped that Riddle might reveal something to help him unravel the mystery.

Harry remained stubbornly silent.

"I'm waiting."

Silence stretched between them.

Riddle sighed. "Do I really have to force every answer out of you today, Potter?"

Harry couldn't bring himself to respond. He felt utterly pathetic. And along with his self-directed anger, he began to feel resentment towards Dumbledore. Why did the headmaster always have to be so secretive, so miserly with information?

"You asked for it," Riddle sighed, ostentatiously drawing his wand and raising it slowly. Harry's heart leapt, his pulse quickened, his muscles tensed. But Riddle didn't invade his mind, offering one last chance for a voluntary answer.

And Harry, loathing himself, complied.

"Only that it was something you once asked Slughorn, and he was too ashamed of the answer he gave you, so he modified his memory to prevent Dumbledore from finding out what you'd learned thanks to him," he said quietly, very quietly, averting his gaze from Riddle.

Suddenly, the room filled with laughter — hearty, genuine laughter of a man who couldn't contain himself. A laugh that blended amusement with relief. It took Harry a moment to realize it was coming from Riddle.

"Only that," the future Dark Lord repeated once he had calmed down a little, shaking his head in disbelief. "Just that. And you're still blindly loyal to that old fart."

Harry's hands clenched into fists.

"That's what loyalty is about," he hissed, unable to contain himself. His cheeks burned with anger and humiliation.

Riddle waved his hand dismissively.

"He's really not worth it," he said. Harry glanced in his direction. Riddle's entire demeanour had shifted, the tension and anger replaced by obvious relaxation.

So the Horcruxes were truly significant. And his carelessness had cost him his only two chances of uncovering their nature.

Riddle placed his palms casually on the windowsill, his trademark arrogant smile beginning to play across his lips.

When it was clear that Harry wouldn't comment, he said, "My previous orders still stand. But I think I have something to satisfy your penchant for poking your nose into things you shouldn't."

Harry moved nervously. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like Riddle's next words. He looked at the older boy questioningly.

"I would like you to take the O.W.L. in June, and of course to pass it, as is fitting for my little brother," Riddle announced matter-of-factly.

For a moment, Harry thought he'd misheard. "What? That's... that's absurd!" he sputtered, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Riddle raised an eyebrow. "Is it? If you want to find your place in this time, you'll need proper qualifications. It's the bare minimum for any respectable wizard. Especially if you're going to keep introducing yourself as my younger brother and using my last name."

"But I have no intention of staying here!" Harry protested, his voice rising. "I don't intend to do any of those three things. I don't want to stay in your time, I don't want to pretend to be your younger brother, and I don't want to introduce myself as Harry Riddle. You know that perfectly well!"

Riddle uncrossed his arms and placed his palms casually on the windowsill, his trademark arrogant smile again flickering across his lips.

"And here I was thinking that we’ve got it over with."

"And I thought you promised me that you'd help me get back to my time," Harry angrily said, clutching his hands unknowingly on the duvet.

"And I will," Riddle assured him smoothly, "eventually. But while you're here, you need a proper backstory. But more importantly," his voice dropped, taking on a more serious tone, "the exams, while important in themselves, are also a smokescreen for your true task."

Harry didn't dare ask what the task would be — he knew he'd find out whether he wanted to or not.

Riddle's eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "While you're at Hogwarts, you're going to break into the headmaster's office and steal the Sword of Gryffindor for me."

The words hit Harry like a physical blow. He stared at Riddle, mouth agape, unable to process what he'd just heard. "You... you can't be serious," he finally managed to choke out.

"Oh, I assure you, I'm entirely serious," Riddle replied, his tone cold and unyielding.

"That's... that's impossible!" Harry spluttered, his mind reeling. "Even if I wanted to — which I don't — how am I supposed to break into the headmaster’s office? And why would you even want the sword?"

Riddle's eyes narrowed dangerously. "The how is your problem to solve, Potter. Though if you need my help, I'm here to assist. As for the why... that's none of your concern."

Harry's shock gave way to fury. He straightened up, pulling away from the headrest, ignoring the pain that shot through every muscle in his body. "I won't do it," he declared, his voice trembling with rage. "I'm not going to steal anything for you, Riddle. Especially nothing that belongs to Gryffindor!"

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice in this matter, Potter," Riddle's lips curved into a cold, mirthless smile. "You swore the oath of obedience to me, remember? This is an order, Potter. One you cannot refuse. Unless, of course, you want to lose your magic."

Harry remained silent. What could he have replied to this?

The only option left was to make a deliberate failed attempt. And hope that someone would catch him in the process and help him return to his time. Viewed that way, Riddle's request wasn't entirely terrible.

"Of course, you should immediately dismiss any notion of using this to contact Dumbledore and return to your time. If I catch you doing that, you can bid farewell to your magic. And rest assured, I will catch you, because, in case it slipped your notice, I have my people at Hogwarts," Riddle added, as if he had read Harry's mind.

"Then why don't you order them to do it?"

"Because, unfortunately, there is a grain of truth in what Dumbledore once told you: only a true Gryffindor can draw the Gryffindor Sword from the Sorting Hat. And should you lack the motivation to avoid making a half-hearted attempt, I have an additional incentive for you: the life debt you owe me."

Harry felt as if the bed he was lying on had disappeared and as the floor had dropped out from under him. "Life debt?" he repeated weakly. "What are you talking about?"

A cruel smile twisted Riddle's features. "Oh, did I forget to mention? When I saved your pathetic life after your little mishap with the curse, it created a life debt. Surely you know what that means?"

"You're lying," Harry shouted, his voice filled with conviction. It couldn't be true.

Riddle shrugged.

"Whether you believe me or not is up to you. Just think: if you go back to your time before you've paid him, you'll still owe me — or rather, my future self. You won't be able to fight him, Potter. You'll be powerless against Lord Voldemort. And if you try anyway..." His eyes glittered dangerously. "Well, let's just say the consequences would be most unpleasant for you. Probably fatal, in fact."

Harry felt the blood drain from his face as the implications sank in. The room seemed to spin around him. This couldn't be happening. This had to be a nightmare. "No," he whispered, shaking his head in denial. "You're lying."

Riddle's expression was one of mock sympathy. "I'm afraid not, Potter. Magic this ancient and primal isn't something either of us can control. You owe me, and your disbelief doesn't change that fact."

Harry's mind raced, desperately searching for a solution. If this was true... "If... if I bring you the sword," he said slowly, hating every word, "would that be enough to repay the debt?"

Riddle hesitated and when he spoke, his voice uncharacteristically soft and uncertain. "Perhaps. I won't lie to you, as I said, this isn't magic we can fully control or predict. It may be enough, it may not."

Harry felt a glimmer of hope, quickly followed by crushing despair. He was trapped. He had no choice but to do as Riddle commanded, to become a thief and betray everything he stood for. But if he was going to be forced into this, he was determined to extract something from it.

And that was only because there was a chance Riddle's words might be true, even if he wasn't entirely certain. And since he wasn't, Harry figured it couldn't hurt to try and gain something for himself from the situation.

Something that would help him defeat Voldemort in the future.

Taking a deep breath, Harry met Riddle's gaze. He felt even worse than when he had proposed learning dark magic in exchange for duelling lessons. "I have a proposition," he said, his voice steadier than he felt, although his burning cheeks betrayed his true feelings. "If I bring you the sword, and it turns out that's not enough to repay the debt... you'll tell me what Horcruxes are."

Riddle stared at him, his dark eyes unreadable. The silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.

"I won't be able to tell anyone what I find out anyway. You've taken care of that," Harry reminded him, thinking of the Thought Wardening Curse.

"So why are you so keen to find out what they are?"

"To know," Harry replied simply, turning his head to look Riddle straight in the eyes. Negotiating while staying in bed wasn't a good idea, but he didn't have the strength to get up.

Riddle crossed his arms, his handsome face betraying nothing, but Harry knew that meant he was considering his proposal. Finally, the future Dark Lord nodded.

"So be it. If the return of Gryffindor's sword is not enough to repay the life debt, as a reward I will answer your three questions about the Horcruxes. But only three."

Harry didn't feel the expected relief; on the contrary, the weight of what he had just committed himself to seemed to crush him. But at least he would have a starting point. Better that than nothing.

"Does that mean we have a deal?" asked Harry, hating how often he asked the older boy that question.

Riddle inclined his head. "Yes, we do." And then, completely unexpectedly, the wand reappeared in his hand. "Now that we've covered the most important points, there's just one left." Riddle lazily pointed his wand at Harry. "The issue of your disobedience, risking your life and trying to hide the diary from me. For that…"

Harry froze. Riddle wasn't going to do that, was —

"Crucio."

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —

Whetted appetite

It took Harry nearly a week to recover. The side effects of the Crucio had mixed with the magical exhaustion caused by the curse that had almost killed him. Drained of magical energy, he felt the pain and its aftermath with more intensity than usual. Fortunately, Riddle hadn't kept him under the curse for long, or at least not long enough for Harry to lose consciousness again. When it was all over, Riddle simply left the room, leaving Harry alone. In the evening, he sent Bug with a hearty soup and mercifully allowed Harry to lick his wounds in solitude. Harry didn't mind.

Brandon Avery's visit the next day caught Harry off guard, although upon reflection, it seemed like a logical step. After all, if Riddle had a private healer at his disposal, why not use his services?

Harry felt uncomfortable as he lay in bed, watching as the older boy entered his room uninvited and assessed his condition with a furrowed brow. Not bothering to offer a friendly smile, Harry pulled himself up on his elbows to at least assume a sitting position. Avery gave him one more brief glance, then asked in a casual tone:

"How long did he keep you under?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the question. A flush of shame crept up his neck as he realized Avery had easily deduced Riddle's chosen method of punishment.

"I... I don't know what you mean," Harry mumbled, averting his eyes.

Avery snorted. "Don't play dumb. The Cruciatus Curse. How long?"

Harry squirmed uncomfortably, the memory of the pain still fresh. He couldn't bring himself to answer. Avery, impatient with Harry's reluctance to respond, pressed, "Come on. I need to know to treat you properly. So?"

"Not... not that long," he finally admitted, swallowing his pride. "I didn't lose consciousness."

"Pity," Avery remarked, his voice devoid of sympathy. "After what you did, you deserved a proper punishment. Do you know what we had to go through to save your ass? It almost magically drained both me and your brother."

Anger rose inside Harry, his hands involuntarily clenching into fists beneath the duvet. Despite his annoyance, when Avery offered him a potion to calm his agitated nervous system, Harry obediently drank its contents. He did the same with three more vials that Avery pulled from the pocket of his healer’s apron after casting several diagnostic spells.

Avery visited him twice more. His harsh, almost hostile attitude remained unchanged, but Harry didn't mind. He was a future Death Eater, after all. It was easier to dislike him when he acted like that, even when he was helping Harry to recover. And Harry desperately needed a reason why he shouldn't feel warmer towards him, especially after Avery had made him realise how much effort it had taken to break that curse.

The rest of the week was relatively quiet. Most of the time, Harry was on his own, and on the third day, to keep himself from dwelling on useless thoughts, he reached for a Herbology textbook he'd found on his bedside table shortly after waking up. Now that he knew Riddle's plan, more things began to make sense.

As Harry flipped through it, his mind analysed the events of the past few weeks. Suddenly, all the intense study sessions Riddle had forced upon him, the gruelling repetition of Transfiguration theory, the endless practice of Charms, and the constant refinement of his spellcasting made sense. How had he not realized that it was all for a greater purpose? Thinking about it now, he felt stupid and naive. His embarrassment deepened when Harry remembered how Riddle had made it clear that his plan would not involve Harry becoming a Hogwarts student again.

For a brief moment, Harry had really hoped to get out from under Riddle's watchful eye. Being stuck in the past would be more bearable if he didn't have to spend his days in the company of the future Dark Lord. Besides, Dumbledore was at Hogwarts. And although Riddle had the Marauder's Map at his disposal and had already warned that if he ever saw Harry alone with Dumbledore, he would consider it disobedience of a direct order and punish him accordingly, Harry was sure that, given enough time, he would find a way to reach the future headmaster of Hogwarts.

Despite Riddle's attempts undermine his confidence in Dumbledore, Harry refused to give in. Everyone makes mistakes, even Dumbledore. But Harry still believed that the headmaster truly had his best interests at heart. Dumbledore was good, Riddle was bad. It was simple and undeniable.

Dumbledore never cast Crucio on him.

Unfortunately, Riddle's plan was for Harry to spend only two weeks at Hogwarts. Harry was to arrive at the castle in early June, take all the compulsory exams (and pass them better than he had the first time) and, in the meantime, break into the current headmaster's office and convince the Sorting Hat to give him the Sword of Gryffindor.

A piece of cake. Right.

Even if Harry had wanted the mission to succeed, he would have found it hopeless and doomed to failure.

If only it weren't for the bloody life debt....

As soon as Harry had recovered enough to get out of bed on his own, he went to the library, hoping to find a book about it. Having a life debt to a future Dark Lord was such an absurd concept that Harry desperately hoped it was a big lie, made up by Riddle to give him extra motivation for his mission.

He spent a few hours searching Riddle's growing private library only to find nothing. But the next day, during an evening game of chess — Harry, not wanting to be in Riddle's company, remained stubbornly silent, not even trying to win — Riddle summoned the correct book.

"I believe this is what you were looking for yesterday," he said simply, handing Harry the book. Harry took it without a word.

What he found in it did not make him feel any better.

The tome, entitled "Bonds of Magic: Unbreakable Vows and Life Debts," described life debts as one of the most potent and ancient forms of magical binding. It was created when one wizard saved the life of another, especially when it would have been in the saviour’s best interest to let the other die. The saved wizard owed their saviour a debt that could only be repaid by saving the life in return or by fulfilling a significant request. But the part about the consequences if the rescued wizard tried to harm or kill his saviour was the worst. According to the description, magic itself would consider it an act of great ingratitude that could even result in death. Harry cursed under his breath as he read. Great. Another unwanted bond with Riddle, as if there weren't enough already.

He was beginning to feel overwhelmed. In just two months in the past, he had become bound to Riddle in a way that made it virtually impossible for him to defeat Riddle's future self. And there was nothing Harry could do about it. Riddle had even been able to force him to reveal his only clue to the Horcruxes — and effectively forbid him from seeking any further information about them. Harry could only hope that he would somehow find a way around this, as he had always done.

The problem was that hope was fading with each passing day.

o.O.o

"Are you still sulking? You know it's getting boring, don't you?" Tom said, moving his bishop a few spaces to the left. He was genuinely irritated by Potter's stubborn silence, especially given the circumstances. In Tom's opinion, the brat had no reasons to behave that way.

It was he, Tom, who had driven himself to magical exhaustion to save Potter's life. It was Tom who later apologised to Borgin and Burke on his behalf for the inconvenience caused by their absence from work. He even managed to find and examine the object Potter had so carelessly touched — the curse on it turned out to be quite interesting. Finally, it was Tom who spent the last three nights in a row painstakingly translating the French journey, only to find that not a single sentence was devoted to the Horcruxes.

All things considered, the Crucio he had thrown at Potter was well deserved. And the boy should be grateful that he had limited himself to just one, for despite his composed exterior, Tom's fingers itched to cast the curse again, Potter's dour mood grating on his nerves.

"Don't tell me it bothers you. I won't believe it," Potter replied, not even looking at him. He moved his pawn to such a random square that Tom winced inwardly. Today's game was utterly pointless; Potter had been more into it in his first days here than he was now.

"You're forgetting yourself," Tom said calmly, moving his knight forward. Two more moves and he would have won, but today it felt meaningless, too easy. "You brought this on yourself. Actions have consequences."

Potter's hand froze over the chessboard for a moment before he continued. "As do yours," he murmured under his breath. As soon as the words left his lips, the boy tensed visibly, as if expecting immediate retaliation. His eyes met Tom's for a moment, emerald clashing with grey, before they darted away.

"Careful, Harry," Tom warned quietly, studying the teenager intently. He maintained his stern facade, secretly pleased at the spark of defiance. It was the first small sign of Potter's trademark cheekiness in days, which probably meant that the teenager was slowly returning to his old annoying self. "You're approaching the limit of my tolerance."

Potter's gaze locked with Tom's again, a muted fire in his eyes, tempered by caution and fear. "What happens if I cross it?" he asked, his voice low but steady.

Riddle's lips curled into a cold smile. "I think you already know."

It took considerable restraint not to add that he was just waiting for Potter to push him again. The second Crucio had only whetted his appetite.

o.O.o

"Again, Potter," Tom commanded, looking at the boy appraisingly. "And this time, try to cast a spell instead of waving your wand aimlessly. Otherwise, I’ll think that you no longer need it.”

"I'm trying," Potter spat through clenched teeth. He focused the hateful gaze usually reserved for Tom on the paperweight and waved his wand once more, uttering the appropriate incantation. Loudly, clearly and correctly.

And nothing happened.

"Should I really take your wand?" asked Tom, crossing his arms over his chest. He stood in a relaxed pose, leaning against the desk, watching Potter's performance with growing irritation. First, the boy had failed to perform the transmutation they had practised only a week ago, now he had failed to reduce the paperweight to a quarter of an inch, something he had already mastered to perfection.

"I'm trying," Potter repeated, and the angry glare he shot in his direction confirmed to Tom that something was wrong. Since the second Crucio, Potter had been remarkably docile, even uncharacteristically polite and tamed, so this raising of his voice might have meant that he wasn't lying.

Which meant that perhaps he really wasn’t able to cast this spell.

Tom frowned. He had given him four days to recover. Could it be...

The moment Riddle’s wand moved, Potter jerked violently, almost overturning the table in an attempt to avoid what he clearly thought was incoming punishment. Tom couldn't help but smirk at the reaction. It was satisfying to see the effect of his earlier… approach.

"Relax," Tom said, his tone tinged with amusement. "If I wanted to punish you, I would, and the fact that you're trying to avoid it won't help. This was a diagnostic spell. There’s indeed something wrong with your magic."

Potter shot him another vicious glare.

"You could have warned me," he complained, trying to hide his confusion by turning up the vase he had been trying to turn into a wooden elephant figurine.

"And voluntarily deprive myself of the sight of your natural reaction to me raising my wand?"

Another glare, and then, as if it hit Potter with a delay: "Wait... what do you mean there's something wrong with my magic?" This time, the defiance in the boy’s voice was replaced by growing fear.

Tom raised an eyebrow mockingly. "You sound as though you're not surprised that you've been unable to cast a single spell in the past quarter of an hour."

Potter blushed, but didn't flinch as Tom cast a second diagnostic spell on him. A soft, translucent glow enveloped the boy, pulsing gently like a fading heartbeat. Tom closed his eyes, focusing on the magical sensations rather than the visual display.

The frown on his forehead deepened.

"So?" Potter asked again, his voice tighter now, the fear and tension more evident than before. "What's wrong with my magic?"

"It appears that the curse you so carelessly activated has damaged you more than I originally thought."

Potter froze, the colour draining from his face. Well, he deserved it. "What do you mean by 'damage me more'?"

"It has damaged the connection between you and your magic. Your magic seems to be... depleted. Like a dying flame."

"Could it be reversed?"

Were it not for the fact that Potter's upcoming exams weren't just a cover, Tom would have been tempted to say 'no'. Fortunately for the boy, Tom needed him to pass them well.

After all, he had the reputation to maintain. Riddles' reputation.

"Perhaps," he replied succinctly. Suddenly, an idea sparked in his mind, causing a mental smirk. "But you may not like the method," he added.

Potter looked at him uncomprehendingly.

"What do you mean by this? What method?"

"I think you’ve already known," Tom replied, genuinely curious about the boy's reaction.

Potter wasn't stupid, even if he sometimes stubbornly refused to draw the correct conclusions. Fortunately, he wasn't doing that now.

"Black magic? "

Tom just nodded. And waited, watching the internal struggle play out on Potter's face.

"How much black?" the boy finally asked.

Tom looked him straight in the eyes. "Does it really matter?"

Potter held his gaze, his hands clenching into fists as grim determination settled over his features. "If it means sacrificing someone's life, then I'd rather live without magic."

Tom let out a cold, mirthless laugh.

"It's black because it requires blood. Mine and yours. No one will die, don't be so dramatic."

"And this is the only way?"

"The fastest I know. But for it to work, your cooperation is needed. The alternative is to wait for your magic to naturally reconnect with your will. That could take days, weeks, or even years."

Of course, the part about cooperation was a lie; but Tom was curious about the boy's decision. Presented in this way, it gave him a false air of choice. As well as force him to take responsibility for the use of such magic.

Potter struggled with his thoughts for a moment and Tom regretted, not for the first time, being unable to freely use Legilimency on the boy. Fortunately, Potter had not yet learned to hide his emotions, and all the inner conflict was visible on his face.

"What do I have to do?" Potter asked finally, his voice resigned.

Tom didn’t bother to hide his satisfaction. Step by step.

"Hold out your hands," Tom instructed, simultaneously summoning a silver dagger with a non-verbal Accio. As the dagger slid into his outstretched hand, he pointed it at Potter's palm. "This may be unpleasant," he warned.

Or at least it was for him, when the Cappadocia mage had done the same to him, trying to make a connection between the future Dark Lord's will and his previously dormant wandless magic. Later, of course, he showed Tom how to do it. Sometimes Tom regretted his hasty decision to kill the mage, wondering how much more he could have learned from him.

More often, though, he felt that he had learned all he needed to from him.

"Don't resist, don't fight me or my magic, no matter how you feel," he commanded. "On the contrary, try to cooperate," he added before making two even cuts across the inside of the teenager's hands. The blade was razor-sharp, requiring only the lightest touch. Potter hissed, more in surprise than pain, but he didn't flinch. He remained still as Tom made identical cuts on his own palms and grasped Potter's hands, intertwining their fingers. Their blood mixed and seeped.

"Are you ready?"

Potter clenched his jaw harder but nodded.

Riddle closed his eyes and concentrated, searching for a link to Potter's magic — weak as it was, but still coursing through the boy's blood. Finding it was easier than expected, as if his mortal enemy's magic itself was seeking him out, lunging towards him. When the connection was made, Tom sent out a tendril of his power for encouragement, simultaneously trying to draw out Potter's magic. He pulled once, then twice, but just when he thought he succeeded, the magic retreated. So, he reached deeper, surprised by the lack of expected discomfort or resistance. On the contrary, for a moment, as his and Potter's magic intertwined, he felt a sense of unity — as if there was something fundamentally similar between them. However, he didn't have time to dwell on the sensation, since he reflexively pulling again.

It worked. The power he'd stirred surged forward, pushing against his own, though not violently. It was as if his magic hadn't been recognized as an intruder.

Potter inhaled sharply, stumbling back a few steps and yanking his hands away. Tom smiled and healed both their wounds with a quick spell.

"Now try again," he instructed, pointing with his head at the paperweight.

Potter, avoiding his eyes, pulled his wand from his pocket and, not caring that he was staining it with blood, cast the spell.

The paperweight shrank, its size reducing to approximately a quarter of an inch, as Tom assessed with his trained eye.

"Looks like it worked, " he said simply. "However, your magic may be unstable for a few days. If necessary, we'll repeat what I've just done."

Tom didn't need Legilimency to know that Potter fervently hoped a second intervention wouldn't be necessary. Riddle, on the other hand, wouldn't have minded, for the strange familiarity of Potter's magic was truly puzzling.

o.O.o

Harry set the quill down on the desk and stretched, straightening his stiff muscles. He looked out of the window, first at the overcast sky, then at the crooked, dilapidated tenements across the street. Despite the coming spring, this part of magical London remained grey and dreary. Passers-by hurried down the cobbled street; Harry had spent enough time in Knockturn Alley to notice that Saturday afternoons attracted people who seemed to be here by accident, and it was more than obvious from the way they moved that they felt uncomfortable.

Harry felt uneasy as well, but for a completely different reason. The memory of what had happened yesterday was still haunting him. It wasn't just because he'd agreed to use dark magic to get Riddle to help him reconnect with his own magic. Rather, it was that it hadn't seemed like dark magic, not the kind Harry thought of when the term came up. It had been just blood, and, moreover, his and Riddle's. Given with consent. At first glance, there had been nothing wrong with that.

What was more disturbing, however, was what had followed.

As their fingers had intertwined and blood had mixed, all thoughts of resistance had vanished from Harry's mind. To submit, to let himself be led — it had felt like the only natural thing to do. This desire had arisen in Harry of its own accord, not from external compulsion. Then it had dawned on Harry to whom he had been really submitting. It hadn't been just Riddle's magic, but the future Dark Lord himself. A sobering realization had followed, and the connection had been momentarily severed, only to be re-established a moment later. Harry had allowed himself to give in, against all common sense. At that moment, surrendering had seemed the right thing to do, the best thing he could have done.

Worst of all, it had worked.

His connection to magic had been restored.

What horrified him afterwards was the ease with which he had surrendered, the impression that submitting to Riddle's will, to his orders had been something appropriate, good.

Afterwards, he had felt a reluctant gratitude towards Riddle, who, despite surely having felt Harry's desire to submit to him, had acted as if it hadn't happened at all. He had returned to the lesson with his usual ruthlessness and severity, demanding, as always, Harry's total commitment. Once or twice, Harry had allowed himself a brief rebellion, more to feel that he could than to defy Riddle, and although his behaviour had been met with an immediate response, he had managed to avoid the stinging hex sent his way. Which had been meaningful, because Harry had managed to learn that when Riddle wanted to punish him, the spell always hit its target.

And then Riddle had surprised Harry even more by asking if he had finished reading the book on the basics of curses, reminding him of their agreement. Riddle had even extended his deadline to Sunday evening.

That was why Harry had spent most of Saturday poring over the book on the basics of curses, taking notes until he had got to the section where he needed to combine the new information with his knowledge of charms and transmutation. The knowledge he didn't have, but he knew where to find it. In the books stored in Riddle's library.

Harry sighed and got up from his desk. If he had had his wand, he could have summoned the books he needed, but unfortunately Riddle still kept his wand and gave it to him in strictly controlled situations. It was frustrating, but there was nothing he could do about it.

The only entrance to the library was through the living room, and Harry sincerely hoped he wouldn't run into Riddle there. Apart from their breakfast together, he hadn't seen him all day. Even lunch had been brought to him in his room by Bug — a reward for studying curses so diligently, perhaps?

To Harry's surprise, as he made his way along the corridor and found himself just outside the living room, voices came from behind the ajar door. He recognized some immediately; Riddle's, Malfoy's. But there were others that Harry could not identify. As the content of the ongoing conversation reached his ears, he took a step back making sure he wasn't seen, and, against his better judgement, began to listen.

o.O.o

"...and since Dinwiddle is ambitious, his current position is just a step in his career, and knowing that he’s too weak to remove Cress from his post, he will probably take the opportunity to jump into Rowle’s deputy role," Primus Lestrange said with a lazy certainty in his tone, where contempt mingled with disdain, as if wanting a career in the Ministry of Magic were in itself something derogatory.

Tom Riddle followed Abraxas Malfoy's questioning gaze, which settled on Alastair Mulciber.

"Are you sure about Rowle's deputy?" Abraxas asked, reaching for a caviar cracker, his pale, aristocratic features staring at Mulciber, who seemed half-listening to the ongoing conversation. His gaze had drifted to the view of the city through the narrow, high windows.

Heavy, rainy clouds hung over Muggle London. The Thames stretched out in the distance, grey and worn like the city around it. The room was pleasantly warm, unlike the outside world, thanks to the crackling fire in the fireplace. The flames gave off a steady warmth that reached every corner, and the glow of the chandelier candles illuminated the living room - not as grand as those in his guests' family estates, but no less refined. The business they were discussing today required a trusted environment, and for Tom that meant his flat in Knockturn Alley.

Mulciber tore his eyes from the view outside the window and shrugged his broad shoulders, his muscular frame relaxed in the armchair.

"As far as I know, the boys are just gathering evidence of bribery from your uncle's deputy," Alastair responded. "But they're exceptionally persistent, so I think they'll get there quickly." He paused for a moment, his sharp brown eyes flicking to Tom. "Though it would probably be a matter of weeks, at worst months, not days."

Tom didn’t mind. The situation with Hepzibah Smith was still unresolved, and he needed more time to manipulate his way through the untrusted witch to obtain the Hufflepuff Cup and the Slytherin locket. Until he could close that chapter, he would need to remain cautious, not ready to make his next move too quickly. But that wasn't something his Slytherins needed to know.

"I think I can wait that long," Tom said generously, raising his wine glass to his lips. The crimson liquid swirled slowly before he took a sip, savouring the taste. "I do, however, expect you to keep an eye on it," he said, and although the tone of his voice was conversational, everyone in the room knew it was not a request, but an order.

"I've been assigned to the training section since my return, but of course I'll do my best to stay informed about what's going on in this case," Mulciber promised.

"It would be good if Primus and Abraxas were kept informed as well, so they can act when the time comes," Riddle added idly, twirling his glass.

A slight smile appeared on Primus’s lips. With his usual ease and grace, he summoned his wine glass. "No need to worry, Tom. Alastair is already keeping us well-informed. In fact, we've taken some steps of our own."

Tom raised an eyebrow, pleased to hear that, but said nothing, allowing Primus to continue.

"As you know, Cress is the husband of my uncle's wife's sister," he began. "Yesterday, Secundus and I attended a dinner to celebrate her birthday, and naturally, Cress was there, as our aunt's brother-in-law." Primus paused for effect, slowly savouring his wine. Tom listened with growing satisfaction. "Secundus and I found ourselves reminiscing about our time at Hogwarts. Naturally, you came up in conversation, as Secundus's year mate. He spoke highly of you and mentioned your brilliance and achievements. Our cousins were eager to hear more. Even Cress himself took an interest. He asked what you'd been up to lately."

Abraxas shifted slightly in his armchair, but Primus continued, clearly relishing the attention. "I told him the truth — that you'd recently returned from months of traveling, learning about the cultures of other magical nations."

Tom allowed himself a small smile and looked at Primus with approval. "And what did Cress say?"

Primus leaned back, his confidence evident in the relaxed way he held his glass. "He was intrigued, of course. I'd say you're on his radar now, Tom. The timing couldn't be better."

Before Tom could reply, Abraxas Malfoy — who had been listening with a hint of jealousy in his steely gaze — cut in, his voice soft but with an underlying competitiveness. "Of course, while Primus was busy discussing your virtues, I took matters into my own hands with Dumbledore."

Tom turned his gaze to Malfoy.

"The seventeenth of April," Abraxas continued, his eyes glittering with pride. "That's the date. I've confirmed that Dumbledore will be occupied with the Wizengamot that day. Special meeting—Aurors reporting on their mission abroad. He won't be at Hogwarts. The perfect opportunity for you to speak to Dippet without interference."

There was a brief pause, tension simmering beneath the polished facades of Abraxas and Primus. Tom’s gaze flickered between the two, fully aware of the unspoken rivalry, and a quiet satisfaction rose within him.

They were influential, wealthy, pureblood, and completely at his command. Eager to serve him, greedy for his praise.

It was satisfying.

"Impressive," Tom finally said. "It seems you’ve both been busy." He allowed a hint of satisfaction to colour his words, ensuring both Primus and Abraxas felt acknowledged. "Your efforts are noted. Now we just have to make sure everything goes according to plan."

Abraxas smirked slightly, clearly pleased with himself, while Primus gave a small nod.

"Alastair, what about you? Will you be attending the special meeting of the Wizengamot?" Tom turned to the third wizard who, although he was now responsible for passing on the most important information, had mostly listened to the conversation in silence, sparsely adding a few things of his own, his serious face betraying little. Tom knew, however, that he was the most loyal of his current guests. As the third son with no prospect of advancing within his family, Alastair was looking for a way out. And he had found it among the Aurors, while remaining in Riddle's service. "Do you have any insider information to offer?"

"I suspect so, but no one has spoken to me officially about it yet," Mulciber said, sounding more like he was reporting than answering a casual question. "But I wouldn't count on any important or key information to come out of this meeting. The command prefers to keep our methods discreet. And none of my boys are eager to share what we did while posing as Grindelwald’s followers. The important thing is that it worked."

Riddle understood this perfectly; he knew Alastair's ruthless nature, his disregard for getting his hands dirty. And pretending to be Grindelwald's loyal servant in order to bring about his downfall had certainly required it more than once.

Tom leaned forward, his voice lowering with interest. "I’d like to hear more about that..." he said with a knowing look.

Alastair took a sip of his wine, about to respond when his gaze flicked to the door, suspicion tightening his expression.

Riddle felt a surge of irritation, knowing perfectly well what had alerted Alastair. Hiding his annoyance, Tom nodded almost imperceptibly, letting Alastair know he was aware, and sat back, signalling calm.

Fool. If Potter had even an ounce of common sense, he would have retreated quietly. But no—he had to push his luck, probably thinking his presence at the door had gone unnoticed. After two months of living with Riddle under one roof.

Idiocy.

"It seems we have an eager listener among us," Riddle said smoothly, waving a hand and opening the door wide.

Alastair's eyes widened at the casual display of wandless magic. It seemed his Slytherins hadn't bothered to inform him of their leader's latest skill.

As the door opened, Potter’s silhouette came into view, standing just beyond the threshold. His face, pale and wide-eyed, betrayed a mixture of trepidation and annoyance as he instinctively took a step back, retreating into the shadows of the corridor. But Tom's voice cut through the air, stopping him in his tracks.

"Don't be shy, Harry," Tom drawled, his tone mocking as he gestured for the boy to step forward. "Come in, won't you?"

Reluctantly, Potter entered the room, glancing briefly at the three men sitting around Riddle, each with a different glint of interest in their eyes. Alastair's face showed polite curiosity, Primus scowled in disapproval, and Abraxas, apparently sensing what was about to unfold before their eyes, took another cracker and a long sip of wine, as if he were in the audience of a theatre waiting for a show.

"It’s not what it looks like," Potter said quickly, his words tumbling out. "I wasn't eavesdropping — well, I mean, I was here, yes, but only because I needed a book from the library, and I didn't want to disturb you—"

"Enough," Tom interrupted, his voice sharp and clipped, slicing through Potter’s rushed excuses. He watched the boy closely, his piercing gaze evaluating every twitch and shift in Potter’s expression. There was some truth in his words, he was certain, but it did nothing to change the fact that Potter had been listening, lingering deliberately by the door. "Do you remember what I said would happen if I caught you eavesdropping again?"

Potter was about to open his mouth in another protest, presumably to argue that he was telling the truth, but the warning glint in Tom's eyes made him fall silent. It was not a good idea to argue with Tom in front of an audience like this, and apparently, even Potter knew that. So he pressed his lips into a tight line and fixed Tom with a defiant glare.

Tom sighed theatrically, letting his gaze flick briefly to Alastair, who watched with a raised eyebrow. "Alastair," Tom began, a note of irony in his voice, "meet my younger brother, Harry. He’s a rather recent addition to the family and… well, unruly."

Primus gave a derisive snort, his gaze hardening as he looked at Harry. "Had he been my brother, he would have learned his lesson after the first time."

"My brother usually only needs a warning," Tom replied, his voice deceptively calm even as he seethed inwardly at the patronising tone of Primus' words. The remark was an implication, faint but nonetheless, that Tom had failed to manage his younger brother effectively — a subtle hint of doubt in his authority. "But he is still a teenager and unfortunately some things need to be reminded. It also happened with Secundus, didn't it?"

"Very rarely," Primus replied, clearly displeased that Tom remembered such situations.

"Same here," Tom said, glancing at the boy who stood tense, his defiance barely concealed by his forced silence.

In truth, Tom had no desire to punish Potter here and now, not in front of his followers. Potter’s resentment would only deepen, and he didn't feel like dealing with the boy's moods, not when they had such an important mission ahead of them. But Primus’s reaction made one thing clear: this was no longer about Potter’s insolence; it was about Tom’s control, his mastery over those who followed him.

If he let Potter's behaviour go unpunished, even for a moment, his Slytherins might begin to question his strength. And in this world, strength was everything. They followed him because he had proven himself at Hogwarts to be the strongest, the most ruthless among them. If he hesitated now, if he showed any cracks, he knew their loyalty would waver. It was a line he couldn't afford to blur.

So with cold determination, Riddle rose gracefully from his chair and took a few steps forward. The way he moved could have been frightening; there was a cold precision to his movements that promised pain.

He nodded calmly at Potter and gestured for him to come forward.

"Come here," he ordered, his voice deep and steady. It was clear that this was no suggestion. This was no longer a matter of discipline — it was about maintaining his dominion.

Potter hesitated, the rebellious fire flashing in his green eyes as he glanced briefly at the others. His face was a storm of anger and humiliation, a fiery defiance struggling against an undeniable dread. He opened his mouth, perhaps this time to argue, but something in Tom’s expression silenced him again. Swallowing visibly, Potter stepped forward, his hands clenched at his sides, every inch of his posture radiating tension and resentment.

"Hold out your hands," Tom instructed, his tone as cold as ice. Potter’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might outright refuse. His reluctance to carry out the order was clear. But then, under Tom’s withering gaze, he exhaled and angrily extended his hands, palms facing up, his expression one of simmering fury mixed with palpable fear.

"Three strikes," Tom announced, as if declaring a simple fact. He did not justify his decision, unlike the measured explanations he had given so far. He met Potter’s gaze with a hard, unyielding stare. "I hope you remember the rules better than my first warning about eavesdropping."

Potter merely nodded, but it was clear he was barely in control of himself. His lips were pressed into a thin line, his eyes blazing.

"Then be so kind as to remind us of them, so that I can be sure you understand," Tom said, his voice deceptively gentle, yet his gaze unwavering.

Potter’s face flushed, his teeth clenched tightly. "I… I keep my eyes on you," he muttered, the words coming out strained. "And… if I pull my hands back, we start over."

Tom tilted his head slightly, a faint glint of satisfaction in his eye. "And you will count each strike aloud," he added, watching Potter’s expression twist, anger sparking beneath the mask of control. "And afterwards you will thank me and apologise to me and my guests for interrupting our conversation." This was exceptionally cruel but necessary.

Potter’s lips pressed even tighter, a flush of rage darkening his cheeks. Tom could see the anger building in him, a silent, unyielding hatred that seemed to set his green eyes ablaze. Beneath the fury, though, was a flicker of something else — humiliation, a shame that was as potent as his rage.

"Did you understand?"

"Yes."

It was almost impressive, the way Potter’s resentment pulsed beneath the surface, and Tom knew the boy’s loathing was directed entirely at him.

Aware of the attention of the other Slytherins, Tom raised his wand but looked Potter straight in the eyes before casting the punishing spell.

The first strike landed with a brutal snap across Potter’s palms. The boy’s reaction was instantaneous—he sucked in a sharp breath, his face contorting in pain as he instinctively jerked his hands back, unable to suppress the hiss of agony that escaped him.

Tom smiled inwardly, pleased with the boy's reaction. It was exactly what he wanted. He also noted the reactions of his Slytherins. After all, the whole display was more for them than to discipline Potter. Primus's face showed clear approval, his posture relaxed and content, the discipline perfectly in line with his beliefs in obedience. Abraxas watched with barely concealed pleasure, the jealousy in his gaze momentarily subdued by Potter's humiliation. As for Alastair, he remained impassive, the punishment consistent with the strict discipline he was accustomed to in his work.

"Hands out, Harry. We begin again," Tom commanded icily.

For a moment, Riddle thought Potter might finally rebel. The hatred in the green eyes was almost feral, and there was a raw humiliation that showed the boy knew his pain was the least important factor here. His cheeks burned with shame, his chest rising in a rhythm of quickened breaths.

Well, Potter brought this on himself, he had the chance to retreat to his room before Mulciber could sense his presence. He wouldn't have escaped a reprimand, but Tom could once again play the role of the understanding older brother.

He hadn’t taken the chance. Now he would suffer.

Finally, after a long, tense moment, Potter relented and slowly extended his hands once more.

Riddle raised his wand again. This time without remorse.

After all, he liked it.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER EIGHTEEN —

Fake amends

The stillness of the misty morning was shattered by the sharp crackle of an Apparition. A bitter wind swept across the open Scottish moor, its icy fingers carrying wisps of damp mist that curled around the crumbling remains of an ancient castle — a ghost of its former glory, perched high upon the hill where it had once stood as a proud clan stronghold.

Tom released his grip on Potter's arm. The boy stumbled forward before catching his balance. He rubbed his arm absentmindedly, his eyes sweeping over their surroundings.

"Where are we?" he asked, his voice devoid of its usual curiosity.

"On the moor," Tom replied evenly.

Rather than pressing for details as he would have done just days ago, Potter simply replied with a short "Mm-hmm" and shoved his hands into his coat pockets, standing silently, waiting for further instructions with an air of weary resignation. Tom suppressed a twinge of irritation.

Since the eavesdropping incident, Potter had become almost unbearable. The wild, unruly boy who had once met Tom's orders with defiance and sharp retorts was now subdued and compliant, his rebellious spark extinguished. Instead of resistance, he offered nothing but flat, mechanical obedience, following orders without a trace of emotion.

It grated on Tom's nerves. He had wanted submission, but this empty compliance felt like mockery. Worse, he found himself irritated by his own annoyance. Normally he enjoyed unquestioning obedience, but Potter's lifeless acceptance was a hollow victory. The boy before him seemed more ghost than adversary, nothing like the intriguing opponent he'd grown accustomed to.

Fortunately, Tom knew Potter's defiance wasn't gone but merely dormant - and today, he would draw it back to the surface.

"We're going there," he said, gesturing toward the ruins of the former fortress. Only a single tower and some remnants of thick stone walls remained of what must have once been a formidable stronghold.

Potter sighed and nodded, "Lead the way."

Tom moved along the narrow, winding path that twisted through the low scrub of heather, his steps confident across the slippery stones. Behind him, he heard a sudden curse followed by a loud slosh — Potter must have stepped into a patch of mud. Tom allowed himself a brief smirk but didn’t slow his pace.

When they reached the top, Tom stopped before a moss-covered stone, its surface deeply etched with ancient runes. Without a word, he nodded at Potter, who approached with a sour face, his trousers wet and mud-streaked.

Tom forced himself to ignore the boy's scruffy appearance. Potter would look far worse soon enough. "I need to add your magical signature to the wards," he said, extending a hand. "Give me your hand."

Potter hesitated, and Tom caught a glimmer of that familiar defiance flickering in his eyes. But it was fleeting. He extended his hand, his expression wary but silent. Tom made a precise cut and held Potter's hand over the stone, watching as a few drops of blood fell onto the ancient rune. He muttered the incantation, and the rune glowed briefly, the ambient magic thickening for just a moment before settling once more. "Done."

Potter clenched his hand into a fist, glaring at Riddle with undisguised resentment. Tom raised an eyebrow, his lips curling slightly. "Don’t you want me to heal it?"

Potter's response was wordless — merely the outstretched hand, palm open.

As they crossed the threshold of the protective spells, the moor appeared unchanged, still the same expanse of mist-shrouded heather and distant hills blending into the grey horizon. But within the boundaries of the old ruins, there was a palpable change. The air grew thick, charged with a faint, prickling energy, as if the stones themselves harbored ancient magic woven into the crumbling walls.

They stood in what must have been the main courtyard of the castle. All around them, the remains of high walls rose skyward, their jagged edges softened by moss and time, casting long shadows across the uneven ground. To the left, a collapsed archway opened into a dark passageway, its stones weathered and chipped, hinting at rooms long forgotten. Nearby, the remains of a tower loomed half-standing, with vines winding up its stones and crowning the top, like nature's defiant attempt to reclaim what was left.

Tom knew the place well, and unlike Potter, he was not impressed. The boy wandered a few tentative steps forward, looking around cautiously, his curiosity barely concealed.

Finally, a spark of life.

"Where are we?" Potter asked, the earlier emptiness in his voice replaced by genuine curiosity.

Tom approached him, hands casually tucked into his thick robes. "These are the ruins of a medieval castle, owned by the Primus family for generations," he said, his voice deliberately casual, as if such things were nothing unusual. "My Slytherins use it now and then, especially when they're in the mood for a duel." He didn't mention the powerful enchantments cloaking the area, allowing dark spells to be cast without attracting attention. Nor did he add that his Knights dueled here regularly, with another session planned for tonight.

The word duel had exactly the effect he'd anticipated. Potter turned sharply, his expression wary.

"Duel?"

Tom nodded, letting a slow, sly smile spread across his face. "I’m a man of my word, after all. You read the book on curses, so here we are."

Potter gave him a skeptical look. "A few days after the deadline. Since when have you been so understanding?"

Tom shrugged, unbothered. "Let's say I've taken your circumstances into account."

Potter's eyes widened comically at that.

"As if I'm going to believe you."

"To give you an incentive," Riddle added, ignoring Potter's comment, "if you win, I'll grant you one wish."

Potter's gaze sharpened. "What can I ask?"

Tom looked Potter straight in the eyes. The boy tensed, though this tension carried none of the defeated wariness of recent days. Perfect. "You can wish for anything. But within reason, of course."

"Anything?"

"Almost anything," Tom admitted casually, tilting his head slightly. "Freedom and a return to your time are off the table. Those terms are defined by our oath."

A slight twitch played at Potter's mouth. "Just those two exceptions?"

Tom nodded, his expression unreadable. "Just those two."

Silence fell as Potter considered this, and Tom felt a faint sense of satisfaction as a spark of genuine interest, however fleeting, flickered across the boy's features.

"If I win," Potter began slowly, "you're not allowed to physically punish me again — not in private and certainly not in front of anyone else."

Tom raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise despite having expected exactly this demand. "And how, exactly, do you imagine I'll discipline you in the case of your disobedience?" he asked, his voice carrying a soft, mocking edge.

Potter's jaw tightened, and he met Tom's gaze with a defiant spark that felt like a victory in itself. "That's not my problem. I'm sure you'll think of something."

Tom chuckled, genuinely amused by this return of Potter's insolence. "Careful, Harry. You may not like what I come up with instead." After a calculated pause, he nodded with feigned reluctance. "Very well. If you win, I'll abide by your condition. Although I feel disappointed. You could have asked for anything, even for me to change my plans and stop dreaming of world domination, and you asked for this. Are you that scared of pain?"

The barb struck true — exactly the effect Tom wanted. Colour flooded Potter's face, a deep red that crept up his neck and into his hairline.

"Because I'm sure you'd keep that kind of promise," Potter retorted, voice dripping with venom.

Tom smirked. "Who knows? Now you'll never know, because you've irretrievably lost your chance."

Potter closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, as if steadying himself. When he opened them again, the earlier embarrassment had vanished completely.

"So how will we know who wins?" he asked, all business now.

"Simple. Whoever disarms the other first or leaves their opponent unable to continue."

"And spells?"

"You may use any spell you wish," Tom replied, his eyes glinting dangerously. "Even Unforgivables — save Avada Kedavra, of course." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "But this will be your only chance, Harry," he said, his tone almost inviting. "If you're brave enough, go ahead. Try Crucio on me. I'll let it pass without punishment if you manage to hit me."

Potter laughed shortly, mirthlessly. "Tempting. Who knows, maybe I’ll give it a shot."

Tom's smile widened, though they both knew Potter's bluff for what it was. He reached into his robes and pulled out the boy's wand. He held it out between them, watching with satisfaction as Potter's face transformed — raw hunger flashing across his features as he practically snatched the wand from Riddle's grasp. All traces of the past week's resignation and numb compliance had vanished, replaced by a bright, determined light in Potter's eyes.

Tom took several steps back, his own wand slipping into his hand. The air between them crackled with tension, charged with all the anger and resentment Potter had kept buried. This duel would be exactly what Potter needed, an outlet for his anger, and Tom was more than willing to let him try.

"Whenever you're ready, Harry," he said, his voice cold and taunting, his eyes gleaming as he raised his wand. "But remember your manners."

Potter gave a short, mocking bow, his eyes never leaving Tom's. Riddle responded in kind.

And then the duel began.

Potter struck first. The incantation barely left his lips, his wand slashing through the air, a flash of red hurtling toward Tom. A predictable opening — a simple Stunner that shattered harmlessly against Tom's shield, conjured with nothing more than a lazy flick of his wrist.

Tom allowed Potter to advance, studying the boy's movements with predatory interest as he unleashed a barrage of spells. A jet of blue light shot from Potter's wand, aimed low, attempting to knock Tom off his feet. Rather than shield, Tom simply stepped aside, letting the spell crash into the ancient stones behind him, sending fragments skittering across the ground.

Potter pressed on relentlessly, shouting his incantations with fierce focus, each spell more intense than the last. A flash of bright yellow shot toward Tom — a binding spell, followed quickly by a powerful Repelling Curse. Tom dodged both with ease, but he noted the surprising dexterity in Potter's movements. As Tom lifted his shield to block an incoming curse — a particularly powerful Expulso that sent shockwaves crackling through the air — it occurred to him that Potter might actually give some of his Slytherins a challenge. The boy's face was a mask of fierce concentration, his body moving with remarkable agility.

What prevented Potter from winning, however — aside from the fact that his opponent was Tom — was his lack of non-verbal magic. Every spell was cast aloud, stripping his attacks of any element of surprise. The teen's repertoire, while impressive for his age, remained limited; each spell, though cast with conviction, was painfully predictable. Everything Potter threw at him could be found in a basic Hogwarts textbook.

With a low, mocking laugh, Tom sidestepped another hex, lifting his wand with deliberate laziness. "Is that really the best you can do, Harry?" he taunted, his voice dripping with calculated disdain. "I'm giving you free rein — even the Unforgivables, if you dare — and you're sticking to schoolyard charms?" He cocked an eyebrow, amusement glinting in his eyes. The fight had grown boring and predictable, far from what Tom had envisioned. "What's the point? Maybe you don't really want to win because you like being punished? Just say the word and I'll do it more often."

Fury blazed across Potter's face, his jaw clenching tight. Then, without warning, he struck — a nonverbal curse erupted from his wand, dark energy coiling ominously towards Tom. The sudden shift in tactics forced Tom to react faster than he'd anticipated, his shield materializing just in time to shatter the curse. The magic was advanced, potent enough to have left a mark had it hit.

A predatory smile spread across Tom's face. Now this — this was unexpected.

"So this is how we play? Very well. Now let's see how you deal with counter attacks," Tom purred, amusement dancing in his voice. He'd been holding back until now — merely allowing Potter to vent his anger. But that courtesy was about to end.

With minimal effort, Tom unleashed raw power. The spell roared toward Potter like a thunderbolt, colliding with the boy's hastily summoned shield. The impact knocked Potter back a step, his eyes widening as he braced himself. Tom pressed forward, his next spell already flying. Potter abandoned any attempt at shielding, throwing himself sideways as the curse whistled past his ear.

For a moment, Tom showered the boy with a merciless barrage of curses — nothing particularly dark or deadly, conscious that the teenager couldn't yet handle the spells he typically used against his Slytherins — but he was determined to test Potter's limits, to push them. The boy proved remarkably resourceful, alternating between shields and dodges, even manipulating the debris around them to absorb incoming attacks.

The boy's reflexes were good, Tom noted with a twinge of approval, but he wouldn't let up. He sent a series of precise, stinging hexes in quick succession, each calculated to force a reaction while maintaining the illusion of a fair fight. Potter's wand whirled in desperate defence — shield, dodge, duck — each movement more frantic than the last.  But one curse finally slipped past, hitting Potter's side with a force that left him staggering, his face contorted in pain as he clutched his shoulder. Yet something in that twisted expression both surprised and pleased Tom: raw, defiant resolve.

Potter retaliated with a twisting curse that snaked through the air toward Tom, an attempt at creativity that held some merit. Tom dodged it with a sidestep, responding with a powerful curse of his own that split the air, sending Potter rolling to the side to avoid being hit. He rose again, blood smearing his cheek from a fresh scrape, his gaze dark and intent as he wiped it away.

Tom couldn't help but relish the flash of irritation on Potter's face. This was vastly preferable to that recent blank compliance.

Good. Let the boy feel it. Let him remember what it means to resist.

He granted Potter a brief moment of respite, a calculated gesture to foster a false sense of control. This moment of reprieve, however, almost cost him the duel. Potter's unexpected stratagem — a creative combination of Flippendo, Wingardium Leviosa, and Expulso — took Tom by surprise. He found himself nearly flung against the moss-covered wall of the ruins. But he recovered with a laugh, feeling a surge of unexpected enjoyment. The boy had potential, rough and unrefined as it was.

Tom decided to use Potter's own tactic against him. The same combination, executed with Tom's masterful control, tore through Potter's defences, sending the boy sprawling across the clearing. Potter, visibly dazed, struggled to his feet, still off-balance as he shouted another incantation, wand pointed directly at Tom.

In that moment, Tom understood why Potter had been such a thorn in his future self's side. Despite his injuries and exhaustion, the boy stood defiant, his gaze burning with inextinguishable determination. This was the Potter who had frustrated his future self, the Potter who seemed to thrive under pressure, even as he was pushed to his limits. The boy fought like a cornered animal — dodging, blocking, and retaliating with a determination that seemed to grow fiercer with each passing moment. Every spell he cast was charged with raw emotion, with a silent defiance that had clearly only been buried, not erased.

Still, he was not at a level that could challenge Riddle.

As the duel progressed, even Tom felt the wear creeping into his muscles. Not that he was truly tired, but there was a pleasant ache from the exertion, a rare feeling he enjoyed. Potter's defiance, his relentless drive, stirred something in him, an unexpected thrill.

But when he realised that he was parrying Potter's spells almost mechanically, he decided to bring this to an end. With a calculated move, Tom sent a series of minor hexes at Potter, spells designed more to distract than harm. The boy, exhausted, stumbled under the barrage, his defences cracking. For a split second, Potter's guard slipped, and Tom saw his opening.

"Expelliarmus!"

Potter's wand flew from his hand, arcing through the air before landing neatly in Tom's outstretched palm. The duel was over, and Potter knew it. The teenager stared, frustration and shock warring on his face as he struggled to catch his breath, his empty hands clenched angrily on clumps of grass.

Tom approached him with deliberate slowness, his face carefully neutral, though satisfaction glinted in his eyes. "Well, Harry," he drawled, his voice dripping with mockery. "It seems you'll have to work a bit harder if you want that immunity from punishment." He raised an eyebrow, watching the flush in Potter's face deepen. "But it wasn't as tragic as I expected," he added, and realised, with a trace of surprise, that he truly meant it. Potter had shown marked improvement since their first duel two months ago.

Potter glared, but there was something different in his eyes now. The lifelessness was gone, replaced by a fierce light that Tom hadn't seen in days. Bruised, scraped, and exhausted as he was, Potter looked more like himself than he had in a week.

Tom felt a glimmer of satisfaction; his plan had worked. He'd given Potter the release he needed, and now the boy's rebellious spirit was back, rekindled and burning bright.

His toy had been repaired.

Potter hesitated, eyeing the offered hand with a mixture of suspicion and reluctance. But after a moment, he reached out, his grip firm and unyielding as he let Tom pull him to his feet.

"Next time, I won't let you off so easily," Potter muttered, his voice hoarse but defiant.

Tom's smile was cold, tinged with amusement. "I will hold you to that promise."

Without another word, Riddle Disapparated them, leaving the battered clearing silent once more, the echoes of their duel fading into the mist.

o.O.o

Harry sat at a small, rickety desk tucked into the dim, dusty corner of Borgin and Burke's back room, staring blankly at the thick, worn textbook on potion theory in front of him. He let out a frustrated sigh, leaning back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, eyes drifting over to the shelf on his right. There, nestled between a couple of decrepit grimoires, lay a black journal — a book that, by all logic, should not have been there.

He'd first noticed it last week, right after returning to work. He'd clenched his jaw, forcing his gaze away, convinced Riddle had left it there deliberately to bait him, another opportunity for punishment. And if it hadn't been for the eavesdropping incident last week, it might have worked.

Harry's hands clenched into fists as he recalled it — the punishment had been harsher than usual, his hands burning with the relentless force of each blow, the pain sharp and unrelenting. But this hadn't been new — Harry had been used to the pain; he could take it. What lingered like a raw wound was the forced submission under their scrutinizing, sneering eyes. Riddle had forced him into a display of humiliating obedience in front of his followers, with Malfoy among them. Unwanted tears that he had fought to hold back began to stream down his face, his vision blurring with each blow. And after the last blow, his hands throbbing and his cheeks wet, Riddle had ordered him to look each of the Slytherins in the eye and apologise, forcing out a cracked, broken 'I'm sorry' for disrupting their meeting. That moment, when he realized he hadn't been able to rebel, to say no — hadn't even wanted to say no — had nearly broken him.

Afterwards, Harry felt hollow, as if something vital had been ripped from him, leaving only emptiness.  Shame, anger and bone-deep exhaustion pressed down on him, smothering every last urge to resist. All he wanted was to return to his time, to escape Riddle's control, to leave this twisted game behind. But any hope of that seemed distant, unreal — like a memory from another life. Helplessness wrapped around him like a heavy fog, suffocating any remaining spark of fight.

Embarrassed by his own surrender, Harry had tried to bury the feeling. After all, he’d always fought, hadn’t he? But now, fighting seemed pointless, useless. It didn’t change anything.

And so, he made his decision: he would become an empty shell, devoid of feeling or resistance. Let Riddle command him — he would follow, numb and silent, biding his time. And if a chance to escape ever came, he would take it.

Perhaps he could have maintained that hollow resolve if it hadn't been for the duel. The clash was pure instinct — dodge, counter, strike — each movement stripping away the numbness he'd hidden behind. His magic responded with a wild abandon he'd forgotten he possessed, humming through his veins like liquid lightning. Every spell that left his wand felt like defiance incarnate, and Riddle's taunts only fueled the fire. By the time his last curse flew, the walls he'd built around himself lay in ruins, leaving him breathless but finally, irrevocably awake.

It was exactly what he had needed at that moment.

Harry had known, of course, that Riddle’s promise of 'a wish' was an empty offer, just bait to pull him into the fight. But the chance to unleash his anger and frustration against Riddle was too tempting to pass up. So he’d taken it, holding nothing back. Every spell, every ounce of rage he’d bottled up, he flung at Riddle. He’d even reached for curses he’d found in the Potions book — dark, twisting hexes he barely understood.

Naturally, he’d lost; that had been obvious from the start. But it hadn’t mattered. He’d fought with everything he had, pushing himself until he was spent. And in that moment, as he dodged and countered, facing Riddle head-on, he felt like himself again.

And that's why what hadn't had a chance to work last week could work now.

Harry's fingers drummed involuntarily against the textbook's yellowed pages. The temptation to break Riddle's order grew stronger with each passing moment. Leaning back in his chair, he glanced toward the bookshelf positioned beside the curtain that separated the back room from the front of the shop.

Borgin and Riddle had gone to see one of their regular customers, a witch called Hepzibah Smith. Burke chased Harry into the back room as he was also waiting for an important customer and didn't want any children scampering around under his feet. There might not be another chance like this.

After all, wasn't this what all the trouble with time travel was about? Maybe the Room of Requirement had sensed his inner conflict, the guilt he felt over failing Dumbledore's mission in favor of shadowing Malfoy, and had decided to help him in its own way?

He bit his lip, feeling the familiar rush of fear and excitement intertwine. Was it worth risking Riddle's wrath? The future Dark Lord had been disturbingly clear about forbidding further investigation into Horcruxes. And yet...

If he could unravel the Horcruxes mystery, maybe he'd find a way back to his own time.

The thought of potential punishment made his stomach twist. Though the recent duel had rekindled his rebellious spirit, memories of Riddle's vengeance lingered. Harry clenched his hands.

If he was careful...

He pushed himself up from the chair, crossing the room until he stood before the shelf, eyes fixed on the black, worn cover. A battle raged within him; one cautious voice warned him of the consequences, while another, defiant one insisted the risk was worth it. Just a quick look — Riddle wouldn't ever have to know. Lost between his warring impulses, he barely registered the sound of footsteps until a low, gravelly voice broke through his thoughts.

"What are you doing, boy?"

Harry flinched.

Mr. Burke stood in the doorway, his face expressionless, but there was no rebuke in his gaze. He raised a bushy grey eyebrow, and Harry hurried away from the shelf, trying to hide his hesitation beneath an air of casual interest.

"I was just... looking," Harry murmured, running a hand through his hair in an attempt to sound convincing. "There's one book I need..." He hesitated, trying not to look at the journal tucked between other volumes. "For my study," he added, quickly spotting a book on potion making. "But, er... I'm afraid it's cursed."

Mr. Burke's smile turned sly as he approached, his robes swishing softly over the dusty floor. "Cursed, you say? Have you finally heeded our warnings? It only took nearly dying."

Harry blushed.

Meanwhile, Mr. Burke's gaze swept over the bookshelf. "Which book do you need?"

Harry pointed to the completely unnecessary for him book on potions.

Mr. Burke raised his wand and flicked it toward the shelf, muttering an incantation under his breath. A pale, flickering light enveloped the books, illuminating faint lines of magic that twisted around them like fine threads. He watched for a moment, brow furrowed.

"Unnecessary fuss," he muttered, seemingly to himself, rather than to Harry, waving his wand and dispelling the luminous tendrils. "Borgin's handiwork. A harmless spell, just to alert him if someone touches these." His fingers tapped the spine of the black journal, making Harry's heart leap. "We nearly lost this one last week. Glad it turned up."

Burke’s gaze turned sharp, assessing. Harry swallowed hard.

"I'm sure it won’t disappear again," Harry managed, realizing Mr. Burke was waiting for a response.

Mr. Burke nodded, but just as he was about to add something, a bell chimed from the front of the shop, announcing the arrival of a customer. Mr. Burke scowled at first, then, remembering Harry was watching, quickly composed himself with a jovial smile.

"Stay here," he instructed, casting Harry a final glance before turning away and striding out with his arms spread wide in greeting. "Mr. Shelby! What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting a personal visit!"

As Mr. Burke pulled the curtain shut behind him, a faint shimmer suggested he'd cast a silencing charm. The shop's bustle disappeared, leaving Harry in silence.

It was now or never.

Without another thought, he turned and snatched the black journal from the shelf, his heart pounding as he clutched it to his chest. His instincts told him that it hadn’t been Borgin who set the notification charm. But with the spell deactivated, he could finally take a look without risk of being caught.

He slipped back into his seat at the rickety table, frantically flipping through the worn pages, scanning the French text desperately. The mention of Horcruxes had been near the end, if he remembered right. He just needed a word, a phrase — something to confirm what he'd seen.

There! He found it.

Harry grabbed a loose sheet of parchment and dipped his quill into ink, his hand moving quickly as he copied the words down. Every few seconds, he glanced over his shoulder toward the curtain, his heart pounding faster with each look.

He copied three pages — just in case. 

o.O.o

Dinner was quiet, but this time it felt natural rather than tense. Tom ate in silence, a sense of satisfaction simmering just beneath his composed exterior. Everything was working out as he had planned.

Hepzibah Smith had proven just as susceptible to his charms as every other witch he'd set out to beguile. Everett Rosier had not only delivered the vintage wine he'd requested but had also remembered to include a box of candied pineapple from a renowned French confectioner. Primus Lestrange had confirmed that he had passed Riddle's instructions to his youngest brother.

And Potter... Potter was back. The hollow shell was gone, replaced by the same rebellious, irritating teenager from two and a half months ago. A faint smirk curved Riddle’s lips as his gaze settled on the boy across the table. There was a particular satisfaction in witnessing Potter's renewed defiance, his relentless determination to defy Tom's authority at every turn — without it, breaking him would have been insufferably boring.

But beneath that rebellious exterior, subtle changes had begun to take hold — changes that made their forced cohabitation more tolerable. Take, for example, his table manners: they had improved considerably, eliminating the uncouth habits that once grated on Tom’s nerves.

Sensing the scrutiny, Potter looked up. "What are you staring at?" he asked sharply.

"Merely admiring how far you’ve come. I see even a lost cause like you can be civilized with enough effort." Mockery laced Tom's voice as he dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "Miracles, it seems, do happen."

Potter's jaw clenched, but he remained silent, channelling his anger into stabbing a piece of roasted potato. Tom’s amusement deepened. The boy’s rekindled spirit brought with it that delightful inability to mask his emotions — such an intriguing correlation.

Setting his cutlery aside, Riddle leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of calculated ease. "By the way," he said casually, as though the matter was of little consequence, "you have the evening free. Since we’ll be visiting Hogwarts tomorrow, there’s no need to retire early for work."

The mention of Hogwarts had the desired effect. A brief flash of surprise crossed Potter’s face, followed by suspicion and — though he struggled to hide it — a spark of excitement. He tried to maintain his defensive posture, but Tom saw right through him.

"I trust I don't need to remind you," Riddle continued, his voice taking on a low, dangerous edge, "that your obedience and cooperation are not optional. One misstep and you will look back on your last punishment with fondness."

The air between them grew tense. Potter's expression darkened, the fire in his eyes burning all the brighter for it. Tom allowed himself a smirk, faint and fleeting, as he stood.

"Get some rest," he said, his tone dismissive. "We’ll see in the morning."

And tomorrow, at Hogwarts, Potter would help him take the first step towards reshaping Voldemort’s destiny.

Whether he wanted to or not.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER NINETEEN —

Old haunts

A gentle hush fell over Hogsmeade as the midday sun filtered through the clouds, casting a golden glow over the stony rooftops. It was a quiet day, the air brisk but with a hint of warmth beneath it — a promise that spring was near. The calmness felt almost unnatural to Tom, in whose memories these streets were always crowded with hordes of Hogwarts students. They had poured in like a tidal wave, filling every corner with laughter, shouts, and boisterous energy that Riddle had always found distasteful. After leaving school, he had visited Hogsmeade twice, and had been always struck by how different the place was without all the noisy crowds. In the absence of these invaders, Hogsmeade's true character shining through. Crooked chimneys puffed faint, rainbow-tinged smoke, and floating shop signs swayed gently as if nodding at passersby. The half-timbered houses, their walls tangled with ivy, leaned toward each other, casting long shadows on the cobblestone streets.

Will it still look like this in fifty years? The thought crossed Tom's mind as he adjusted the strap of the leather bag containing Rosier's wine and a box of candied pineapples. He glanced at Potter. The boy's wide-open eyes, as he looked around, suggested otherwise. Or perhaps this was just the first time Potter had seen Hogsmeade without the tarnishing crowds?

"Why didn't we just Apparate closer to Hogwarts?" Potter asked, sensing Tom's gaze on him. Suspicion coloured his voice, a welcoming change from his earlier numbness.

"We have some time before our meeting with Headmaster Dippet," Tom replied calmly. "I thought a little tour might be a pleasant way to pass the time. You might consider it a reward for good behaviour."

Potter’s eyes narrowed, and Tom could practically see the distrust glinting behind them, a spark he found oddly satisfying. Impulsively, he added, "After all, what kind of guardian would I be if I only punished you?"

Potter's look of pure incredulity was priceless, and Tom allowed a flicker of amusement to surface, though his expression remained composed. Toying with Potter like this — mixing small kindnesses with hidden barbs — was a game he was beginning to enjoy. The boy’s confusion was almost tangible, and Riddle relished the control it gave him.

"Shall we, then?" Tom gestured down the main street with an lazy, inviting sweep of his hand, as if suggesting a walk to Potter was the most natural thing in the world.

The teen hesitated, but eventually gave a reluctant nod, his gaze lingering on Tom with a mix of scepticism and curiosity. They walked side by side, Tom’s pace steady and unhurried, giving Potter ample opportunity to absorb his surroundings. He watched as the boy's eyes traced the lines of each building, the slight awe in his expression betraying his attempted indifference. Despite himself, Potter was visibly enchanted by this familiar-yet-strange version of Hogsmeade.

"So," Tom began, breaking the silence with his smooth and casual tone, "how much has the village changed?"

Potter glanced around again, his expression softening slightly. "A bit," he replied cautiously. He pointed toward a dark, crooked sign swaying gently in the breeze. "That bookshop over there — it wasn’t in my time. In fifty years, it’ll be the headquarters for some magical radio station, though I don’t remember its name."

Tom felt a stab of irritation — as he always did when he realised what invaluable knowledge he could have gained if Potter had taken even a little more interest in the world around him. The boy’s ignorance was maddening. Still, Tom masked his annoyance behind a polite, interested expression.

Oh, if only he could use Legilimency freely…

Potter’s gaze shifted to Zonko’s Joke Shop. "That looks almost exactly the same," he said, his voice tinged with surprise. "Didn’t even know the shop was that old."

"Well, bad taste can be timeless," Tom remarked dryly. He recalled Rosier's brief, unbearable obsession with Zonko's products, which had ended abruptly when Tom threatened him with the Cruciatus Curse should any of those ridiculous items appear in their dormitory again.

Potter caught the contempt in his voice and rolled his eyes with exaggerated drama. "You know, some of us actually enjoy having fun instead of plotting world domination between classes," he quipped, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

And to think he'd missed Potter's insolence.

"Better than wasting time trying to figure out how to blow up your friend's cauldron with a handful of dungbombs."

Potter only shook his head. "I'd rather take my chances with the pranksters than with people who constantly have a stick up their—" he caught himself and stopped abruptly as the realisation of who he was talking to hit him.

Tom’s lips curved into a slow, cold smile. "Please, do finish that thought, Harry. I’m curious to know where this stick is supposed to be."

Potter hastily changed the topic. "Oh, there's Honeydukes! I wonder what else is still around. I'd love a Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks..."

Though the idea made Tom cringe inwardly, he saw the perfect opportunity. At least it wouldn’t look as if he had planned it all along.

"Actually, that can be arranged. We’re not far from the Three Broomsticks."

Potter stared at him in disbelief. "You’re… offering me a Butterbeer?"

"Yes," Tom replied, his voice tinged with amusement. "Try not to look so shocked. Consider it a reward."

Had his Knights been present, they would have been equally shocked. Tom had made his disdain for such low entertainments perfectly clear on their very first visit to Hogsmeade, and none of them had dared suggest going to the pub together again since. But goals demanded sacrifice - sometimes even indulgence in what he might otherwise despise.

"Lead the way, then," Potter said with a mock-innocent grin, his eyes gleaming with barely contained mischief.

Tom allowed himself a small inward smile. Manipulating Potter truly was too easy.

o.O.o

Shifting in his chair, Harry tried to relax his clenched hands. He looked around once more at the office, which was as different from the one he was used to as the wizard sitting on the other side of the oak desk. At the same time, it seemed to perfectly reflect the character of the person who occupied it. Austere, harsh, and devoid of any personal touch.

Riddle had been talking to headmaster Dippet for over twenty minutes, and Harry could do little but sit and squirm. Every time a question came his way — and there weren’t many — Riddle cut in before Harry could say more than a word. Why had he even bothered bringing Harry along?

There could only be one answer.

Harry’s eyes flicked to the Sorting Hat, perched on a dresser across the room. It looked the same as ever, worn and dormant, yet its presence made his stomach twist. He quickly glanced away, not wanting to think about the task ahead. But prickling sensation made him glance up again. A witch in a velvet hat from one of the portraits was staring at him, leaning toward the stout, bearded man beside her. She whispered something, and the man nodded, his gaze briefly resting on Harry. They were talking about him. He could feel it in their watchful stares.

"...I've taken full responsibility for my brother's schooling and welfare ever since I discovered his existence. Unfortunately, due to his circumstances, his former education has been rather... fragmented," Riddle was saying. His voice was smooth, perfectly balancing concern and confidence.

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting. Fragmented education. What a nice way to describe being constantly chased by dark wizards while trying to keep up with schoolwork. He glanced at Riddle, who spoke with the confidence of someone who had practiced every word. His expression was perfectly measured, radiating concern and the appearance of a dutiful older brother.

Headmaster Dippet nodded sympathetically, steepling his long fingers under his chin. Despite his polite manner, Harry found him very different from Dumbledore and couldn’t help feeling an instinctive dislike.

"You've done a marvellous job, Tom," Dippet said. "It's heartening to see you take such responsibility for your brother. And you believe he's ready for his O.W.L.s?"

"I do," Riddle replied calmly. "I think he will do well, perhaps even exceed expectations."

Harry gritted his teeth. Very funny.

Dippet’s lips twitched in faint amusement, and his gaze shifted to Harry. "I understand you'll take all the mandatory subjects — Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, and so on. What about the rest? Which additional subjects would you like?"

Harry opened his mouth to answer, but Riddle’s voice cut in smoothly.

"Care of Magical Creatures and Divination, Headmaster," Riddle said, his tone tinged with regret, as if the choices disappointed him. "Unfortunately, his earlier guardians didn't see fit to guide him towards more practical areas of magic."

Harry clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay silent. The condescension in Riddle’s voice made his blood boil, but he knew better than to argue.

Dippet, oblivious to Harry’s frustration, nodded understandingly. "Fortunately, he has you, Tom, and I trust you’ll steer him toward more challenging subjects in the future."

"Of course, sir," Riddle replied, inclining his head in a display of modesty that Harry knew was entirely for show. "I assure you, Harry will never be left to struggle alone again. He will always have me to rely on."

Riddle's hand came to rest on Harry's shoulder, a gesture that might have seemed brotherly to an outsider, but the grip was firm, commanding. Play along.

"I’m truly grateful for everything Tom has done for me," Harry said, forcing a smile and matching Riddle’s polished tone with false sincerity.

Harry knew better than to be fooled. Riddle’s trip to the Three Broomsticks wasn’t kindness; it was calculated, a way to soften Harry up before this meeting with Dippet. But if Riddle wanted to play games, Harry was more than happy to play along in his own way.

After all, he had his own reasons for wanting to be at Hogwarts.

That didn't stop him from enjoying the moment. Watching Riddle squirm when Harry had insisted on Butterbeer instead of tea had been priceless. Riddle's sharp glare had been full of warning, but Harry hadn't backed down, knowing this was one of those rare moments when he could push without consequences.

The sight of the future Dark Lord sitting stiffly with a white foam moustache had been worth the short display of cooperation.

"I really was lucky to find him," Harry added, his tone syrupy with exaggerated gratitude, teetering just on the edge of mockery.

Riddle tightened his grip on his shoulder in warning. Don't exaggerate. Harry countered with his most innocent smile.

Dippet leaned back, his gaze settling thoughtfully on Harry. "Tell me, Harry, have you thought about staying at Hogwarts to finish your education? In a stable environment, I’m sure you’d excel."

Harry blinked, caught off guard, but Riddle was quicker.

"Thank you, Headmaster," Riddle said, his tone skilfully balanced between gratitude and regret. "We've already discussed it. I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity for him, but Harry is determined to choose another path."

Dippet raised an eyebrow. "Another path?"

"Harry wants to start working. By July, he’ll be of age and legally able to support himself." He sighed softly, his expression a mix of regret and understanding. "You see, we’re both orphans, and we’ve had to learn to fend for ourselves. While I’d gladly support Harry, our resources are... limited."

Ours for sure, but the Malfoy's or Selwyn's? thought Harry tartly.

Dippet’s face softening further. "That’s admirable, Harry," he said gently, his tone filled with sympathy. "But surely completing your education here would—"

"Unfortunately, Harry is adamant," Riddle interjected quickly. "Despite my attempts to persuade him, he insists he's a burden and is determined to become independent as soon as possible. I respect his decision, of course, although I fear he may be rushing into adulthood too soon."

The older wizard nodded slowly, his sympathy now mixed with reluctant approval. "I see. Well, determination is a commendable trait."

"Indeed, sir," Riddle agreed, his voice soft and respectful. He sighed slightly, slumping his shoulders just enough to appear uneasy. "Unfortunately, Harry's exams present a rather delicate logistical problem for us."

Dippet tilted his head. "Go on."

"The exams are scheduled for June," Riddle began, his voice measured, striking a perfect balance between humility and embarrassment. "As Harry has not yet mastered Apparition — nor will he legally be allowed to attempt it until his birthday in July — it would be difficult for him to travel to and from Hogwarts daily during the exam period."

Dippet frowned. "A fair point. But surely there’s an alternative?"

"Of course, I’d help myself. But my work commitments make daily travel impossible. Renting a room in Hogsmeade isn’t financially feasible. I was hoping you might allow Harry to stay in the castle during the exam period."

Dippet’s brows rose. "Stay in the castle? That’s highly irregular. We don’t usually—"

"I completely understand," Riddle interrupted with a deferential nod. "It’s an unusual request, but it seems the safest and most practical solution. Harry would have access to resources and supervision. If I may, perhaps Professor Slughorn could oversee him? As my former Head of House, I trust him implicitly."

Dippet leaned back, steepling his fingers as he considered the request. His posture softened slightly, showing he was leaning toward agreement. "Professor Slughorn is more than capable, but granting such an exception requires careful handling."

"Absolutely, headmaster," Riddle agreed, his tone carrying just the right note of humility. "I wouldn't be asking if I thought there was another way. Harry's welfare is my priority. As his brother, I feel it is my duty to ensure that he has every opportunity to succeed. After all he's been through, I just want him to feel supported."

Dippet's expression softened, all rigidity leaving his features. "It's rare to see such devotion between brothers. Very well, Tom. I'll speak with Professor Slughorn personally to make the arrangements. Of course, this will be strictly for the exam period, and I expect Harry to adhere to all school rules during his stay."

"Thank you, sir," Riddle replied warmly, his eyes gleaming with apparent gratitude. "Your understanding means more than I can say."

Dippet’s lips curved into a faint smile. "You’ve always been an exemplary student, Tom. It’s clear that same excellence extends to your care for Harry. Hogwarts is fortunate to have you as his family."

Harry's stomach twisted as he watched the exchange. Dippet's admiration for Riddle was almost palpable, and Harry could only marvel at how easily the headmaster fell under the spell of Tom's charm. Every word, every gesture was calculated for maximum effect, and — most disturbingly — it had worked flawlessly.

o.O.o

The moment they left Dippet's office, Harry had to work hard to keep the surprise off his face. Riddle had not only managed to secure permission for Harry to stay at Hogwarts for the exams but had also somehow charmed the headmaster into letting him visit Professor Slughorn. As they made their way through the familiar corridors of Hogwarts, every sight and sound tugged painfully at Harry's heart.

Students in their black robes hurried past, their casual chatter and laughter echoing off the ancient stones. Harry longed to be among them, to lose himself in the simple normalcy of school life that now felt so far out of reach. His feet slowed as he craned his neck to watch a group of Gryffindors disappear around a corner; he had to restrain himself with the rest of his strength not to reflexively move after them.

"Try not to look so miserable," Riddle hissed quietly. "You're supposed to be here for the first time in your life — if you have to, stare at everything with a gaping mouth. It's more appropriate."

"If you didn't like my behaviour, you wouldn't have dragged me here," Harry replied angrily, unconsciously switching to Parseltongue as well.

"I had my reasons," Riddle replied coolly, his voice sharp. "You’re here to obey, not question."

Harry bit back an angry response, glaring instead. Riddle, as always, ignored him.

As they walked, Harry couldn’t ignore the attention they were drawing. Many students looked at them, their eyes lighting up in recognition as they spotted Tom Riddle. Two Slytherin boys nodded at him with unmistakable respect, their gazes lingering briefly on Harry with curiosity before moving on. A pair of Ravenclaw girls trailed past, their reaction impossible to miss. They whispered excitedly, nudging each other with sharp elbows, their faces flushed as they glanced repeatedly at Riddle. One covered her mouth to stifle a giggle, her eyes sparkling as she stole another look at him.

Harry’s stomach churned, but he kept his head down, refusing to comment. Riddle, however, seemed to notice the girls’ behaviour. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, a flicker of satisfaction that only deepened Harry’s irritation.

Finally, as they reached Slughorn’s office, Riddle knocked, and after a brief pause, the door opened to reveal the plump professor. His moustache twitched as he gave them an astonished look.

"Tom! My boy!" Slughorn exclaimed, though his smile didn’t reach his eyes. "What an unexpected surprise! What brings you back to Hogwarts?"

"Professor Slughorn," Riddle replied with a charm-laden smile. "I've just come from a meeting with Headmaster Dippet and thought I'd take the opportunity to pay a visit to my favourite professor. I hope I'm not disturbing you, sir."

"Disturbing? Oh, not at all, not at all," Slughorn said quickly, though he made no effort to move aside. His broad frame remained firmly planted in the doorway, effectively blocking the entrance to his office. "But, I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a rather busy time, Tom. Essays to mark, you know how it is. Deadlines sneaking up on me as always!"

Harry noted the polite deflection in Slughorn’s tone, but Riddle wasn’t so easily deterred. His expression shifted subtly, his smile dimming just enough to appear disappointed.

"Of course, Professor, I understand," Riddle said, his voice softening into something regretful. "I only wanted to introduce you to my younger brother, Harry. He’ll be taking his O.W.L.s here this summer, and I couldn’t think of anyone better to meet first than you, sir."

Slughorn blinked. The mention of a younger brother clearly caught him off guard. His gaze darted to Harry, curiosity replacing caution. "Younger brother, you say?" he asked. "Well, well, I never knew you had a sibling, Tom."

"Neither did I until recently," Riddle said smoothly, giving Harry’s shoulder a light squeeze. "Harry’s my half-brother. We’ve only just discovered our connection, but I intend to do right by him. Family is everything, after all."

Slughorn’s moustache twitched as he absorbed this revelation, his eyes flitting back to Harry. Clearly intrigued, his resistance softened.

Harry had a feeling that this was the moment for his intervention.

"It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor," Harry said, keeping his tone steady and polite.

"Well, what a fine young man,” Slughorn said, his tone turning indulgent. "Tom, you certainly know how to surprise an old professor. A younger brother sitting O.W.L.s, no less!" His curiosity finally outweighed his reservations, and he stepped aside with a warm gesture. "Come in, come in! I suppose those essays can wait a little longer. How could I turn away such distinguished company?"

The room was just as Harry remembered — cluttered with ornate trinkets, gilded frames, and shelves lined with potion ingredients in murky bottles. Slughorn directed them to cushioned chairs while he busied himself at a side table.

Riddle unhurriedly pulled a dark glass bottle from his leather bag and placed it beside a ribbon-tied box. "I thought you might enjoy this, Professor," he said with a flourish. "Rosier’s ’36 vintage — a rare gem. And of course, your favourite; crystallized pineapples."

Slughorn’s eyes widened in delight, his earlier reservations forgotten. "Rosier’s ’36? Tom, my boy, you spoil me! And the pineapples too? You remembered!" He turned to Harry with a beaming smile. "You see, young man, your brother has impeccable taste. A fine trait to have, don’t you think?" he winked.

Harry forced himself to nod politely, trying to suppress bad feelings. He liked it all less and less, but felt it was too late to back out of it. He just hoped the wine wasn't poisoned. Or the pineapples.

Slughorn flicked his wand, and a teapot on the corner table sprang to life, pouring amber liquid into three delicate cups. Wisps of fragrant steam curled in the air as he handed one to Harry, one to Riddle, and kept the third for himself.

"Now then," Slughorn said, settling into a cushioned armchair and gesturing for them to do the same, "let’s hear about this extraordinary turn of events. A younger brother, you say? Quite the family reunion!"

Riddle leaned back into his chair, every motion deliberate, his smile charming but reserved. "It’s a rather unusual story, Professor," he began smoothly, "but one I feel should be shared. After all, Harry deserves understanding, not judgment."

Harry, perched stiffly on the edge of his seat, resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Riddle’s voice dripped with mock sincerity and was clearly meant to manipulate Slughorn’s sympathies.

"Go on, my boy, go on" Slughorn urged, leaning forward slightly, his rotund figure jostling the table and making the cups tremble.

As they sipped their tea, Riddle began to tell his carefully crafted story of how Harry had come into his care. Harry was amazed, not for the first time, at how easily the story was accepted, as if half-brothers appearing out of nowhere was perfectly normal. Perhaps that was the way the wizarding world worked — when you're surrounded by the impossible every day, you stop questioning the extraordinary.

Slughorn's reactions to Riddle's story were as expressive as they were perfectly timed. At the mention of Harry's time on the streets, forced to fend for himself, the professor's eyes widened, a mixture of horror and reluctant admiration flashing across his face. But it was the part where Harry, against all odds, crossed the sea to find his brother that seemed to move Slughorn the most. He looked genuinely touched, his gaze lingering on Harry as if the boy were a hero from a fairy tale. When Riddle finished telling how he had taken Harry under his protection, Slughorn beamed, dabbing at the corners of his eyes with a handkerchief and murmuring soft words of approval.

As if to mark the happy ending of the story, Slughorn opened the ribbon-bound box of crystallised pineapple he had received and offered one to Riddle, who declined with a gentle wave. " They’re meant for you, Professor," he said.

Harry took the hint and refused as well, murmuring, "Thank you, but no."

Slughorn seemed entirely unfazed, plucking a piece for himself with fingers that moved with unhidden delight. He popped it into his mouth and chewed with exaggerated relish, his eyes fluttering shut. "Ah, perfection," he sighed. "You’ve outdone yourself, Tom, truly."

Harry’s stomach churned. His suspicion grew, but when Slughorn swallowed without incident, it seemed as though nothing bad was going to happen. Harry allowed himself a shaky exhale of relief.

Then — Boom!

A heavy, echoing thud shattered the moment. Slughorn’s body slumped forward, knocking the teacups and sending a spoon clattering to the floor.

"Professor!" Harry shot to his feet. His heart pounded as panic surged like wildfire through his veins. But before he could take a single step, his legs froze mid-motion, bound by an invisible force holding him as if glued to the spot.

"What have you done?" Harry barked, struggling to break free. He reached instinctively into his empty pocket, wishing desperately for his wand. "If you’ve hurt him—if you’ve ruined something—" His voice cracked with fury. "—I’ll stop you. I swear I will!"

"Do calm yourself," Riddle said coldly, his wand flicking with effortless precision. Harry’s arms snapped to his sides, pinned as though by unseen hands. "All this shouting—it’s terribly uncivilized."

"Uncivilized?!" Harry burst out, stumbling back into his seat from the force of the spell. "Then what do you call attacking a former—" He wasn’t given the chance to finish, as Riddle sealed his tongue to the roof of his mouth with a deft flick of his wand.

"Much better, wouldn’t you agree?" the future Dark Lord said icily.

Muffled, furious sounds escaped Harry, but he was helpless to do more than stare as Riddle approached the slumped professor. With a quick flick of his wand, Riddle cast two spells in quick succession, presumably to prevent any outside interference. Then, with an almost casual grace, Riddle turned his wand on Slughorn. The professor's wide, terrified eyes darted wildly, the only sign of life in his otherwise frozen body as it hovered above the ground. Harry's mind screamed at him to act, to intervene, but he was powerless to stop Riddle.

"Don’t worry, Professor," Riddle murmured, his voice mockingly soothing as he raised his wand. "This won’t hurt a bit. In fact, you won’t even remember it."

With a graceful wave of his wand, a shimmering tendril of light coiled from Slughorn’s temple. It moved like smoke, twisting and curling before vanishing into the void. Slughorn’s face slackened, the spark of recognition and fear fading as though extinguished.

Harry’s stomach dropped, a cold sweat breaking out along his spine. He knew — he knew —what memory Riddle was erasing. The realization hit him like a physical blow, and a raw, primal fear clawed its way through him. This could change everything.

When the spell was done, Riddle lowered Slughorn back into his chair with chilling precision. Another flick of his wand, and Slughorn’s head lolled forward, unconscious.

Then the future Dark Lord — or perhaps just the Dark Lord — turned to Harry. "Feeling calmer now?" he asked, as though addressing a tantrum-throwing child.

Harry just glared.

Riddle sighed. "Blink twice if you’re ready to behave. And if you start screaming again, I’ll make sure you regret it when we return home."

Harry, feeling pure, uncontrollable hatred, blinked twice.

The spells released, and Harry shot to his feet.

"What did you do to him?" he demanded in a harsh whisper, though he already knew. He needed Riddle to deny it — anything to make it untrue.

Riddle arched a brow, his lips curving faintly. "Nothing drastic. Just removed some inconvenient memory."

Harry's stomach twisted violently. Fury took hold of him; without thinking, he lunged forward, his fist aimed directly at Riddle’s smug expression.

But Riddle moved faster. His hands shot out, catching Harry’s wrists in an iron grip that made him gasp in pain.

"Pathetic," he sneered, shifting his hold to trap Harry’s hands in one of his own. With a rough yank, he pulled Harry closer, forcing their faces inches apart, then hissed: "Do I need to remind you who you’re dealing with?"

Harry jerked, trying to break free, but the older boy's grip only grew stronger. A piercing pain shot through his head.

"Let me go!"

"You’re not answering my question."

"You’ve ruined everything!" Harry snapped. A growing headache warned him he was pushing Riddle's patience to its limit, but he no longer cared. "You've destroyed the timeline! every single person I care about could vanish!"

With a sudden shove, Riddle released him, sending Harry stumbling backward into an armchair. Before Harry could react, Riddle’s wand flicked. Harry instinctively tensed, expecting the worst. But instead of the expected Crucio, Harry’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, silencing him once again.

"Calm yourself," Riddle said coolly, his tone edged with irritation. "You’re overreacting."

Harry threw him a hate-filled look. The pressure in his head eased slightly as Riddle's anger cooled.

When Riddle released the spell a moment later, Harry couldn't hold back. He hissed: "Overreacting? It’s not your friends who are at risk of disappearing into—"

The slap came faster than Harry could react — a brutal, stinging crack that snapped his head to the side. But worse was the sudden, piercing pain that lanced through his skull.

Harry hissed, his hand flying to his scar before he could stop himself. Realizing his mistake, he quickly dropped it, rubbing his cheek instead. The last thing he needed was for the future Dark Lord to figure out just how deeply his anger was affecting him.

For a moment, Riddle simply watched him, his grey eyes narrowing. "You don’t learn, do you?" he said, his voice low and edged with venom. "I warned you, Potter. One more outburst, and I’ll ensure you regret it."

Harry stayed silent. His fists remained clenched at his sides as he fought the urge to lash out again. The searing pain in his head was an effective restraint.

"And don't be so shocked," Riddle added icily. ""I hope you didn't think I'd leave any loose ends, did you?"

Swallowing his rage, Harry slowly lifted his gaze. His cheek throbbed, his head pounded relentlessly. The grim truth was that there was nothing he could do to undo it. At least not now. "You’re a monster," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Riddle's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Oh, Harry," he said softly, his tone mockingly pleasant. "Flattery will get you nowhere. And it certainly won’t spare you from punishment. So unless you’d prefer the Belt Spell to the Cruciatus when we get home, I suggest you learn to control yourself. My patience is wearing thin."

o.O.o

"Thank you for your time, Professor," Tom said smoothly, rising from his armchair. "Speaking with you is always a pleasure."

"My dear boy, the pleasure was all mine!" Slughorn exclaimed, his round face beaming with genuine delight as he also rose from his seat. "And what a delightful surprise, meeting your younger brother! My door is always open to you both. Yes, that includes you, Harry, my boy. Feel free to come to me if you need any help with anything in June." Slughorn pulled Potter closer and gave him a friendly squeeze on the shoulder. The teen tensed but, to Tom's satisfaction, didn't pull away.

"Actually, Professor, might I ask one more favour? I'd like to visit my old housemates," Tom asked before Potter could speak and spoil the good impression with his sullen mode.

"Of course, of course!" Slughorn beamed. "Just make sure not to keep them up too late —classes tomorrow, you know."

Tom watched with quiet satisfaction as Slughorn's expression remained warm and trusting, without a trace of his earlier suspicion. The memory modification had been flawless, not that he'd expected anything less. He also had ensured there would be no evidence of their visit this time — no boxes of candied pineapple, no lingering traces. Tom wasn't in the habit of making the same mistake twice.

Potter, for his part, was doing a poor job of maintaining his composure. His jaw was clenched, and his posture was rigid with barely suppressed fury. Fortunately, Slughorn remained oblivious, too wrapped up in his own good cheer to notice the boy's obvious distress.

After exchanging final pleasantries, Tom stepped into the corridor. Potter immediately retreated into stubborn silence, his anger and hatred rolling off him in almost palpable waves as they made their way toward the Slytherin common room. Tom made a mental note to work on Potter's emotional control; the boy's inability to mask his feelings was becoming a liability. Perhaps, Tom mused, this could provide the perfect pretext for using Legilimency on him again. After all, how could Potter hope to control his emotions without first understanding how his mind worked?

"If you want to avoid Crucio, you'll have to try harder," Tom hissed, not even turning his head towards Potter or slowing his pace.

"Fuck you."

Tom allowed himself a small smile; the boy truly had no sense of self-preservation. Still, he decided — just this once — to let Potter's vulgar language slide.

Moreover, the boy's anger was misplaced. To Tom, Potter's fear that the timeline had been irreversibly altered, that his friends might cease to exist, was ridiculous. The memory he had erased — a fleeting conversation about Horcruxes — while significant, was not important enough to change the future that drastically. At most, it would make Dumbledore's eventual hunt more challenging, which suited Tom's purposes perfectly. Besides, removing that particular memory served another purpose — eliminating Slughorn's lingering suspicions and reservations. The man's extensive network of contacts and his willingness to provide recommendations could prove invaluable in the future. Tom had learned long ago that maintaining useful connections was just as important as raw power.

When they reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Tom paused before the stone archway adorned with serpentine carvings. He turned to Potter.

"Open it," he commanded.

Potter stared at him blankly. "How? I don't know the password."

"You don't need one. Just tell it to open. In Parseltongue."

Potter's face expressed utter scepticism, yet he obediently hissed: "Open up."

Nothing happened.

Tom had expected this result, though a part of him had hoped otherwise. The boy's ability to speak Parseltongue remained a fascinating enigma — there wasn't a drop of Salazar's blood in his veins, as evidenced by the castle's refusal to acknowledge his commands. Yet somehow, he possessed this rare gift. Another mystery to unravel, Tom noted, filing it away for later consideration.

However, the fact that the castle had refused to recognise Potter as a descendant of the Slytherin line meant that the second option would have to be taken. In his mind's eye, Tom could already see Potter's reaction when the boy found out about his plan. But for now...

Stepping forward, Tom issued his own command, his Parseltongue smooth and authoritative: "Open up for me."

The stone entrance yielded immediately, just as it always had. As the rightful heir of Slytherin, his authority here was absolute.

Tom stepped through the entrance first, his head held high, and Potter followed with a sullen glare.

The Slytherin common room was just as Tom remembered — a long, low chamber with rough stone walls and a vaulted ceiling. Emerald and silver lanterns hung on chains, casting a green-tinged light that blended with the glow of the Black Lake visible through large windows. The water’s murky motion refracted the lantern light into shimmering patterns, giving the room an otherworldly atmosphere.

Riddle took in the familiar surroundings, feeling at ease. From his very first day at Hogwarts, the greenish glow of the room under the lake, the ancient stones and deep shadows, had made him feel truly at home.

For a while their arrival went unnoticed. The students remained absorbed in their usual activities; some studying, some doing homework, some playing cards or chess, but the low murmur of conversation died as soon as the older Slytherin students recognized who had entered. Their initial surprise quickly gave way to barely concealed curiosity and respect. The younger Slytherins, catching the change in atmosphere, fell silent, looking between their older housemates and the newcomers with growing curiosity.

Two figures rose smoothly from their high-backed armchairs. Tertius Lestrange moved with the fluid grace characteristic of his family, his aristocratic features composed yet alert. Beside him, Alphard Black barely contained his eagerness, though he attempted to match Lestranges's measured pace. Tom allowed himself a small smile at their approach, observing how the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

"Tom Riddle" Tertius said drawing out the consonants. To an outsider, this might have sounded like a genuine surprise, and that was the effect they wanted to achieve. The younger Slytherin greeted him with a slight bow of his head, his prefect badge gleaming in the greenish light. "What an unexpected pleasure to see our former Head Boy visiting. To what do we owe the honour?"

Tom acknowledged the pair with a nod of his head. At the same time, he placed a hand on Potter's back, subtly pushing him forward. As he did so, the thought crossed his mind that this time he might hit the boy on the back rather than the hands. Why not? Potter had annoyed him quite a bit with his earlier childish outburst.

"Family matters," Tom replied, knowing the vagueness of his answer would only fuel curiosity. "On the occasion I decided to visit old haunts. I see that not much has changed since I left these walls," he added, his gaze sweeping the room deliberately.

"As you can see, we strive to maintain what you have achieved. And I can assure you that we've met your expectations," Alphard replied, his right hand casually brushing past his school robe's pocket.

Tom's lips curved into a slight smile.

In other words, they had managed to break into Slughorn's stash of potion ingredients. Over the past two and a half months, Riddle had discovered more than once that Potter relied on luck more than cleverness, but in a matter as important as acquiring an item that could threaten his immortality, he preferred to leave nothing to chance. Felix Felicis was the ideal solution. But it had to be brewed first, and some of the ingredients were hard to come by. Stealing them from the Potions Professor's private stash was, despite appearances, the best option.

If Tertius and Alphard had failed, there was always Aleksandr Dolohov in reserve, though Tom preferred not to rely too heavily on any single person. Besides, this task provided an excellent opportunity to evaluate his youngest followers in person. Sebastian Selwyn had promised the Hogwarts map would be copied by mid-May, and the boys were about to undertake their first major mission. They could not afford to disappoint him.

So far, they had proven themselves capable.

"Indeed," Tom murmured, gesturing toward the black leather sofas. "Shall we sit? I'd like to introduce you to my brother. I was helping him sign up for the June exams," he added, well aware that every Slytherin in the room was hanging on their words.

A meaningful look from Tertius was all it took for the students occupying the sofas near the fireplace to suddenly remember pressing matters elsewhere. Tom felt a flicker of satisfaction; his people were still upholding the reputation he had built.

As they settled into the dark leather sofas, he placed his bag between himself and Alphard, the gesture casual to all observers. Black and Lestrange's scions exchanged a fleeting glance, understanding the unspoken instruction.

Potter sat down next to his left; his reluctance was almost palpable, but fortunately he tried to control it at least a little. Tom assessed his tense posture. With some luck, others might mistake it for nervousness.

"Harry, right?" said Tertius as he settled himself in the armchair across from the sofa.

So, Primus had made the introduction.

Potter nodded stiffly. "And you're probably Tertius Lestrange," he said, and the tone in which he said Tertius' surname clearly indicated that Tom was going to have to work on his attitude in the near future.

The youngest of the Lestrange brothers maintained a polite demeanour.

"I'm flattered that your brother told you about me."

Potter thankfully held back a snort. Tom seized the moment to discreetly cast an anti-eavesdropping spell. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Alphard's hand resting near the flap of his bag.

How three years could change someone, Tom mused. When he'd left Hogwarts, these two had been awkward fifteen-year-olds. Now he watched with satisfaction as they proved their worth and utility.

"In that case, I hope you won't mind if I ask you to look after my brother when he goes to Hogwarts in June?" Tom wondered, making himself more comfortable on the sofa. He leaned his left arm casually against the back of the sofa, just behind Potter's back. The boy tensed immediately. "Harry is quite talented when he puts his mind to it. Though he does need... guidance sometimes."

Alphard immediately grasped the hidden meaning. He leaned forward slightly to look at Potter. "Of course you can count on us. We'll look after him as if he were one of our own, Tom."

"Oh, he'll be one of ours," Tom replied lightly, smiling slightly. "Dippet has agreed to leave him in Slughorn's care for the duration of the exams."

Tertius nodded.

"All the more reason for you to count on us then, perhaps we can even arrange for him to share a dormitory with us. After all, it is my duty as Head Boy to keep an eye on someone like that."

Tom smiled wider.

"I would be obliged."

Potter just glared.

Yes, they would have to work on his attitude.

So... perhaps the back this time.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY —

Flared temper

In the three weeks since their visit to Hogwarts, Harry had learned that there were exactly two wrong ways to deal with Riddle’s punishments. The first was to fall into a state of complete numbness, as he had done after being punished in front of the Slytherins for eavesdropping — that still made him sick with shame. The second was to show open resentment, as he had done this time — a mistake Riddle had corrected with his usual ruthless efficiency, making it crystal clear that he wouldn’t tolerate any more of Harry’s 'sulking', as he’d called it. So Harry had reluctantly settled for option three: pretending everything was fine, just like Riddle did. Smile and move on. Act like nothing had happened.

But it wasn’t fine.

The memory of his latest punishment still made Harry wince internally. Not because of the physical pain — though it had been severe — but because the situation had once again reminded him just how little control he had over his own life now, and how much it was dictated by Riddle's whims. What made it worse was the injustice of it all. Harry had every right to be angry. What Riddle had done to Slughorn was unforgivable, and the thought of the consequences... Harry shoved the thought away before the familiar knot of anxiety could tighten in his chest.

He remembered vividly how he had been fuming when they returned from Hogwarts. Riddle, of course, hadn't given him even a moment to calm down or collect his thoughts.

"Leave your outer robes in your room and come to the library," he ordered icily. Without waiting for a response, he’d turned and disappeared down the corridor.

Harry’s temper flared. Why should he listen? He wasn’t Riddle’s puppet. So, in a moment of defiance, he decided he wasn’t going to.

When Riddle appeared in Harry's doorway minutes later, the air itself seemed to freeze. Harry felt his defiance waver, replaced by a familiar sinking feeling in his stomach. For a terrible moment, he thought Riddle might use the Cruciatus Curse. Instead, with a casual flick of his wand, Riddle summoned Harry's outer robe away.

"Turn around," Riddle commanded, his voice sharp and dangerous. “Hands on the desk. And congratulations — your little act of defiance just earned you an extra strike."

"I had every right to be angry about what you did! You can't just—"

"Four strikes," Riddle cut him off smoothly. "Shall I make it five?"

Harry's jaw clenched so hard it hurt. Every instinct screamed at him to fight back, to rebel, but the cold gleam in Riddle’s eyes stopped him. It was a look that promised pain. Swallowing hard, Harry turned to the desk, his movements stiff with defiance, and gripped the polished surface. His heart hammered against his ribs, knowing this punishment would be different. His shoulders were taut with tension, his breath shallow. The deviation from their usual routine sent a spike of fear through his chest. If the—

The first strike caught him completely off guard — the searing pain across his back was nothing like the familiar sting of the Belt Spell on his palms. The second strike ripped a strangled gasp from his throat, and by the third, he was clenching his teeth so hard he thought they might crack. The fourth — his "reward" for defiance — sent white-hot agony through his shoulders, making his arms tremble as he struggled to keep himself upright against the desk.

When it was over, the silence in the room was suffocating. Harry struggled to catch his breath, his vision blurring as he fought to stay upright.

"I trust this will teach you to control your emotions," Riddle said, his voice infuriatingly steady, as though they’d just finished a polite discussion. "Such outbursts as the one in Slughorn’s office will not be tolerated." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice carried an edge of steel. "And Harry? If you ever raise your fist against me again, I will use the Cruciatus Curse. No matter where we are."

The warning hung in the air like frost. Harry stayed silent, his hands still pressed against the desk. Every breath sent new waves of pain across his back. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back the tears, but they came anyway, hot and humiliating.

When the door clicked shut, Harry slumped to the floor. Pressing his forehead against the cool wood, he whispered, "Fuck you, Riddle."

For the first week, every movement was agony. Sitting, standing, even turning in bed sent sharp stabs of pain through his back. When he dressed or washed, he avoided looking in mirrors, knowing the marks would still be there. Riddle had withheld the healing salve this time, and Harry's pride wouldn't let him ask for it, even though he sometimes caught Riddle watching him with that calculating look, as if measuring how long he could endure.

Bug, Riddle's house-elf, made matters worse. During meals, the little creature was shooting Harry venomous glares from the corner of his oversized eyes. It wasn't mere hostility — it was envy, pure and twisted. The sheer perversity of it made Harry's stomach churn. How could anyone want to be on the receiving end of Riddle's wrath?

Riddle, for his part, showed no mercy despite Harry's condition. One evening in the library, Harry was practicing the Whirlwind Charm, which required a wide, sweeping motion of the arm. Each attempt sent waves of pain across his back, making him wince. After another failed try, he lowered his wand, exhausted.

Riddle glanced up from his book. "I don’t recall giving you permission to stop, Harry."

"It hurts," Harry muttered through gritted teeth.

"Perhaps," Riddle replied coldly, "if you learned to think before acting, you wouldn’t be in pain at all." His grey eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "Again."

Harry glared at him, the urge to snap back almost overpowering. "Maybe if you weren’t such a—"

"Watch your words," Riddle interrupted, his tone deceptively soft. "And think twice about what comes out of your mouth, because I assure you, my creativity in correcting you is limitless."

Gritting his teeth, Harry raised his wand and muttered, "Sadistic bastard."

The next day, Riddle dragged him to Borgin and Burke’s, despite the fact that Harry could barely move without wincing. Borgin’s cold gaze landed on him, his lips curling in disdain. "I trust your condition isn’t due to another attempt to steal something, boy?" he sneered.

The accusation hit harder than Harry expected. His cheeks flushed as he muttered, "I didn’t steal anything."

Before Borgin could press further, Riddle stepped in and placed a firm, almost possessive hand on Harry's shoulder. The touch burned. "I assure you, sir, my brother is under control. As for his condition, we were simply practising duelling. Harry lost and is now suffering the consequences," Riddle lied softly. "You have nothing to worry about, Mr Borgin."

Burke, standing behind the counter, studied Harry with quiet curiosity, his expression unreadable. However, a few days later, during Riddle and Borgin's absence, he approached Harry and, with an unexpected display of lack of subtlety, demonstrated a charm for detecting enchantments on cursed books — a gesture that left Harry both suspicious and intrigued.

Between work and study, Harry barely had time to breathe, let alone think about the terrible implications of Riddle altering Slughorn's memory. The rigorous study schedule that had been imposed on Harry seemed specifically designed to keep his mind occupied. Despite the plan to use the O.W.L. exams as a cover to steal the Gryffindor Sword, Riddle insisted on thorough preparation and treated the academics with the utmost seriousness.

To Harry's horror, the older boy began enlisting his Slytherin followers as tutors. When Harry tried to protest, Riddle's eyes had gone dangerously cold.

"This isn't up for discussion, Potter," he said. "You will accept their help, and you will be grateful for it. Unless you'd prefer another lesson in obedience?"

The threat hung in the air, making Harry's back throb with phantom pain. And since Harry really didn't have the strength to object, not on this subject and not when he was counting down the days until his arrival at Hogwarts, he just sighed and accepted it with grim resignation as another inconvenience in his current life.

What he hadn’t anticipated was just how unbearable the Slytherins would be. The future Death Eathers, it seemed, shared not only their master's ambition but also his talent for making Harry's life miserable — and some were as good at it as the future Dark Lord himself.

o.O.o

Every Tuesday afternoon, Harry found himself stepping through the fireplace into Brandon Avery’s apartment in Liverpool. It was the first time since his arrival in 1947 that he’d been allowed to leave Riddle’s apartment without the older boy hovering over him like a shadow. Riddle even allowed him to take the wand, for the sake of appearances, as he put it. Not that it felt like freedom. Before Harry’s first visit, Riddle had made it abundantly clear that escape was out of the question. Harry didn’t need the reminder — he’d found out enough times that the bloody location spell Riddle had cast on him worked all too efficiently.

Avery's flat was spacious but dark, with rows of shelves running the length of two walls. The window overlooked a wide river and a Muggle town. On Harry's first visit, the older boy was waiting for him sitting at a large oak table, flipping through a thick herbarium. He barely glanced up as Harry stumbled out of the fireplace, treating the arrival of Tom Riddle's supposed half-brother with all the enthusiasm of someone discovering mold on their breakfast.

"Sit down," he said instead of a greeting, his tone curt.

Harry moved carefully toward the indicated chair, trying not to wince as his still-healing back protested. Of course, Brandon's sharp eyes caught the slight hesitation in his movements.

"What did you do to piss off Tom this time?" Brandon asked, his voice dripping with the kind of mock concern that made Harry's teeth itch. His eyebrow — which seemed to form one continuous line with the other across his face — rose slightly as he leaned back in his chair, studying Harry with a mix of amusement and disdain.

Harry’s jaw tightened. "I breathed too loudly."

Brandon's lips twitched.  "Ah, so it was something spectacularly stupid, then. And here I was thinking the last adventure had taught you something. I hope you know more about herbology, though, because I'm only wasting my time on you because your brother asked nicely."

Asked? Rather ordered, Harry thought bitterly as he sat down. He mirrored Avery's feelings — he didn't want to be here at all. The older Slytherin had made no secret of his disdain for him, even if he believed Harry to be Tom Riddle’s half-brother. The fact that Avery had once helped save his life didn’t make things any easier. If anything, it only deepened the unease Harry felt in his presence. It was hard to feel grateful to someone who looked at you like you were something they’d scraped off their shoe.

Avery turned the herbarium toward Harry. "Let’s see what Tom’s little brother knows about magical plants, shall we?"

The first specimen was a dried twig with silvery leaves. Harry recognised it from his own time - Professor Sprout had shown it to them once in the greenhouse.

"Moonleaf," Harry said, trying to keep his voice steady. "It’s planted during the full moon and harvested under the new moon. It’s used in sleeping draughts and—"

"Wrong," Brandon cut him off sharply. "That’s Moonshine Thistle. Similar properties, completely different plant. Moonleaf has serrated edges; this clearly doesn’t. If you gave someone Moonshine Thistle thinking it was Moonleaf, you’d put them in a coma.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing dramatically. "Merlin, did those Irish vagrants teach you anything useful, or were they too busy robbing people to bother?"

Harry’s fingers dug into his thighs under the table. "I know enough to pass my O.W.L.s," he said through gritted teeth.

"Clearly not, or Tom wouldn't have sentenced me to these delightful tutorials," Avery shot back. He pulled out another specimen — this one a dried flower with petals that still held a hint of deep purple. "Try again. And this time, think before you open your mouth."

Harry took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm.

"Nightshade?" he ventured, then immediately regretted it when he saw Avery’s expression darken.

"What did I say about wasting my time?" Brandon asked sharply.

Harry flinched at his tone. "I thought I knew."

"Next time, don’t think. Be sure," Avery snapped. "This is Witch's Bell. Two totally different species. Witch's Bell has distinctive striations on the stem. The difference could kill someone." He leaned forward, his dark eyes boring into Harry's. "Is that what you want? To kill someone because you couldn't be bothered to learn the difference?"

Harry stood up abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. "I’m done with this."

Brandon didn't move, his smile turning cold. "Sit down. You're not going anywhere. Tom's orders, remember?" He gestured to the chair with a lazy wave of his hand. "Unless you want me to tell him you walked out of your lesson. I’m sure he’d love to hear about that."

Harry slumped back in his chair with ostentatious anger. "Keep asking, then."

This was going to be a long afternoon.

o.O.o

Harry stood at the workshop table in Secundus Lestrange's private potions studio, grinding mud fungus with perhaps more force than necessary. He couldn't decide which was worse: having to learn potions again or having to spend hours with someone named Lestrange. Both reminded him uncomfortably of things he'd rather forget. If the extra lessons with Lestrange had been like Avery's, once a week, it would have been bearable. But on Riddle's orders, they were held two or even three times a week, like today's.

This has to be some sort of revenge, he thought, carefully measuring the powder. But try as he might, he couldn't figure out what he'd done recently to deserve it. He'd been following Riddle's rules, mostly. Unless, as always, it was about the whole "accidentally destroying the Dark Lord as a baby" thing. Thirteen years in exile seemed just the sort of thing Riddle would hold a grudge for. Permanently.

At least his back wasn't hurting anymore, and the middle Lestrange brother wasn't Snape. Where his future potions professor had wielded criticism like a weapon, Secundus merely seemed annoyed at having his time wasted. He didn't sneer or make cutting remarks — though he did have an irritating habit of glancing meaningfully at Harry's hands whenever Harry made a mistake. Heat crept up Harry's neck every time. The older Lestrange had obviously told his younger brother about that humiliating punishment Riddle had dealt out in front of him.

Harry was carefully mixing his third attempt at an anti-paralysis potion when the door opened. Concentrating on making sure that this time he didn't make the mistake that had caused his almost finished potion to fail half an hour earlier, he jumped in surprise, almost knocking the cauldron off the burner. Sebastian Selwyn swept in, his dark curls disheveled as if he'd been running. A remorseful house elf followed the visitor, apparently horrified to see how his master reacted to allowing this intrusion.

"Secundus, why aren't you — oh." Selwyn's confident stride faltered as he spotted Harry. "Primus said you weren't coming tonight. Now I see why." His lips quirked in amusement.

Secundus sighed, gesturing at Harry with poorly concealed resignation. "Tom's orders. O.W.L. preparation." At the same time, he dismissed the house elf with a wave of his hand, apparently not considering it an offence worthy of punishment.

"But tonight, it's Tom and Alastair. Everyone’s going to be there." Excitement flickered in Selwyn’s dark eyes, sharp and hungry.

Harry’s spoon stopped mid-rotation. Lestrange noticed immediately, of course.

"Keep stirring. You want to ruin it again?" he snapped, irritation threading his voice.

Harry made an apologetic face and resumed stirring, his ears pricked for more information. They're up to something, and judging by Selwyn's reaction, something worth seeing.

Selwyn peered over Harry’s shoulder at the simmering potion. Harry tensed instinctively at the sudden proximity, at the sheer presence of the older Slytherin, who exuded effortless confidence. A sharp, biting scent of cologne filled Harry’s nose.

"What are we brewing here? Looks a bit like a Blood-Replenishing Brew… or wait, is it an Anti-Paralysis Potion?"

To recognize a potion just by appearance? Selwyn was starting to scare him.

"Yeah, it's an Anti-Paralysis potion," he nodded.

"So I haven’t gotten out of practice," Selwyn said, his tone light but his eyes sharp as they scanned the ingredients on the table. Straightening slightly, he tapped his fingers against the edge of the workstation.

"You’re about to throw in the powdered mud fungus, aren’t you?"

Harry gave a stiff nod, preparing to do exactly that, but Selwyn clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"Don’t. Add the juice of smoky garlic first," he instructed, already reaching for the small wooden container of peeled bulbs. Tossing one to Harry, he added, "Speeds up the brewing process. Crush it with the flat of your knife — my grandfather’s trick. Works every time."

Harry hesitated. A petty part of him wanted to ignore the suggestion out of spite — maybe even ruin the potion so Secundus would be stuck here longer, missing whatever Riddle had planned. But his recently sharpened instincts told him that a little cunning could go a long way. Besides, Selwyn, while impatient, didn’t radiate outright hostility.

"Go on," Selwyn prompted, tilting his head. "Unless you’d rather sit here another half-hour making Lestrange suffer."

The temptation lingered, but Harry decided to relent. He flattened the garlic as instructed, watching the milky juice seep into the mixture and change the colour almost at once.

Selwyn grinned, satisfied. "There, almost brewed. This way you’ll have it done in three minutes instead of twenty. Useful trick. Keep it in mind, kiddo." Then, abruptly, he waved a hand. "Well, you’re done, and we’ve got better things to do."

Harry opened his mouth to protest — he was itching to know what Riddle was up to, but if he wasn’t supposed to know, well, that likely meant Riddle had plans he wanted to keep hidden. Selwyn, too restless to stand around, had already nudged him toward the fireplace.

Secundus, sighing heavily, waved a dismissive hand much like he had at the elf. "Bubble can handle cleanup. Off you go."

Harry bristled at this unceremonious dismissal, as he was genuinely curious as to what was going on. Especially since Riddle clearly wanted to keep it a secret from him. Unfortunately, Selwyn, as hyperactive as ever, did not let the steam out of his mouth.  Harry had no choice but to take a handful and step into the fireplace. Annoying as it was, an afternoon away from Riddle’s watchful eyes had its own value.

When he returned the following week, Secundus actually nodded in greeting. "Your Anti-Paralysis Potion was… adequate," he said, almost begrudgingly.

Harry hid a small smile as he set up his cauldron. In his situation, even the smallest victories were worth celebrating.

o.O.o

Harry sat in the orangery of the Rosier estate, painfully aware of the wealth around him. Sunlight streamed through the massive windows, casting a golden glow over the exotic plants that filled the air with their sweet scent. Beyond the glass, a sprawling garden — no, a private park — stretched out, the kind Harry had only ever seen in documentaries about the royal family. It had taken them a quarter of an hour just to walk here from the main house, a fact that still boggled Harry’s mind.

And then there were the teacups.

Harry stared at the one in his hands, afraid he’d break it just by lifting it to his lips. The porcelain was so thin he could almost see through it. And of course, Everett had to casually drop into conversation that his great-great-great-grandmother had specially imported the entire set from Japan, just because they were "perfect for reading tea leaves." Because apparently, regular teacups weren't fancy enough for fortune-telling.

Harry really didn't need this information to realise how different the world in which Rosier grew up was. The more time Harry spent with Riddle's Slytherins, the clearer the source of their arrogance became. It wasn't just about blood status — it was this: sprawling estates, inherited wealth, and armies of house-elves at their beck and call. The irony wasn't lost on Harry. These purebloods, who sneered at everything Muggle, lived exactly like the Muggle aristocracy his Aunt Petunia worshipped in her magazines. Same grand estates, same obsession with status, same contempt for those beneath them. The only difference? The Slytherins would have been mortified by the comparison.

But the real joke was watching these pampered purebloods defer to Tom Riddle — an orphan raised by Muggles. Here they were, with their centuries of magical heritage and mountains of gold, hanging on every word from someone they'd normally cross the street to avoid. It was almost impressive how Riddle had walked into their world with nothing but talent and ambition and turned them into his eager servants.

And when Riddle gave an order, they obeyed—even if it meant spending an afternoon tutoring his 'younger brother', a nobody in their eyes, and pretending they didn't mind.

So that's why Everett Rosier sat in a chair opposite him with the grace of someone who had never questioned his place in the world. His perfectly tailored clothes of the finest materials and his manicured hands were evidence of a life Harry had never known — even the Malfoys of his time, for all their wealth, did not exude such refinement.

"Are you finished?" Everett asked, his polite tone carrying just enough warmth to preserve decorum, but not enough to suggest true kindness.

Of all the pre-Death Eathers, he was the best at showing that he didn't mind wasting afternoons teaching Harry. Which was saying quite a lot.

Harry glanced at his almost-full cup. "Not yet."

"Then look at mine first."

Everett placed his cup on the saucer with a grace that made the simple act seem like a performance. Harry, suppressing a sigh, did the same and leaned over to look into the cup. He saw nothing but a jumble of leaves. In Trelawney's class he'd at least had Ron to joke with about making things up. But his lessons with Avery and Lestrange he'd learned that Riddle's Slytherins didn't appreciate creative interpretation.

"I'm afraid I don't see much," Harry admitted cautiously, watching Rosier's reaction.

To his surprise, Everett's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Neither do I, these days," he admitted, though his casual tone seemed calculated. "The readings have been rather... inconsistent. One day it's prosperity and success, the next it's all doom and gloom." He traced the rim of his cup with one manicured finger. "It's as if the future itself can't quite decide what it wants to be."

A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine. Was his presence here, in 1947, already causing ripples in time? Were his attempts to resist Riddle while appearing to submit creating alternate possibilities that even divination couldn’t sort through?

Rosier must have taken his silence for confusion. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, his expression shifting to one of mild amusement. "It’s all about you passing the exam, isn’t it?"

Harry forced himself to focus on the present. "Yes. Tom expects me to do well."

"Ah." Everett's smile sharpened slightly. "I must admit, I'm surprised he's allowing you to take Divination at all. Given his... particular standards." The way he studied Harry's face made it clear he was fishing for information.

Harry kept his expression neutral. He knew every word he said would be analysed. Interacting with Riddle’s inner circle was like walking through a minefield — one wrong step, and everything could fall apart.

"Tom insisted that I take O.W.L. this year," Harry said carefully. "Since I have to pass two extra subjects and I've never studied runes or arithmetic, we agreed that Divination would be the easiest to learn."

Everett nodded, though Harry wasn’t sure if he bought the explanation. Not that it mattered —Harry had played his part, and whatever happened next was Riddle’s problem.

"Well, that makes sense," Everett said, his tone light but still carrying that edge of calculation. "Let me give you some advice, then. If you want to pass, improvise. The O.W.L. examiner won’t be able to tell if you’re truly Seeing or not. Learn the basic signs — love, wealth, illness —and apply them liberally. Add enough specific details, and they’ll assume you know what you’re talking about."

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of the advice. Everett, noticing his reaction, gestured to Harry’s nearly full cup with a sly smirk. "Drink up and try again with yours."

o.O.o

Unlike Rosier or the Lestrange's, Alastair Macnair did not live in a large mansion with a garden the size of a park. On the contrary, his apartment was small — smaller than the one occupied by Avery or even Riddle. Though sparsely furnished and equipped with only the essentials, it was here that Harry felt most intimidated. Macnair didn’t need wealth to make an impression. His reputation as an Auror who had infiltrated Grindelwald’s network was enough to command respect — or fear.

Now, on the orders of his real Dark Lord, he too had been temporarily reduced to the role of tutor to his younger, fake brother. To say that Macnair was brimming with enthusiasm would be an understatement.

"Sit," Macnair commanded, his voice sharp as he closed the study door with a flick of his wand. He gestured toward a straight-backed wooden chair in front of the desk. Harry obeyed hesitantly, perching on the edge of the seat, his hands clenched in his lap.

Macnair didn’t sit. He leaned against his desk, arms crossed, his broad frame towering over Harry. His yellow-flecked eyes locked onto Harry with a cold, appraising stare that made Harry feel like a specimen under a microscope. The memory of their first meeting — Harry’s humiliation, the Belt Charm, Macnair’s indifferent gaze — flashed in his mind, and his cheeks burned. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the older man was thinking the same thing.

"Before we get down to practice and visit my family's farm," Macnair began, his voice as sharp as a knife's edge, "let's establish whether you possess even basic theoretical knowledge." His tone suggested he highly doubted it. "How do we classify magical creatures, and what do the classifications signify?"

Harry let out a breath. It wasn't that difficult — even Hagrid told them about it in his lessons.

"Each class is marked with the letter X and indicates how dangerous the animal is and the chances of domesticating it."

"Go on," Macnair prompted, his stern expression unchanged. "What’s the range of X's?"

Harry's temporary confidence wavered. "One to... nine?" He remembered Ron's book about Acromantulas having that many X's, but even as he said it, he knew he was wrong.

"Are you asking or answering?"

Harry blushed. So, Macnair was just like Avery and Lestrange—rigid, exacting, and utterly intolerant of improvisation.

"I'm not sure," he replied quietly, looking away.

All he heard was a loud sigh.

"One to five," he corrected, each word dripping with contempt. "Five-X creatures are the most dangerous, while four-X creatures are dangerous but manageable with proper protocols." His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Speaking of which — basic handling protocols for four-X creatures. List them."

Harry's mind raced through his experiences. He'd handled Buckbeak, fought a dragon, ridden Thestrals — but none of that would help here. He needed textbook answers, not practical experience.

"You need to approach them carefully—" he began.

"Specific steps," Macnair cut in. "In order."

"Check for signs of aggression first..."

"Which are?"

"If they're showing their teeth?" Harry offered weakly, knowing he'd just dug his grave even deeper.

A muscle twitched in Macnair’s square face. "Showing their—" he broke off, exhaling sharply through his nose as if Harry’s ignorance were physically painful to him.

"I never had particularly good teachers for this subject," Harry said quietly, unable to keep the defensive note from his voice.

"That," Macnair replied icily, "is not an excuse. Tell that to the hippogriff that mauls you because you failed to show proper respect."

Harry bristled internally. He wanted to argue, to tell Macnair that he definitely had more experience with hippogriffs than him. And none of them tore him apart with their claws. But before he could open his mouth, Macnair opened the door with a wave of his wand.

"Tell your brother to buy you Scamander’s textbook on magical creatures. Don’t come back here until you’ve read it at least three times. And bring your notes. Now, you’re dismissed."

Harry blinked. Just like that?

"Why are you still sitting here?" Macnair said, his voice sharp. "I told you to go."

Five minutes later, Harry emerged from the fireplace in Riddle's flat. He knew he had to let the older boy know that he had finished his lesson and, although he was in no hurry to do so, he made his way to the library.

Riddle, as usual, was buried in a thick book. He didn't look up, but his hand extended expectantly.

"Back already? I didn’t expect you to return so soon."

Harry sighed but without unnecessary hesitation he handed his wand over to Riddle. He was so used to it that he almost felt no inner opposition. Almost. After that he slumped into an armchair, his frustration simmering just below the surface. "Yeah, well, Macnair kicked me out after two questions," he complained. "I thought your Slytherins were supposed to teach me, not humiliate me."

Riddle finally looked up, his grey eyes cool and assessing. "I asked them to evaluate your knowledge and help you fill in the gaps," he said coldly. "Not to teach you from scratch. If you’d bothered to learn the basics, you wouldn’t be in this position."

Harry glared at him, his pride stinging. " If I had access to resources, I would have prepared. By the way, Macnair said to tell you to buy me Scamander’s textbook," he said, his voice clipped. "Apparently, I’m supposed to read it three times before he’ll even consider teaching me again."

A slight twitch of Riddle's lips suggested he found Harry's predicament amusing. His gaze drifted to the bookshelves. "Second shelf from the window, third row from the bottom," he said dismissively. "You'll find what you need there. And do start now — you have another lesson with Alastair next Wednesday. I won't allow you to reschedule."

o.O.o

Despite Slytherin's carefully arranged network of teachers, there were some subjects that Riddle would not delegate. Charms, Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts made sense — after all, these were the subjects that would give Harry the skills to challenge Riddle. But Astronomy? That was unexpected.

"The examiners are especially strict about star positions," Riddle had said one night as he led them up the creaky ladder to the roof of their tenement. "So, you need a lot of practice."

Harry couldn't help noticing that Riddle's usually immaculate appearance was somewhat dishevelled after a long day's work - it made him look normal, like an ordinary wizard, rather than a future tyrant and mass murderer.

"In my time, we also had a practical exam — I had to complete a map of the sky and mark the missing stars. And I passed it," he grumbled.

Riddle looked at him with disdain.

"Here you'll have to draw some of it yourself." Riddle's voice carried that particular tone he used when he thought Harry was being deliberately obtuse. "The 1940s curriculum expects more... rigorous understanding."

Harry bit back a retort about how living fifty years in the future might actually make him more knowledgeable, not less. Instead, he gritted his teeth (his aching back was still no excuse for letting anything get to him) and began to climb after Riddle.

The London sky of 1947 was clearer than Harry was used to, though the glow of the city still obscured the stars. As Riddle pointed out various constellations, Harry found himself unwillingly impressed by the depth of his knowledge. It was easy to forget, standing there in the cool night air, that this same man would become Voldemort. That the same elegant hand gesturing at Cassiopeia would one day cast the curse that killed his parents. The thought always came with a bitter taste of self-hatred, for there had been moments when he had let his guard down in the company of the future Dark Lord. Especially on those rare occasions when, after correctly answering a tricky question, Riddle's face would flash a look that, with a bit of good will, could be mistaken for an expression of satisfaction at the knowledge displayed.

"Pay attention," Riddle snapped whenever Harry's mind wandered, his voice carrying that edge that promised consequences. "The question about Orion's position may be on your exam."

On misty nights, when London's notorious fog made the Thames invisible, Riddle would Apparate them to windswept cliffs or desolate moors. These excursions were somehow worse than their rooftop sessions — the surrounding darkness heightening their strange dynamic. Just the two of them, under an endless canopy of stars, with Harry constantly reminding himself that this man who could speak so passionately about celestial bodies and their influence on magic and magical ritual was the same man who had created the army of the Inferi from the bodies of the dead.

Of course, preparing for the exams did not mean that Harry was free from studying black magic. According to their agreement, Riddle continued to teach Harry, and Harry, despite his reluctance and inner resistance, tried to show the minimum interest required. This meant Riddle had to honor the second part of their agreement, and their training duels in the courtyard of Lestrange Castle ruins became as routine as their nightly chess games.

Though Riddle never repeated his offer from their first duel, that didn’t stop Harry from occasionally trying to negotiate rewards for his performance. His first attempt was met with that infuriating, razor-edged smile — the one that said Riddle found his efforts amusing. Yet, to Harry’s surprise, he agreed. It didn’t take long for Harry to understand why. Riddle used this as an opportunity to show Harry just how much he’d held back during their initial clash. Now, there were no such concessions. If Harry wanted something from him, he’d have to earn it through sheer effort and skill.

Yet, rather than deterring him, the increasing difficulty of their duels only fuelled Harry’s determination. What began as mere training sessions transformed into something far more personal: an outlet for every bitter thought, every suppressed emotion, every moment of forced submission. Here, in the heat of combat, Harry could finally unleash the anger that had been simmering beneath the surface, without fear of the consequences of showing it.

Far from being bothered by this, Riddle seemed to actively encourage it. His insistence on Harry’s full effort only stoked Harry’s resolve to excel while clinging to his principles. It became another form of resistance: Harry doggedly sticking to neutral spells, even as Riddle pushed him toward darker, more destructive magic. Of course, the future Dark Lord had his ways of drawing out Harry's darker side. Sometimes this was done by subtle manipulation, sometimes by more direct means, and sometimes it was Harry who used it as an opportunity to achieve his own ends.

One day, when Riddle was positively oozing with suspicious self-satisfaction, Harry mischievously suggested:

"How about this? If I last two minutes and use at least one dark spell, you'll answer one of my questions."

Riddle studied him for a moment, his face impassive. "Five minutes. And you can only use dark magic." His tone was light, almost playful — the voice he used when setting traps.

"Three minutes. And I'll use whatever spells I see fit. Neutral and grey ones have their uses too."

"Very well," Riddle agreed. "But if you ask about Horcruxes, I won't answer."

Harry hadn't planned to — he knew that knowledge would come at a much higher price.

They took their positions, wands raised, the air between them charged with anticipation. The first curse came whistling through the air before Harry had fully straightened, but he was ready for it, throwing himself sideways as purple light burned the grass where he had been standing.

Harry didn't hesitate with his own response. Between dodges and hasty shields, he hurled spells without restraint, knowing that the magic of the life debt wouldn’t interfere here—it was sophisticated enough to read intent, and his only goal was to get an answer. It was strangely exhilarating, almost like flying on his Firebolt, to cast without restraint, to watch Riddle dodge and deflect spells that could have been dangerous in a real fight.

And Harry, as Riddle demanded, didn’t limit himself to spells compatible with his morals. Several times, he cast curses Riddle himself had taught him, and once or twice, he even resorted to the Half-Blood Prince’s creations. When he sent a slashing Sectumsempra, Riddle parried it with effortless grace.

"Interesting," the future Dark Lord said, a flicker of approval in his voice as he forced Harry onto the defensive. "I don’t recall teaching you that one."

Harry gritted his teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in his ribs and the acrid smell of his singed sleeve. He retaliated with another of the Prince’s curses, one he hadn’t even tested. He didn’t know what it did, but the way Riddle’s eyes flashed as he sidestepped it told him everything he needed to know. It bought him a moment, a breath, not enough to win, but enough to fulfil their agreement.

Three minutes and five seconds. That’s how long it took before Riddle finally — efficiently, ruthlessly — disarmed him, the spell ripping the wand from Harry’s grip. The sheer force of the spell threw Harry backwards onto the grass.

Harry forced himself into a sitting position. He was panting, sweat running down his face, his body aching and his mind racing. He was exhausted, battered, but strangely triumphant. He had made it.

"Well?" Riddle asked as he knelt to take care of Harry’s more severe injuries, a routine they’d fallen into after every duel. "What did you want to ask?"

Harry took a careful breath. His ribs hurt, but he could breathe, so it was good. "What did you do with Mulciber recently?" he asked, his tone deliberately casual, watching Riddle's face for tells.

Surprise flickered across Riddle's features, but Harry wasn't sure if it was genuine or fake. "How do you know we did something together?"

"I was having lessons with Secundus Lestrange when Selwyn turned up. He mentioned that you were planning something and that everyone would be there," Harry explained cautiously. Selwyn had always been nice to him — he was the friendliest of all Riddle's Slytherins — so Harry hoped he wouldn't get into trouble over it. However, their relationship was not close enough for Harry to feel the need to protect him from Riddle. If it was something Harry was not supposed to know about, Selwyn would have to explain himself.

Riddle’s expression smoothed over. "We had a duel."

Harry's mouth dropped open. He hadn't expected the answer. "What do you mean? A practice duel or a real one?"

Riddle raised a hand, cutting him off. "One question," he reminded him, though there was no real reprimand in his tone.

Harry snorted. "At least tell me who won."

"I think I’ve been too lenient with you during our duels if you’re bold enough to ask that," Riddle said dryly. He stood and offered Harry a hand, pulling him to his feet.

Harry suppressed a smile. "You know, you didn’t exactly impress me today."

"Because I was curious about what you wanted to ask," Riddle replied, his tone sharp but not unkind. "But now I won't be. It seems you skipped the chapter on magical shields." His smile turned predatory. "Time for some real learning."

Harry suppressed a shiver but couldn't quite hide his grin. It was exactly what he needed — when he was tired, he didn't think.

He didn't worry.

o.O.o

Harry's fingers drummed restlessly against the polished mahogany table in Abraxas Malfoy's study, his jaw clenched as he endured another Thursday afternoon of what he'd begun mentally calling "History of Pureblood Propaganda." The spring sunshine streaming through the tall windows seemed to mock the darkness of the lesson's content.

Harry really had no idea what Riddle was thinking when he decided that Abraxas Malfoy should give him extra lessons in the History of Magic. Certainly not to have reliable knowledge and an objective approach. Unless that wasn't the point. But Riddle couldn't have been so stupid as to think that Abraxas Malfoy was the right person to brainwash Harry and convince him that Muggle-born wizards were a lesser class of wizard than pure-bloods. Or perhaps the lessons were a delayed punishment for his outburst at Malfoy's birthday party and this meant to teach him to keep his mouth shut? If so, it was also a very bad idea. And not just because Harry's blood was boiling at the sight of Malfoy's smug face.

"Pay attention and take proper notes," Malfoy drawled, and at the same time a sharp sting hit Harry's left hand — Abraxas's favourite way of making Harry listen. Harry bit back a hiss of pain, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "I won't repeat myself."

"I'm noting down everything that's actually important, Malfoy. The last ten minutes of your... personal opinions about medieval witch hunts weren't exactly part of the O.W.L. curriculum."

"Perhaps we should test your grasp of the material then. The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Tell me when and why it was implemented," Malfoy's voice dripped with false politeness. "Include also how the Moodbloods contribute to its constant violation and weakening."

Harry met Malfoy's gaze with barely concealed hatred. "The Statute was implemented in 1692 to protect wizarding communities from Muggle persecution during the witch-hunting period," he recited mechanically, deliberately ignoring the last part of the question.

"Incomplete," Abraxas tsked, his wand twirling lazily between his fingers. This time, however, Harry was ready. He shifted slightly in his seat, and the Stinging Hex missed him by a hair’s breadth "When I ask you something, I expect a full answer for all of my questions."

"Fine. Whatever. I don't think wizards from Muggle families break the Statute any more often than purebloods who have grown up in this world. In fact, I'd say purebloods like you are more likely to exploit loopholes for personal gain." Harry replied, leaning back in his chair and looking defiantly into Malfoy's eyes.

"That's not what I taught you," Malfoy hissed.

Harry slowly folded his arms across his chest, his exhaustion and frustration simmering just beneath the surface. A sleepless night spent worrying about how his presence might already be altering the future, combined with a grueling day at Borgin and Burke’s — where Borgin had been particularly unbearable — had left him on edge. The only bright spot, if it could even be called that, was Riddle’s absence, who was busy with his wealthy old lady client, who always spent lavishly. But even that small reprieve was ruined by the prospect of enduring Abraxas Malfoy’s lectures. Listening to his nonsense was bad enough; repeating it was unthinkable.

"No. You didn't teach me anything at all back then, you just shared your opinion. I won't repeat it like a mindless puppet. There's no mention of this in the textbook, and in the exam they will require facts from me, not opinions soaked in prejudice."

This made Abraxas rise from his chair in one fluid motion, looming over Harry with his hands planted on the desk. "You forget yourself. You are in my study, receiving lessons I provide solely out of respect for your brother—"

"Respect?" Harry's voice dripped with contempt. "Let's be honest, Malfoy — you're terrified of him. You'd kiss a flobberworm if Tom suggested it might please him."

The transformation in Abraxas's face was instant — aristocratic composure shattering into raw fury. "How dare you, you little—"

"What's wrong, Malfoy?" Harry taunted, shooting to his feet as his chair scraped back. "Truth stings worse than your hexes? If my brother ordered you to polish every Muggleborn's shoes with your tongue, you'd ask which foot to start with."

Abraxas's wand appeared in his hand, pale eyes flashing dangerously. "You forget your place"

Harry's own wand was already drawn, his heart thundering with accumulated rage. "No, Malfoy. For the first time since I got here, I remember exactly who I am."

Both stepped back, wands raised, the air electric with tension. In that moment, Harry saw not just Abraxas, but every Malfoy who would follow — the same arrogance, the same cruelty, the same blind devotion to power.

“Last chance to apologize,” Abraxas said, his voice low and lethal.

Harry's response was to raise his wand higher, a grim smile playing at his lips. "Make me."

When Harry thought about it later, the only mitigating circumstance he could come up with was that it wasn’t him who had started the duel. But that didn’t make anything that happed any less horrifying.

"Stupefy!" Malfoy's spell shot across the room like crimson lightning, shattering the fragile tension between them.

Harry's body reacted before his mind could catch up, muscle memory from countless duels with Riddle taking over. He dove to the side, retaliating with a quick "Expelliarmus!" that the other wizard batted away with contemptuous ease. The smirk on Malfoy’s face only fueled Harry’s anger, his pulse pounding in his ears as the room erupted into chaos.

Books flew from their shelves as deflected spells struck the walls, sending showers of shards and dust into the air. Portraits of ancestors screamed in outrage, their occupants ducking for cover behind their gilded frames. Harry's blood sang with adrenaline, his movements fluid and automatic — duck, shield, counter, strike — the familiar sequences he'd learnt in the abandoned courtyard. But this wasn't like dueling Riddle. Abraxas was skilled, yes, but predictable, his movements telegraphing his intentions in a way Riddle never did.

And yet, Malfoy still was pressing him back, forcing Harry to give ground. A cutting hex sliced through Harry’s sleeve, drawing a thin line of blood. Another spell grazed his cheek, leaving it burning. Desperation clawed at Harry’s chest as he found himself cornered, his back against the bookshelves. The metallic taste of blood filled his nostrils, mingling with the scent of old parchment and polished wood.

One more spell and he'd be down — defeated by a Malfoy. The thought of Abraxas's triumphant sneer standing over him sent a surge of blind fury through his veins. No. Not like this. Not to him.

Without thinking, Harry shouted: "Sectumsempra!"

The curse struck Malfoy square in the chest. For a moment, time seemed to stop. Harry’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the spell hit its mark, the force of it sending Malfoy staggering backward. And all of a sudden, blood spurted from Malfoy's face and chest, as if he had been cut by an invisible sword. His eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to the floor, his wand slipping from his fingers.

"NO!" Harry rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside Malfoy’s prone form. Blood was everywhere, soaking into the expensive carpet in dark, spreading pools. Harry’s hands trembled as he reached for Abraxas, his mind racing. He hadn’t meant to—he hadn’t thought—

"No, no, no, NOOO! " Harry lunged for his wand, desperate to at least try to stop the bleeding, but before he could reach it, the crack of a whip cut through the air and Malfoy’s house-elf appeared, its tennis ball eyes blazing with fear and fury.

With a gesture, the creature flung Harry backward. His head cracked against the bookshelf, stars exploding across his vision. Pain lanced through his skull, and for a moment, the world went dark at the edges.

More cracks split the air, and when Harry's vision cleared, Sebastian Selwyn was there, his usual easy charm replaced by bewilderment and fear as he assessed the scene. His dark brown curls were disheveled, and his sharp, angular face was pale with shock. He hurriedly knelt beside Malfoy and tried to help him, but when his efforts had the opposite effect — Abraxas moaned softly and the blood stain on the carpet spread — he turned his attention to Harry, who was trying to get to his feet.

The usual playful glint in Selwyn's eyes had hardened to something dangerous with a flick of his wand, he summoned Harry to him. Harry felt himself yanked forward by an invisible force, only for Selwyn to shake him a moment later, holding him by the front of his robes. The sweet scent of whiskey on Selwyn’s breath was nauseatingly close.

"What did you do?" Selwyn's voice was barely above a whisper, but it trembled with contained rage. "What curse was that?"

"I didn't mean—" Harry's voice cracked. The guilt was crushing, making it hard to breathe. "He attacked first, but I—I can't—"

"What. Did. You. Use?"

Harry tried to wrench away, panic rising in his throat. "I didn't mean to—"

Selwyn’s eyes narrowed. He raised his wand and without warning, he plunged into Harry’s mind The invasion was brutal, tearing through Harry's memories like paper. Recent images flashed past — Harry's voice shouting the curse, Malfoy falling. But Selwyn drove deeper, searching, until he found what he wanted: the Gryffindor dormitory, a half-blood prince's textbook, spidery writing in the margins — For Enemies.

Selwyn thrust Harry away with disgust. "Ditty!" he barked at the house-elf. "Find Bug. Get Tom here now." He turned back to Abraxas, his wand moving in complex patterns as he tried to stem the bleeding.

Harry crawled backward until his shoulders hit the wall, his injured arm ached. The cut from Abraxas's hex burned like fire, but it was nothing compared to the icy dread spreading through his chest as he waited for Riddle to arrive. His eyes remained fixed on Selwyn's desperate attempts to save Malfoy, the pool of blood still spreading across the expensive carpet.

He did not have to wat for it too long.

Tom Riddle materialized in the centre of Abraxas's library, his presence instantly filling the room like a gathering storm. One look at his face made Harry's blood run cold — beneath Riddle's carefully maintained mask of composure, Harry could see a fury that promised something far worse than the Cruciatus Curse. And he didn't need the increasing throbbing in his skull that was splitting his head in half to realise it.

Riddle's gaze swept over Harry for a moment, assessing. Finding him relatively intact, he turned his attention to Malfoy, smoothly pushing Selwyn aside as he knelt beside the fallen wizard. "What happened?"

"They were duelling," Selwyn's voice was raw. "The house-elf summoned me. I arrived moments ago."

Riddles head turned slightly, grey eyes finding Harry over his shoulder. "Sectumsempra?" he asked simply.

Harry's heart stopped. How could he know? That spell hadn't even been invented yet — wouldn't be for decades. True, he'd used it against Riddle in their last duel, and Riddle had asked about the incantation, but they'd never discussed it further. Never practiced it. Never—

"Yes," Harry managed to whisper, the word barely audible.

Riddle turned back to Abraxas, bending low over his prone form. What emerged from his lips wasn't an incantation but something closer to song — an eerie, otherworldly melody that made the hair on Harry's arms stand on end. The bleeding began to slow.

"Will he live?" Selwyn asked, leaning forward anxiously.

"Yes," Riddle replied, his voice clipped. "But he needs more extensive treatment. Get Brandon here. Now."

Selwyn disappeared without another word, leaving Harry alone with Riddle and the unconscious Malfoy. When Riddle spoke again, his voice was terrifyingly soft.

"Go home with Bug. Wait in your room. If you move so much as an inch before I return..." He let the threat hang in the air, unfinished but crystal clear. "You'll wish I had only used Crucio."

Fear froze Harry, but he managed a jerky nod. A moment later, Bug's long fingers closed around his wrist, and he felt the familiar tug of Apparition.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE —

Crime and Punishment

New wave of nausea hit him. Harry gagged again, his trembling hands gripping the cold porcelain of the toilet so hard his knuckles turned white. Vomiting on an empty stomach was its own special kind of torture, each heave sending spasms of pain through his abdomen. Yet somehow his body found more to expel — bitter, acidic bile that burned his throat and left him gasping.

Harry slumped back, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. A bitter aftertaste coated his tongue, but it was nothing  —  nothing  —  compared to the crushing weight of guilt pressing against his chest like a physical thing. Behind his closed eyelids, the scene replayed endlessly: Malfoy's blood spurting from his chest, his body crumpled to the floor, the widening pool of crimson staining the carpet. And Selwyn's face. His usual playful grin turned to a scowl of horror as he stared at what had been done to his friend. And when he shifted his gaze to Harry...

The soft click of the bathroom door made Harry jump. He didn’t have to look up to know who it was. He instinctively tensed, his body bracing for punishment even as his mind screamed at him to run. But where could he go? He was trapped — trapped in this time, in this flat, in this nightmare.

"I told you to wait in your room." Riddle's voice sliced through the silence, deadly quiet.

The careful control in his tone made Harry's stomach lurch more violently than any shout could have. Another wave of nausea forced him to lean over the toilet again, his body heaving as the acrid stench filled the small space. His face burned with humiliation.

"Pathetic," Riddle said, coming closer. Harry caught the movement of the wand in his peripheral vision and flinched. But it was only a cleaning spell, its soft tingling washing over him, removing the dirt and sour taste from his mouth.

"Follow me." It wasn't a request.

Harry got up unsteadily, leaning against the wall. His gaze remained fixed on the floor, and his movements were slow and sluggish as he trailed after Riddle towards the library. Their footsteps echoed in the oppressive silence, broken only by the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece.

As they entered the library, Riddle gestured to the armchair and Harry sank into it, his legs grateful for the support. He kept his eyes on his hands, watching them twist in his lap as Riddle leaned against his desk, arms crossed, radiating controlled menace.

The headache returned, but this time it seemed more subdued, as if held in check.

Like the future Dark Lord's fury.

"Tell me what happened. Exactly." Riddle demanded, his voice unexpectedly even. "And feel warned, Potter, if I get the slightest inkling that you're even thinking of lying to me, I will not hesitate to use Legilimency. Are we clear?"

Harry's throat tightened but he managed a nod. Only a nod.

"I'm waiting," Riddle prompted, when the only response he got was silence.

Harry's head throbbed as he struggled to find the words. The memory felt raw, dangerous to touch. But once he began to speak, the words flowed like a river. He couldn't risk lying —  he didn't dare, with Riddle's threat of Legilimency hanging over him — so he confessed everything: the simmering anger, the deliberate way he'd goaded Malfoy, the wild rush of satisfaction as the first spell flew.

His voice trailed off as he described how quickly things had spiralled out of control. Both of them losing themselves in rage and fear until Harry — cornered, desperate, certain that Malfoy was about to win - had cast Sectumsempra in a last-ditch attempt to get out of it intact.

"After that..." Harry's eyes remained on his hands, unable to meet Riddle's. "Selwyn couldn't help him and called you. You know the rest."

Silence stretched between them. Harry didn't dare raise his eyes, knowing that Riddle's unnatural calm meant his anger was at its peak. His growing headache made this very clear.

"Let me ask you one question, Harry," Riddle's voice was deceptively gentle. "When you cast that spell, did you know its effects?"

Harry shook his head.

"And you cast it anyway."

"I didn't think it would hit him," Harry whispered.

"Never cast a spell you don't mean to hit," Riddle hissed. The sudden harshness in his voice made Harry flinch, as if slapped in the face. "Never."

Harry remained silent. The pain in his head eased slightly.

"Sectumsempra," Riddle pronounced each syllable with careful precision. "A rather elegant piece of dark magic. Multiple invisible blades, designed to slice through flesh and bone. Really hard to counter, better to doge it, but you have to know it first."

"How did you—"

"Know the spell? Know how to uounter it?" Riddle's lip curled in contempt. "Unlike you, I make it my habit to understand the tools at my disposal. Be grateful I took the time to analyse this particular spell after our last duel. Without that knowledge, Abraxas would have bled out. The standard healing spells only accelerate the bleeding."

Harry blushed, remembering Selwyn's attempted healing spell.

"Not talking now? Nothing to say to me?" Riddle's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Not even a word of gratitude for saving your victim's life?"

Harry's blood boiled, shame and defiance warring inside him. "I know I screw up! But he started it — he cast the first spell, and he wasn't exactly holding back either!"

"And that's your excuse? That he cast the first spell? And who provoked him?" Riddle snarled, his careful composure shattered slightly. Harry grimaced as the pain behind his eyes exploded with new intensity. "In case you hadn't noticed, he was the one who ended up bleeding on the carpet in his ancestral residence, not you," he added this time with a voice that clearly showed his growing fury. "When will you learn to think before you act? When will you stop behaving like an impulsive child who leaves nothing but chaos in his wake? Isn't it enough that you've already disrupted your timeline? Must you actively destroy this one as well?"

Riddle leaned forward and placed his hand on the arm of Harry's armchair, his grey eyes fixed on the younger boy. "Or perhaps this is about your schoolyard rivalry?" The future Dark Lord lowered his voice to a whisper. Harry could almost feel his breath on his cheek. "Do you hate Draco Malfoy so deeply that you'd prevent his very existence by eliminating his bloodline? And you dare call me cruel?"

Harry gaped, words failing him before he finally managed, "That's not— I never wanted— Malfoy will recover, won't he?"

"Recover?" Riddle laughed, a cold, sharp sound that made Harry recoil. The future Dark Lord straightened up in one quick, graceful movement. "Oh, he'll live. I made sure of that. Brandon will even prevent the scarring — the physical ones, at least."

The implication hit Harry like ice water. "Malfoy wouldn't—"

"Wouldn't what?" Riddle cut in, his voice razor sharp. "Let this go? Don't be naive, Potter. The Malfoys practically own the Wizengamot. One word from Abraxas or his father and you'll be rotting in Azkaban, trapped in the past, unable to save anyone." As he leaned back against the desk again, a little more composed, his eyes gleamed dangerously. "And what of your great plans? The binding oath won't be broken just because you're imprisoned. You will rot there, powerless to prevent the future that you are so desperate to hold on to. That is, of course, if luck stays by your side and the Aurors watch you closely enough to make sure no stray Dementor kisses you."

Harry's chest tightened as the reality of his situation crashed over him. No return to Ron and Hermione. No stopping Voldemort. No saving anyone. His voice came out small, almost childlike: "But he's one of yours, isn't he? Your follower. You can control him, make him—"

Riddle's laugh was like broken glass. "Oh, now you want me to act like the Dark Lord? How convenient." His smile was cruel. "But I'm not Voldemort yet, Potter. My influence has limits — limits you've just tested rather spectacularly."

A cold shiver ran down Harry's spine. "So what..." His voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. "What happens now?"

"Now?" Riddle's expression shifted to something almost contemplative. " Now I must convince one of my most valuable and vindictive allies that my rash half-brother's continued existence is worth more than the satisfaction of his wounded pride. I have to ensure that your moment of reckless stupidity doesn't destroy years of careful planning." His voice hardened. "I have to clean up your mess, Potter. Again."

Harry felt the weight of shame and fear press down on him, but there was one more question that needed to be answered. His voice was barely a whisper: "And what are you going to do with me?"

Riddle studied him for a long moment. The pain in Harry's head had almost completely subsided, which meant that the worst was behind him — for now.

"For now? Nothing. Your punishment can wait; I must deal with this mess first. But if you are that desperate to repent..." He summoned a thin book from the shelf with a casual wave of his hand then looked meaningfully at Harry's cheek and his injured arm. Harry almost forgot about it; guilt and fear overshadowed the pain. "Heal yourself. I don't have time for this. And do your best — that welt on your cheek looks like it's a remnant of one of Abraxas's favourite curses. It's quite close to the eye. It would be... unfortunate if you lost your sight."

He thrust the book into Harry's trembling hands. At the doorway, he paused, looking back over his shoulder. His voice was soft but carried an unmistakable threat: "And Harry? Hurry up, because when I get back, you'll have to give me the wand."

o.O.o

Life has a strange way of returning to normal, even after you've almost killed someone, Harry thought bitterly as he returned to his routine. The endless hours at Borgin and Burke's still dragged on, the evenings at Riddle's flat remained stifling and the constant fear of destroying his own future still gnawed at his insides. The one bright spot was the absence of Abraxas Malfoy from his schedule — no more History of Magic lessons meant no more sitting across from that sneering face, no more enduring lectures on 'proper wizarding heritage' delivered in a way that made Harry's blood boil. But this gap in his schedule brought no peace — instead, it left him torn between relief at avoiding Malfoy's wrath and a creeping dread at what he had done — and what was yet to come.

The waiting was driving him mad. Harry knew Riddle too well to think he would let this go. Punishment had never been a question of 'if' but 'when' — but so far, Riddle had always punished him swiftly, decisively. To let Harry stew in his own fear? This was new. And it was working a little too well.

When Harry arrived at work the next morning, his face was still a mess, even though he had spent half the night trying to heal it. The injury — now a pale patch across his cheek — was still alarmingly noticeable. At least Riddle's threat of losing an eye had turned out to be just that — a threat. Small mercies.

Naturally, Borgin's beady eyes were immediately fixed on the mark. "Another souvenir from a duel?" he asked, his thin lips twisting into something between a smirk and a sneer. The way he'd emphasized 'another' made Harry's face burn with shame and anger.

Riddle, busy arranging some cursed trinkets nearby, hadn't even looked up. "Indeed, Mr. Borgin," he'd replied smoothly, as if discussing the weather. "And now we're working on his healing spells. Aren't we, Harry?" The false brotherly affection in his voice made Harry want to gag.

"He'd better learn them quickly," Borgin grumbled, flashing his yellowed teeth. "We can't have customers thinking we're hiring some sort of abused child."

Harry had to bite back a hysterical laugh at that one. If only Borgin knew. Fortunately, the rest of the day passed peacefully, and by the end of his shift, even Mr. Borgin's mood had improved as he counted the galleons in the till.

Between shifts in the shop, Harry's life was consumed by his preparations for O.W.L., sometimes with Riddle, sometimes with his Slytherins. Their rigid schedule was almost a comfort now — who would have thought he'd ever seek solace in studying? Hermione would have been proud — but thinking about her only made everything worse, so he tried not to.

Secundus Lestrange maintained his cold attitude during Potions, which paradoxically helped Harry to concentrate and improve. They had already worked through more than half of the O.W.L. examination list, and Harry's brewing skills were showing noticeable progress under the middle Lestrange's exacting supervision.

When Secundus spotted the scar, he didn't say anything — typical lawyer restraint, Harry supposed. Instead, he simply adjusted their brewing schedule without comment, pulling out different ingredients than planned and preparing them for what Harry recognised as a healing potion.

"Dittany essence. Drop by drop," Secundus instructed, his voice as precise as always. "Count to three between each drop. The colour should shift from copper to silver gradually."

Harry followed the instructions precisely. The potion bubbled softly, its surface rippling with shimmers as each drop fell.

"Now stir counterclockwise seven times," Secundus continued, watching Harry's technique with critical eyes. "Make wider movements. The consistency will be smoother."

When Harry finally completed the potion, Secundus approached to examine the result. The liquid shimmered with the correct pearl-like sheen, and its consistency seemed perfect. After a long moment of scrutiny, Lestrange gave a slight nod.

"Apply it."

Harry blinked in surprise. "What?"

"The potion. Apply it to your..." Secundus made a vague gesture toward Harry's cheek, his composed demeanour never wavering. "If you've brewed it properly, you should feel a tingle."

Harry hesitated for a moment, surprised by the order, but eventually complied. As he dabbed the potion onto his cheek, a tingling sensation spread across the scar, confirming that he had indeed succeeded in brewing the potion properly.

"Acceptable." Secundus had already turned away, pulling out another set of ingredients. "Now, let’s move on to the Draught of Peace. Try not to drown it in hellebore this time."

Unfortunately, if Secundus was ice, Brandon Avery was pure fire. His newly fuelled hostility was palpable from the moment Harry stepped into his Liverpool flat. The potion might have erased the scar from his cheek, but it couldn't erase Avery's memory of having to patch up Abraxas after their duel, nor his obvious opinion that Harry was an idiot of the highest order.

"Wand on the desk," Avery ordered, jerking his chin toward an ornate stand.

Harry, already exhausted by his constant antagonism, felt a flicker of defiance. "Afraid I’ll beat you in a duel like I did Malfoy?" The words slipped out before he could stop them, sharp and cutting.

Avery's face darkened dangerously. "Beat him" He let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what you call almost killing someone with dark magic you don't even understand?"

Harry held his wand. But what followed was the most gruelling Herbology lesson yet. Avery grilled Harry mercilessly on every detail of healing herbs and their properties, his questions becoming increasingly specific and obscure. By the end of the session, Harry's head was spinning with Latin names and precise growing conditions.

"Your homework," Brandon announced as Harry prepared to leave, his smile sharp enough to cut glass, "will be a comprehensive essay on the twenty most effective plants for treating curse damage — with detailed explanations of why they work." His eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. "Since you're so interested in this particular branch of magic."

After several mind-numbing hours of Divination, Harry had come to an unfortunate conclusion: Professor Trelawney wasn't entirely to blame for his poor performance in her class. No, his fundamental problem with Divination ran deeper — perhaps all the way back to that bloody prophecy that had turned his life upside down. Whatever the reason, even Rosier's carefully maintained mask of patience was beginning to crack under the weight of Harry's spectacular lack of talent.

"The futures keep shifting," Rosier muttered, his perfectly manicured fingers spreading the ornate divination cards across the polished mahogany table. The cards themselves were works of art — hand-painted and gilded around the edges, made for his great-great-grandmother, as Everett made sure to mention at least three times. As a result, Harry was afraid to even touch them. "Just like your attention, Harry." He flashed that practiced smile that never quite reached his steel-blue eyes.

They had already suffered through tea leaves (where Harry consistently saw nothing but soggy plant matter) and crystal ball gazing (which proved equally unsuccessful, though Everett praised Harry's "creative interpretation" of the swirling mists). Now they were tackling cards, and Rosier had insisted Harry memorize every single meaning.

"Remember what I told you during our first lesson?" Rosier asked, adjusting the sleeve of his impeccable silk robes. "The key to passing is creative interpretation. However—" he plucked the Death card from the deck, turning it between his fingers with theatrical precision, "—one must know the rules before breaking them." His blue-grey eyes flicked up. "Now, tell me, what does this card signify in conjunction with The Tower?"

Harry suppressed a groan.

Care of Magical Creatures proved to be the week's surprising highlight. After he finally managed to answer all of Macnair's theoretical questions to a satisfactory standard (though the man's perpetual scowl suggested 'satisfactory' meant 'barely tolerable'), MAcnair apparated them both to his family's farm on Scotland's east coast.

The farm was a magical menagerie stretched across rolling hills, and Harry couldn't help but notice how Macnair's usual drill-sergeant demeanour softened slightly among the creatures. His posture remained military-straight, but there was a hint of warmth in his eyes that Harry had never seen before.

Harry managed to do the impossible — impress Macnair — not once, but twice. First, when he spotted the thestrals grazing in a distant field. Macnair's eyebrows had risen slightly, but to Harry's relief, he didn't ask the obvious question about whose death Harry had witnessed. The second time was with the hippogriff. Without hesitation or instruction, Harry approached the creature like an old friend — maintaining eye contact, bowing with perfect timing, and showing the kind of respect that would have made Hagrid proud. When the hippogriff bowed back, Harry confidently stepped forward and began scratching behind its ears, completely at ease.

The scene drew the attention of Macnair's older brother, who came bounding over with an enthusiasm that hit Harry like a punch to the gut — he moved exactly like Charlie Weasley. The resemblance only increased when the elder Macnair's face lit up watching Harry with the hippogriff.

"Well, well," he said, grinning. "Looks like we've got a natural here, Alastair. Want to take him for a ride?"

The hippogriff nudged Harry’s pocket expectantly for treats.

Harry didn’t need to be asked twice. He was in the air before either Macnair could blink, mounted on the hippogriff's back with the ease of someone who'd been born to fly. The creature spread its massive wings, and suddenly they were soaring over Scotland, the spring wind whipping Harry's eternally messy hair into an even more impressive disaster. For a few precious moments, he was free — no Tom Riddle, no oath, no crushing weight of time itself. Just Harry, the wind, and the endless sky.

The euphoria of flight still buzzed through Harry's veins as he spun through the Floo network. It wasn't quite the same as his Firebolt, but Merlin, just being in the air again, had lifted his spirits like nothing had in weeks. The feeling lasted just as long as it took him to get out of Riddle's fireplace and straighten up, brushing the soot off his robes.

Then he saw Sebastian Selwyn.

The tall Slytherin was lounging in one of the armchairs, his long legs stretched out in a picture of casual elegance, laughing at something Riddle had just said. The moment Harry appeared, though, the easy smile died instantly. Selwyn's dark eyes fixed on Harry with unmistakable hostility, and all traces of his previous good humour vanished like smoke.

The change stung more than Harry wanted to admit. Of all Riddle's followers, Selwyn had been the most approachable, treating Harry with an easy friendliness that, while clearly condescending, had at least been bearable. Now, that warmth had been replaced by arctic frost.

"If you need more copies, I can make them," Selwyn said smoothly, rising from the chair. "I've finally cracked the enchantments — brilliant work, really. Whoever created this map was quite the genius." He flashed a sharp, sardonic smile. "And had quite the sense of humour, I must say."

Riddle, of course, looked pleased.

"You've done excellent work, Sebastian," he said, his approval subtle but unmistakable.

Sebastian stepped toward the fireplace, but not before firing one last glacial look at Harry that screamed 'you're dead to me' louder than words ever could. As the green flames swallowed him, Harry’s attention drifted to the coffee table.

And his stomach dropped.

There, spread out on the dark wood, were three sheets of parchment. One of them was unmistakably the Marauder’s Map. Or rather, it looked exactly like the Marauder’s Map. Next to it lay two identical copies.

A cold, creeping dread curled in Harry’s gut.

"What are those for?" Harry asked before he could stop himself — though, deep down, he already knew the answer.

Riddle didn’t even look up as he stacked the maps neatly.

"For keeping track of you at Hogwarts, of course," he said mildly, as if explaining a completely reasonable precaution rather than a blatant invasion of privacy. "I can't have you wandering off unsupervised, now can I?"

Harry’s fists clenched at his sides.

The fact that Riddle was using his father’s map — his father’s legacy — to spy on him made his stomach churn. But, like so many other humiliations of this time, there was nothing he could do about it.

And judging by the smirk playing at the corner of the future Dark Lord's lips, he knew it.

That evening, utterly unbothered by Harry’s foul mood, Riddle casually invited him to their usual chess game, as if nothing had happened. As they moved their pieces across the board, Riddle slipped effortlessly into his usual routine — subtly digging for information, disguising interrogation beneath the guise of light conversation. Harry did his best to be as engaging as a brick wall, offering curt, monosyllabic replies in the hopes that sheer stubbornness might put an end to it.

It didn’t.

Riddle, as always, was relentless and before Harry even realized it, he was recounting his surprisingly decent afternoon at Macnair’s farm, his mind briefly escaping to the feeling of wind against his face, the power of the hippogriff beneath him, the pure freedom of flight.

He caught himself too late. Riddle had leaned forward slightly, fingers idly turning a captured pawn between them. His expression remained unreadable, but Harry knew that look — the one that meant he was absorbing every word, every tiny reaction. It made Harry’s skin crawl.

Still, the biggest problem wasn’t the chess game. Or the fact that Riddle knew exactly how to get under his skin.

It was that, even now, over a week later, Riddle had yet to address Harry’s punishment.

Not once. Not even a hint.

The silence finally broke on Thursday afternoon when he decided to fill the gap in Harry's timetable left by History of Magic.

"Follow me," Riddle ordered, leading Harry up the narrow staircase to the attic. Harry had only ever passed through here on their way to astronomy lessons on the roof. He was surprised to find the attic itself was quite spacious, though empty except for a row of training dummies against one wall. They looked like something out of a creepy Muggle shop window.

"We're going to have a practical lesson," Riddle said this in that pleasant voice that always meant something bad, for Harry, of course. With a fluid motion of his hand, he summoned one of the dummies: a headless, armless torso that reminded Harry of a tailor's dummy, covered in what looked disturbingly like skin. Harry really hoped it wasn't human.

"Cast Sectumsempra on it."

Harry froze.

"No." He took a step back. "I won’t."

Riddle’s expression didn’t change. If anything, he looked... amused.

"You won’t?" he echoed, voice dipping into something soft, something dangerous. "Need I remind you of our arrangement, Harry?"

"I know what that spell does," Harry snapped, hands clenching into fists. "I won’t—"

"You already have," Riddle cut him off coldly. "Or have you forgotten about Abraxas so quickly?" He took a step closer, voice calm, measured. "Since you’ve added this particular spell to your arsenal, you might as well learn to use it properly."

"I didn’t mean to—"

"Intent is irrelevant."

Harry flinched.

Riddle watched him carefully, his gaze sharp, unyielding. "You used it. Now you’ll master it. And don't make me repeat myself."

And that was it.

No room for argument. No option but obedience.

Harry’s fingers tightened around his wand. He took a breath, ignored the sick feeling coiling in his gut, and pointed it at the dummy.

"Sectumsempra!"

The spell slashed across the mannequin's torso. Harry's stomach turned as the surface split open like real flesh, dark red liquid oozing from the wounds. It looked disturbingly real.

"Good," Riddle murmured, stepping next to him. Too close. Too at ease. "Now, watch carefully. The incantation is Vulnera Sanentur. Pay attention to the wand movement..."

His wand moved gracefully in an intricate pattern as he demonstrated the healing spell, and his teacher's voice slipped in as naturally as if they were reviewing transmutation rather than learning a spell to neutralise the effects of a dark magic curse.

For what felt like endless hours, Riddle had Harry practice various healing spells, starting with the counter curse for Sectumsempra and moving on to other medical charms. But he did it in true Dark Lord fashion: before Harry could learn to mend, he first had to learn to wound. And, naturally, Riddle demanded nothing less than perfection in both.

"Let's just say I see potential," Riddle said casually, sending the healed dummy back to the wall three hours later. He didn't specify whether h meant Harry's talent for healing or hurting, and Harry wasn't sure he wanted to know. "That's enough for today. Oh, and before I forget — I've cancelled your lesson with Secundus for tomorrow. You'll have... something else to do this afternoon."

o.O.o

Harry stood in front of the fire in Riddle's living room, a handful of Floo powder trembling in his palm. He could see Riddle's reflection in the silver vase on the mantelpiece — a distorted, elongated figure looming behind him. The future Dark Lord had shed his outer robes, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands casually tucked into his pockets with an air of calculated nonchalance.

"You will start by apologising to Abraxas. For your disrespect. For the duel. For the outcome. Try your best to sound sincere. Then you will accept whatever punishment he sees fit. I've given him full discretion in this matter."

The worst part was that Riddle's voice sounded so normal, so ordinary. As if he wasn't sending Harry to a private torture session with one of his most vengeful followers. Harry’s grip on the Floo powder tightened. His nails bit into his palm.

"There will be no rebellion, no backtalk, no resistance," Riddle continued, his voice was steady, conversational. "In short, you won't bring me any more shame than you already have." His lip curled slightly. "If you find yourself unable to return under your own power, I'll send Bug to bring you home."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Harry could feel Riddle's eyes boring into him, fixed on the top of his head. His heart pounded so hard he was sure Riddle could hear it.

"Do you understand?"

Fear and anger twisted together in Harry's gut. Not trusting himself to speak without losing his temper, he only managed a jerky nod.

"Then go," Riddle said lazily, as if sending Harry off to what could be hours of torture was nothing more than an inconvenient errand.

The Floo powder slipped through Harry's trembling fingers, some scattering across the hearth. The flames flared green, and he forced out the words that felt like a sentence:

"Woody Bay Manor."

o.O.o

The green flames spat Harry out at the base of the grand staircase in Woody Bay Manor's entrance hall. As he stepped from the fireplace, dusting soot from his robes with trembling hands, his eyes immediately found the small figure waiting by the hearth. His heart clenched painfully, as it did every time — no matter how often he visited the manor, seeing this younger version of Dobby never got easier.

The house-elf stood straight-backed in his pristinely pressed pillowcase, those familiar large green eyes watching Harry with careful neutrality. Harry managed a small smile despite his nerves, earning a slight widening of those tennis-ball sized eyes. Even knowing this wasn't his Dobby — would never be his Dobby — Harry couldn't help but treat him with kindness.

"Master is waiting for young Mr. Riddle in his study," the elf announced in that higher, less weathered voice that always made Harry's chest ache with memories. The sound of his false surname made his stomach clench, but he kept the gentle expression on his face as he nodded to the house-elf.

Though Harry had walked this path numerous times during his forced tutoring sessions, the journey now felt like a march to his own execution. Each step up the grand staircase and through the left wing's corridor seemed to stretch endlessly. His palms were slick with sweat, and despite his attempts to maintain composure, he could feel tremors running through his body.

He was terrified, yes, but beneath the fear simmered a growing anger — anger at Riddle for forcing him into this, anger at himself for not even trying to find a way out.

Every instinct screamed at him to run, to find another fireplace, to escape while he could. But Harry knew better. The oath bound him, and he knew Riddle well enough to know that his threats were not empty words. Just survive this, he told himself. In a few weeks, you'll be at Hogwarts. You'll find a way out of this nightmare.

The door to Abraxas Malfoy’s study loomed before him, its dark wood carved with intricate patterns of ivy and thorned roses. Before he could knock, the door creaked open on its own.

Dobby gave a small bow and disappeared with a soft pop, leaving Harry alone on the threshold.

Inside, bathed in the warm afternoon light filtering through the high windows, Abraxas Malfoy sat behind his desk. If there were any lingering effects from their duel, none showed. He looked as he always did: composed, immaculate in his dark blue robes, every inch the aristocrat. The only sign of what had happened was the way his steel-blue eyes gleamed with quiet satisfaction as Harry stepped forward.

No words of greeting. No acknowledgement of what had happened between them. Just silence.

Harry paused before the desk, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

Riddle's instructions echoed in his head. Say the words. Do not waver. Sound sincere.

He took a breath and forced himself to meet Malfoy's gaze.

"I apologise for my actions during our duel," Harry began, forcing his voice to remain calm. "I should never have provoked you, nor let my temper dictate my actions. It was reckless and irresponsible of me to escalate the situation, and the use of that spell was inexcusable. I deeply regret the harm I have caused you."

Here it was. Riddle should be proud of him.

A triumphant smile played across Abraxas's aristocratic features. "How gratifying to see you finally understanding your place. However, apologies are merely the beginning."

Malfoy rose from his chair with fluid ease, his movements unhurried, practiced. A predator who knew his prey had nowhere to run.

"Remove your outer robes."

The words landed like a blow, despite the casualness in which they were spoken.

Harry hesitated — but only for a fraction of a second.

His fingers felt clumsy, uncooperative, as he worked down the silver buttons of his robes. The fine fabric slid from his shoulders, the movement automatic, detached, as if it belonged to someone else. He took perhaps more time than necessary to fold it neatly and hang it over the back of a nearby chair. His eyes darted around the study — all evidence of their earlier duel had been erased, the room restored to its immaculate condition. The flickering movement caught his eye on the portrait above Malfoy's chair. The painted snake had just moved, trying to cross over to the next painting.

"The shirt too. Off." The order was smooth, almost conversational. But there was something in the way Malfoy said it that made the fine hairs on the back of Harry’s neck rise. "I want you bare to the waist."

Harry's breath caught in his throat, but survival instinct kept him silent. With trembling fingers, he started at his cuffs, then moved to the collar button at his neck. Each movement became harder than the last, his hands shaking so badly he could barely grip the small buttons. Still, he forced himself to continue. One button slipped free. Then another. As he worked, he heard Abraxas rummaging through the drawer, the soft sounds seeming to echo in the tense silence.

Harry's heart almost stopped as he turned. Malfoy approached with measured steps, a thick leather belt dangling from his hand. His eyes swept over Harry's exposed torso, lingering far too long. The scrutiny made Harry fight the urge to cover himself. It wasn't neutral. It wasn't idle.

A cruel smile spread across Malfoy's face as he gestured with his belt.

"Turn around," he said, his voice almost a purr. "Hands on the desk."

Harry felt a sickening sense of déjà vu as he faced the desk. The wood beneath his palms was cool and smooth, a stark contrast to the heat of fear and humiliation burning through his body. His heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst from his chest.

Then — a touch.

Cool fingers trailing down his spine, making him flinch so hard his grip on the desk slipped.

Malfoy chuckled, low and pleased.

"I can't wait to see how this pretty back of yours will look when I'm done with you."

o.O.o

Harry lay motionless on his bed, every shallow breath sending fresh waves of pain through his ravaged back. The cotton sheets beneath him were cold and damp. The room was half dark, the air thick and stagnant with the metallic taste of blood and the acrid smell of sweat.

And silence. A stifling, enveloping silence.

He couldn't remember how he'd got back to his room. The last clear memory was —

Crack!

"You're nothing." Venomous hiss. "A mongrel. A mistake. And yet you dare—"

Crack! With such force that chest slammed forward against polished mahogany.

"—to think, you could—"

Another blow, this time to the shoulders.

'—challenge me—'

Swoosh. An inhuman howl as the leather belt reached the kidneys.

A phantom pain rippled across his back, and Harry gasped. The slight movement triggered another wave of agony, this one very real. He pressed his face into the pillow, but the darkness behind his eyes only made the memories sharper, more immediate.

Palms against the cold mahogany.

"Count. Loudly. And try to keep up."

The first whistle of leather through the air. Then pain — white hot, searing, tearing him in half. Pride held back a scream between clenched teeth, but just barely.

"One."

And almost instantly...

Harry tried to distract himself, grasping at mundane thoughts. Bug must have come for him after he passed out. Oh, how enviously the house elf must have looked at his—

Wrong direction.

Crack!

"I said: count!"

Swish! Crack! Ragged breath.

"Count!"

His fists clenched involuntarily, setting off another cascade of pain. Amazing how connected everything was, how one small movement could—

The fourth strike shattered the resolve.

Scream.

"Finally." Satisfaction dripped from every syllable. "I thought you didn't feel it."

Chest heaving, breath coming in ragged gasps.

The belt fell again.

And again.

...and again.

Harry's breathing quickened, heart hammering against his ribs. But before the memories could drag him under completely, the soft click of the door pulled him back to reality. Quiet footsteps approached. The mattress dipped beside him, and Harry tensed instinctively, a mistake that sent fresh waves of fire across his back.

"It's just me" The words were almost gentle, as if they were meant to be comforting. As if they ever had been.

A whispered spell tickled across his skin, and Harry felt the sticky residue of dried blood and sweat vanish. The cool air against his cleaned wounds made him shiver. The curtains flew open with a sharp swoosh, and Harry squinted as pale light flooded the room.

He could feel Riddle's appraising gaze trail over his injured back. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken words.

"How are you feeling?"

Harry let out a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn't hurt so much. Really?

"Great. There's nothing better like being beat to unconscious. I recommend it."

"Still that sharp tongue." A hint of amusement coloured Riddle's voice. "Abraxas would surely be disappointed."  The mattress shifted as Riddle moved closer. "Don't move for a moment."

The tip of Riddle's wand touched the top of his spine. Harry tensed but lacked the strength to fight or flee. The familiar chill of a diagnostic spell spread through his body like ice water. Riddle's wand moved slowly down to where his back met his hips.

"Two cracked ribs, bruised kidneys," Riddle muttered, more to himself than Harry. "It could have been worse."

"Worse?" Harry choked out. "You've got to be kidding me!" He tried to push himself up on his elbows.

Riddle's hand shot out, pressing between his shoulder blades and pinning him to the mattress. Stars exploded behind Harry's eyes.

"I said, don't move. Unless you'd prefer I leave you to heal naturally?"

Harry bit back a retort but shifted anyway, just to prove he could. The pressure increased slightly — a reminder of who really held the power here. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back tears of pain and humiliation.

Crack! Swish. Crack! Swish.

The leather belt fell again and again, each strike wilder than the last.

"You're thinking about it. I can feel you trembling," Riddle's voice cut through the memory, his voice neutral, detached. "Stop it. It gets you nowhere."

Harry's eyes snapped open. "Brilliant deduction, Sherlock," he spat.

Riddle just tsked. The next moment, the magic of the healing spell spread through Harry's body like a swarm of angry ants, tickling, biting and crawling into every nook and cranny. Harry clenched his teeth against the sensation but forced himself to remain still, knowing that the discomfort would soon give way to relief.

The hand withdrew. A quiet click of wand against wood. "That should address the internal damage. Now for the rest."

The sharp, herbal scent of healing salve filled the air as Riddle opened a jar. Harry recognised the smell immediately - it was a bit like the one Bug used to bring him after Riddle's beatings. Only this one was more intense and distinct.

"Try not to squirm too much."

The first touch of Riddle’s fingers, slick with healing salve, made Harry flinch. But then they began to move in steady circles, working the salve into his skin with methodical precision. The touch was clinical, detached, yet somehow more intimate than Harry could bear.

"Why?" The question slipped out before he could stop himself.

"Be more specific." Riddle's hands moved along his sides, thumbs pressing carefully against his ribs as if checking their integrity.

Harry swallowed hard, trying not to focus too much on this attentive touch. "Why are you healing me?"

Riddle's right hand paused over a particularly nasty welt above his hip. "Because I won't have someone claiming to be my brother bearing the marks of a common beating."

"But you don't have to do it in person. Could've sent Avery," Harry muttered into his pillow. "Worked fine last time."

Riddle's fingers resumed their work, pressing perhaps a little harder than necessary. His hand slid back, thumbs trailing along the spine.  "I could. But I'd rather not have anyone else see the evidence of such... muggle methods of discipline on your skin."

"Bad memories?" Harry couldn't help himself, even knowing it was stupid.

Almost immediately he hissed violently as Riddle squeezed one of his bruises harder.

"Don't forget yourself."

Silence fell again, punctuated only by Harry's occasional sharp intakes of breath as Riddle's hands found particularly tender spots.

"So it's all just about keeping up appearances?" Harry finally muttered, bitterness seeping into his voice. "Wouldn't want to ruin your image?"

"No," Riddle agreed, reaching for more salve. "I wouldn't. And if you had any sense of self-preservation, neither would you."

"Didn't seem to bother you last time," Harry muttered quietly. It was meant to sound snide, but his tone betrayed him.

Riddle's hands moved to his shoulder blades, where Malfoy's belt had left a crisscross of welts. "That," his voice took on an unexpected edge, "was different. Four strokes. Controlled. Precise. No permanent damage. And I used magic." His thumbs pressed firmly into a particularly tender spot, making Harry gasp. "Abraxas, on the other hand..."

"Went completely mental," Harry finished, fingers twisting in the sheets as Riddle's hands found another painful area. "He wasn't punishing me anymore, he was—"

"Taking revenge?" Riddle's hands moved methodically along one of the thickest welts, carefully working the salve into it. "Of course he was. You nearly killed him. Did you expect him to be rational about it?"

The question was probably rhetorical, but Harry answered anyway. "I expected him to punish me. Not treat me like a punching bag for his sadistic impulses."

"The Malfoys have always been known for holding a grudge." A pause. "Though I must admit, his lack of restraint is disappointing. I expected more control, considering you're supposed to be my brother to him."

"Disappointing?" Harry repeated incredulously. "Do you hear yourself? He beat me unconscious, and you call it disappointing?"

Riddle's hands moved steadily down Harry's back, kneading gently. The worst of the welts began to fade.

"That's why I said: disappointing."

"You—" Harry choked on his own anger. "You gave him free rein. Could've set some bloody limits at least."

"I gave him free rein because nothing else would have satisfied his wounded pride." Riddle's voice hardened slightly. "Contrary to what you might think, they are not my mindless servants. And he nearly died by your hand."

Harry's breathing quickened as the memories crashed over him again. "Do you know what he did?" The words tumbled out, his voice rising with each syllable. "He spelled my hands to the desk. My legs to the floor. I couldn't move, couldn't dodge, couldn't—" His chest tightened. "And when he lost it, he just kept hitting and hitting—" The room started to spin. "Even when I— when I—"

Crack! Across the shoulders.

Thwack! Against the ribs.

Swoosh! Lower back.

Crack! Upper thighs.

Throat raw from screaming, voice breaking into guttural, animal sounds.

Crack! Thwack! Swo—

"Breathe." The order came sharp and brooking no dissent. A hand gripped his neck, fingers threading through his hair with unexpected gentleness. "Focus on my voice. Match my breathing. In... and out. In... and out."

It took several long moments to fight back the panic, the steady stroking of his hair never faltering. Harry found himself unconsciously matching his breathing to Riddle's steady rhythm, hating how easily his body responded to the command, how desperately it craved any form of comfort — even from his tormentor.

"Don't dwell on it," Riddle said when Harry had finally calmed enough. His fingers withdrew from Harry's hair, reaching for the jar again. The sharp herbal scent once again filled Harry's lungs.

"Learn from it. Consider it a natural consequence of your actions. And get it through your head that this moment of pain was better than the alternative."

Riddle covered Harry's back again with spread fingers. This time the pressure was stronger but no longer painful. Harry remained silent, fighting the growing shame inside him. He was pathetic.

"It's not just that Abraxas nearly bled to death because of you," Riddle continued after a moment, a contemplative note creeping into his voice. "You humiliated him. A child, a stray who appeared from nowhere, defeated Abraxas Malfoy in his own home, in a fight he started. In a fight that was supposed to show you your place and teach you respect."

Was it just Harry's imagination, or was there amusement in Riddle's voice?

Riddle's hands now moved with sweeping, decisive movements all over Harry's back, kneading the stiff muscles and rubbing in the rest of the salve.

"And worse, you've been monopolizing my attention."

Harry felt his stomach twist. "Have I?" he whispered, hating how small his voice sounded.

Riddle chuckled. "Of course not." His thumbs dug into the muscles underneath Harry's shoulder blades, but now there was only relief. " But Abraxas believes you have. For him, blood is thicker than water. Which makes his lack of restraint with you particularly... telling."

"Telling?" Harry managed, trying to follow Riddle's logic. The fading pain and steady touch made his eyelids feel heavy.

"Mm." Riddle's fingers still worked at a knot of tension near Harry's shoulder blade. "In his eyes, you're my brother. Family. Blood." Each word was carefully weighted. "Yet given the chance, he beat you unconscious. Rather disappointing, don't you think?"

Understanding dawned slowly through Harry's exhaustion. "That's why you let him... you needed to know..."

"I needed him satisfied," Riddle corrected smoothly. "The fact that I also saw how much he can't control his jealousy of you is another matter. I had to give him free rein regarding your punishment, because that was the only thing that would soothe his wounded pride." Riddle repeated firmly. "If I had set limits, he would have seen it as another affront. And he would have become even more vindictive. Tell me, Potter, would you really prefer to trade those few hours of pain for a lifetime in Azkaban?"

The only answer was silence.

"That's what I thought," Riddle concluded, not hiding his satisfaction.

Harry loathed himself for proving him right.

As Riddle straightened up and reached for his wand again, the mattress had sagged slightly. The unexpected spell crawled over Harry's skin, and he felt the fabric of his remaining clothes dissolve. Heat crept up his neck as he instinctively tried to shift away, but Riddle's steady hand on his shoulder kept him still. "You said yourself he struck everywhere. Your thighs and..." A slight pause. "...other areas need attention too."

Harry forced himself to go limp, grateful at least that Riddle's touch remained as impersonal as before. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft sounds of hands working healing salve into bruised flesh and Harry's occasional hitched breaths. The sharp herbal scent filled his lungs with each inhale, making his head swim pleasantly.

As exhaustion pulled at him, the edges of reality began to blur. Harry fought against his drooping eyelids. He couldn't let his guard down, not here, not with him. But the fight against fatigue became harder as these skilled hands continued to chip away at his defences, bringing relief.

But one thing was still bothering Harry and preventing him from yielding completely. In this hazy state, the question slipped from his lips.

"Why..." Harry mumbled into his pillow, fighting to keep his eyes open. "Why are you really doing this? So quick… You could at least wait until Saturday evening."

Riddle's hands didn't pause in their methodical work, moving mercifully to Harry's thighs. The silence stretched so long that Harry, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, began to wonder if he'd only asked the question in his mind.

Finally, Riddle spoke, his voice low and possessive. "Because I don't like seeing another's marks on you." His fingers gently traced a trace of a nasty welt that would run from his left thigh to his right buttock. Harry jerked involuntarily. "You are mine. Mine to punish, mine to break, and mine to put back together."

Harry wanted to protest this casual claim of ownership, but his body betrayed him, melting into the touch as Riddle's hand moved to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair in an oddly soothing gesture.

"Shh," the future Dark Lord murmured. "Sleep now. Don't think too much."

His last coherent thought was that that he should be more disturbed, more defiant since this possessive gentleness was perhaps more terrifying than Malfoy's uncontrolled cruelty, but exhaustion and the soothing herbs pulled him under before he could properly process why.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO —

Clarity of thought

The spring air carried the scent of wisteria from the well-tended garden as Tom stood at the ornate door of Hepzibah Smith's manor house, a carefully wrapped package tucked beneath his arm. He smoothed his immaculate robes with one hand before raising the brass knocker shaped like a badger's head — a not-so-subtle nod to the witch's alleged Hufflepuff lineage.

As he waited, Potter invaded his thoughts — again. How annoying. After all, he had decided to let Abraxas punish the boy. And still thought it was the best solution to the whole situation. But when the painted snake had reported to him the details of Potter's encounter with Malfoy, something cold and vicious had coiled within him. That possessive fury had grown stronger when he had seen the effects of that discipline with his own eyes, and the intensity of that feeling had surprised even him.

It wasn't merely that someone had damaged what belonged to him — it was the unsettling realization that Potter, his prophesied enemy, had been broken by another's hand rather than his own.

Sentimental nonsenses, Riddle scolded himself, wiping all the irritation from his face.

The door creaked open. A scrawny house-elf wearing a kitchen towel with Ms Smith's house crest emblazoned on his chest appeared.

"Master Riddle," the house-elf squeaked, bowing low. "Mistress is expecting you."

"Lead the way," Riddle said smoothly.

They passed through the entrance hall, filled with glass cases of magical artifacts. On his first visit, Tom had been impressed. Now, after months of dealing with rarer, more dangerous items, most of these looked like trinkets. Pretty but meaningless. He was here for something far more valuable.

"Mr. Tom Riddle, Mistress," the elf announced as they entered a lavish drawing room.

Hepzibah Smith lounged among silks and embroidered velvets, her plump figure sinking into cushions. Her gaze rose as soon as he entered, and a flirtatious smile appeared on her lipstick-covered lips. Tom smiled back — practiced and elegant. Inwardly, her obvious pleasure disgusted him. Outwardly, he was the very image of courteous charm.

"Tom, my dear boy! How delightful!" Ms Smith purred, extending a jewelled hand in greeting.

Tom took her hand and bowed, careful not to let his lips touch her skin. "Madam Smith," he said warmly, "Gorgeous as always."

"Oh, you flatterer," the old witch replied with practised flutter of her eyelashes, though her smile betrayed her pleasure. "But tell me, where is your companion? Elgar's always hovering over you like a mother hen. How did you manage to escape his clutches today?"

Tom sat down gracefully but kept his distance. "Mr Borgin received an urgent owl this morning and is on his way to Edinburgh. He was disappointed to miss our appointment, but I assured him that I would deliver your package with the utmost care and attention."

Naturally, Tom had arranged everything himself. Dolohov's underworld contacts had created the perfect distraction. Borgin, Tom suspected, would return from Edinburgh empty-handed and deeply disappointed.

"How fortunate for me," Ms Smith adjusted her elaborate ginger wig with ringed fingers. "I've always found Elgar rather... possessive of you. It's as if he's afraid I'll steal his best employee."

Tom allowed himself a small smile. "More like he's afraid I'll steal his best customer."

The words had the desired effect — a blush spread across the old witch's neck, disappearing beneath her powdered cheeks.

"Who knows? It depends on what you've got for me today, Tom."

"Something I think you'll like, madame." Riddle unwrapped the package slowly. Inside lay an ornate silver hand mirror with intricate engravings along its handle. "Sixteenth century, Spanish craftsmanship. A witch in Philip II's court owned it once. The enchantment allows the user to see not merely their reflection, but how others perceive them — perfect for a court schemer."

"Oh, how exquisite!" Ms Smith exclaimed, reaching for it with her eager, chubby fingers.

Their hands brushed as he passed her the mirror. Her breath caught slightly — confirming what he had suspected. Disgusting, but useful.

Ms Smith examined the mirror with surprising skill. She pulled out her wand and, with what she probably thought was a flirtatious flutter of her eyelashes, said, "You know, it's just a habit," and began to cast authentication spells. Despite her seemingly frivolous behaviour, she was a picky collector. And one who was not easily fooled.

"It seems genuine," she concluded with satisfaction after a few minutes. "The enchantment is still perfect after all these centuries."

Riddle hid his smirk. Ms Smith may have known a thing or two about magical artefacts, but his employers were true masters at making them. And Tom was proving to be a diligent and eager student.

"I thought of you as soon as we acquired it," he said, his voice warm and intimate. "There is another interested collector from Birmingham, but I insisted that you should have first consideration, madame."

His lie worked perfectly. Ms Smith's expression flickered with possessiveness before she casually handed the mirror to Tom. "I need to think about it," she said. Tom just nodded. It was just an excuse anyway. It seemed that the old witch was aware of that.

"Hokey! Tea!" she called to the house-elf., then she turned back to Tom. "You know, Tom, I've sometimes wondered why a charming wizard like you spends his time selling dusty old trinkets for Elgar and Caractacus. You deserve better than that."

Tom smiled modestly. "You flatter me, madame. Yet every position has its advantages. Borgin and Burke's shop lets me study magic they never taught at Hogwarts. I get to handle rare artifacts instead of just reading about them or seeing them behind glass. Like this mirror I brought you today, madame."

The house-elf reappeared. He was carrying a seventeenth-century silver tea service worth a small fortune; Rosier had a very similar one. With trembling hands, the creature placed it on the low table between them and began to pour steaming amber liquid into delicate porcelain cups decorated with magical flowers that started to bloom as the cups filled with tea.

"That will be all, Hokey," Ms Smith said dismissively, taking a cup and saucer. She dropped in three lumps of sugar and stirred slowly.

Tom followed suit, though he limited himself to one.

Almost simultaneously, they raised their cups to their lips.

A moment later, there was a clink as the cup was placed on the saucer. He was enveloped by the scent of her heavy perfume.

"I see we have something in common," said the older witch, leaning closer. The heavy, overly sweet scent of her perfume reached his nostrils. "We both prefer to examine things up close and on our own."

She almost shamelessly devoured him with her eyes. The thought of those jewelled fingers touching him made Tom's skin crawl beneath his perfect exterior. But he hid his disgust perfectly and smiled, his handsome features set in a mask of boyish innocence.

"Accurate and perceptive as always," he replied, lowering his eyes briefly, then looking up through his lashes. "I think it is the only way to do justice to something truly worthy of appreciation."

It would be better for Alexander if he were not mistaken in his assumptions about this old witch.

Ms Smith beamed at him and patted her magically styled hair again.

"So do I," she breathed, leaning closer still. Her heavy perfume irritated him more and more. "To truly appreciate something of value, one must be willing to handle it... personally." Her heavily rouged lips curved suggestively. "The most extraordinary treasures require special attention. And I'm very good at showing it..."

Riddle shifted slightly. Not yet. He had to change the subject before she went any further.

"I've noticed. It shows in the way you treat your treasures. It is truly impressive, madame," he murmured, pretending not to take the subtle hint.

"Hepzibah," she corrected him, her voice dropping to a throaty whisper. "I insist."

Tom allowed a calculated pause — long enough to suggest hesitation out of respect — before nodding once.

"Hepzibah." The name felt like poison on his tongue, but he pronouced it with warmth. "Your collection reminds me of a fascinating gentleman who visited our shop yesterday—an elderly scholar documenting magical artifacts of historical significance. We discussed the Hogwarts founders' relics at length."

He deliberately reached for his teacup, creating physical distance while maintaining eye contact. With his keen perception, he noticed that the hunger in the older witch’s eyes had been replaced by momentary irritation.

"Gryffindor's sword, Ravenclaw's diadem... such items capture the imagination, don't they? Though so many have been lost to time, one wonders what other treasures might have survived in the right hands."

The bait was set. Now he would see if Ms Smith's pride in her collection would outweigh her other appetites — at least for today.

Hepzibah's heavily ringed fingers tightened perceptibly around her teacup.

"Some treasures," she said slowly, 'find their way to those worthy of them, Tom. Those with the right appreciation."

"Yes, we do have many collectors who claim to have items of historical significance. However, they often turn out to be fakes. Not your collection, though. Have you heard that it's legendary in some circles?"

Ms Smith's expression shifted, annoyance giving way to a different kind of pride — something deeper than mere vanity. Tom noted the change with predatory interest, sensing the conversation approaching his true objective.

"I have a good eye for things of value," she replied, looking him in the eyes.

Tom held her stare, allowing the tension to build.

"I don't doubt your expertise for a moment," he said. "But when it comes to objects associated with the founders of Hogwarts, even the most accomplished collectors face insurmountable challenges. My client mentioned rumors about Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket having survived to the present day. Fascinating speculation, of course, but I assured him such treasures would be impossible to locate. Especially after so many centuries..."

He trailed off deliberately, then proceeded to steer the conversation with subtle questions and thoughtful observations, guiding her towards his true interests while feigning broader curiosity about various legendary artefacts. Much to his surprise, the elderly witch displayed a wealth of knowledge about magical artefacts. She spoke with authority about Merlin's staff and provided detailed descriptions of Morgana's grimoire that suggested she had conducted genuine research rather than merely collected items.

Tom offered appropriately impressed reactions, though much of her information was familiar to him from books in Hogwarts' Restricted Section. His carefully balanced flattery worked even better than he intended.

At some point Ms Smith leaned closer, her heavy perfume enveloping him again as she whispered: "You know, there are artifacts far beyond even these in power. Have you ever heard of the Deathly Hallows?"

The Deathly Hallows? The name meant nothing to him. Riddle kept his expression calm, but internally, his mind sharpened with sudden, intense focus. It wasn't like him to miss something of potential significance — and this certainly sounded significant.

"The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak," she continued, oblivious to the storm of interest building behind Tom's calm facade. "Three objects which, when united, make their possessor the master of death itself."

His heart quickened its pace, though nothing in his expression betrayed this reaction. Master of death. The very concept he had been pursuing through his meticulous research into Horcruxes now presented itself through another path entirely. It required every ounce of his considerable self-control not to demand she reveal everything she knew immediately.

"To some, this is just a children's story told by Beedle the Bard," Ms Smith continued, playing idly with one of her rings on her chubby finger. "But I believe there's a grain of truth in every tale."

"If you read his books as a child, it's hard to believe" Riddle interjected, correctly assuming that Beedle the Bard was the Andersen of the Muggle world.

"If you know what to look for, you'll find countless historical references to a wand of unparalleled power, one wizards have killed to possess throughout the centuries. Doesn't that sound exactly like the Elder Wand?"

A wand of unparalleled power?

"If you look at it from this angle... I read his tales as a child," Tom lied with effortless conviction, betraying nothing of the feverish calculations now occupying his mind. "Fascinating stories, certainly. But I always assumed those objects were products of the author's imagination."

Like tables that produce endless food or magic beans that grow into sky-high plants in those ridiculous Muggle fairy tales.

"You're not alone in that belief," she laughed with a flirtatious edge. "And perhaps you're right. But I prefer to believe they exist."

"An intriguing possibility," Tom agreed, glancing briefly at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece. He was already calculating how quickly he could conclude this visit and reach Flourish and Blotts before closing time to begin researching these Hallows.

And although he still had plenty of time, he decided that the visit had been fruitful enough. As Ms Smith beamed with satisfaction at having piqued his interest, Tom nonchalantly reached for his cup, while ostentatiously glancing at the grandfather clock standing in the corner of the room. His eyes widened in perfect feigned surprise.

"Oh, is it so late already? I've completely lost track of time," he said, reluctant regret in his voice. "Your collection and your conversation are far too engrossing, Hepzibah. Unfortunately, I promised Mr Burke I would meet him before the shop closed." The lie flowed easily from his lips. "Though I confess I find it difficult to tear myself away."

"Must you really leave so soon?" Ms Smith pouted, her rouged lips forming a practiced expression of disappointment.

"Unfortunately, yes." Tom rose with fluid grace, offering his hand to help her from her seat—a gentlemanly gesture calculated to please her vanity. "But I would be delighted to continue our discussion without the constraints of official business."

Her disappointment transformed instantly into barely concealed eagerness as she placed her jewelled hand in his. "Next week, perhaps? Wednesday afternoon?" She allowed him to help her to her feet, her fingers lingering possessively against his palm. "I'll show you something quite extraordinary... something very few people have ever seen." Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Something worth getting personally involved in."

Tom suppressed his instinctive revulsion, replacing it with an expression of intrigued anticipation. The cup and locket were almost within his grasp — worth enduring any amount of this woman's attention.

"Wednesday would be perfect," he replied, his thumb brushing lightly across her knuckles in calculated intimacy. "I'll ensure my schedule is entirely clear."

They moved toward the entrance hall, Ms Smith's perfume enveloping him in cloying waves. Her eyes gleamed with unconcealed desire, while Tom's thoughts focused solely on whether her treasures included both the relics he sought.

He bowed over her hand one final time, his handsome features arranged in a perfect mask of respectful admiration. "Until Wednesday, then. Thank you for such an illuminating afternoon."

He stepped out into the bright sunshine, finally allowing himself a triumphant smile. Hepzibah Smith considered herself a cunning collector, not realizing that her most precious treasures were already his.

It's almost a shame she won't know how badly she underestimated him.

o.O.o

About an hour later, Tom Riddle sat in his usual seat by the window at Ferreira's Cafe. The quiet corner offered both a clear view of Diagon Alley and enough privacy to think. In front of him lay an aged copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, its cover cracked, pages yellowed, and the margins filled with faded handwritten notes. He’d paid far more than necessary for this particular edition — the detailed illustrations and collector’s marks had caught his eye immediately.

His pale finger paused at a strange symbol above the title of The Tale of the Three Brothers — a triangle enclosing a circle, split by a vertical line. He frowned. The sign reminded him of something, but he couldn't quite place it. It was as if he had seen it before somewhere...

At first glance, the story seemed trivial — merely a children's tale about three wizards encountering Death and receiving magical gifts. A wand of unmatched power. A stone to recall the dead. A cloak rendering its wearer invisible. Yet these weren't mere fictional trinkets. These were the Deathly Hallows that Hepzibah Smith had mentioned earlier that day.

"Can I get you anything else, sir?"

Tom glanced up to find a young waitress standing at his table, her honey-blonde hair neatly tied back.

"Yes, another tea," he replied with a charming smile that never touched his eyes. "Without lemon, please."

"Of course," she answered, a slight blush colouring her cheeks as she hurried away.

He didn’t watch her leave. His attention had already returned to the page.

He thought of Potter. Of Voldemort. Of Slughorn’s memory and what it had revealed. Two Horcruxes — that had been the decision. More would be foolish. Slughorn had been right about that much.

But this… this was something else entirely.

The Hallows. A new path. A better one.

When his tea had been drunk and more Knuts than the cup deserved had been left on the table, Tom slipped the book into his robes pocket.

He needed time to think. To plan.

A walk would help.

o.O.o

The fire crackled quietly in the fireplace, and the heat radiating from it spread pleasantly throughout the living room. The last rays of sunlight disappeared from the London sky behind a thick blanket of clouds. Though May was ending, the evenings retained a damp chill that seeped into the bones — a discomfort Riddle refused to tolerate any longer.

He despised the cold.

Across from him, Potter stared at the chessboard, his chin resting on one hand. Tom moved his knight with practiced precision, capturing another pawn. The boy's chess skills had improved over their many evenings together, but not enough to pose a real challenge. Still, Tom watched with clinical interest as Potter's strategic thinking developed under his tutelage.

"Your turn."

Potter's fingers hovered over his remaining bishop. Tom clicked his tongue in disapproval.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you. Think of the consequences three moves ahead."

Potter's jaw tightened, a flash of defiance crossing his features. With deliberate slowness, he moved the bishop anyway, exactly as he'd planned. Their eyes met across the table — Potter's challenging, Tom's amused at this petty rebellion.

"Spite makes for poor strategy," he observed, his fingers already moving toward his rook to capture the boy's bishop.

It had been four days since Abraxas's punishment. Tom had meticulously healed every lash mark from Potter's skin, yet the invisible wounds remained. The boy tried to behave normally — throwing out the occasional cutting remark when cornered, answering direct questions with that defiant tilt of his chin — as if to prove he hadn't succumbed to the disturbing stupor that had followed Tom's own disciplinary display. But the changes revealed themselves in quieter, more telling ways: the retreat to study alone rather than in the library where Tom worked, his old-new silence at meals, and the deliberate way he maintained physical distance, as if proximity itself might provoke something he feared more than punishment.

Tom had permitted this withdrawal, finding it convenient while his attention was occupied with other matters. He also remembered all too well how his hands had rubbed the healing salve into the boy's back. And although it hadn't meant anything — because it hadn't — a momentary distance wasn't a bad idea.

Besides, Felix Felicis proved more difficult to prepare than expected. Tom could have ordered it from someone else, of course, but Decoctus Prince — Mr Burke's old school friend, a potion master with whom Tom's employers sometimes collaborated — revealed a secret known to every brewer: Felix Felicis worked best when prepared personally. Intention was of the utmost importance here, and since Tom was keen to achieve very specific results, he had to spend a lot of time and energy creating the potion himself.

A lot of time, a lot of energy and even more focus.

Today's meeting with Hepzibah Smith also required preparation. Fortunately, both of those things were coming to an end, which meant that Potter's grace period was also reaching its end. O.W.L. examinations approached swiftly, and Tom wouldn't tolerate inadequate preparation. A mission was a mission, but he refused to allow anyone bearing his surname — even temporarily — to perform poorly.

More importantly, they needed to finalize the details of Potter's mission at Hogwarts. Despite the boy's previous achievements — which Riddle grudgingly acknowledged — his controlling nature wouldn't permit him to leave anything to Potter's famous luck. Everything must be planned, practiced, perfected. Tom Riddle left nothing to chance.

"Did you read the chapter in the book I left for you this morning?" Tom asked, his voice casual as he reached for his glass of Firewhiskey. The smoky scent mingled with the burning logs as he took a measured sip. Though he usually preferred wine, today's discoveries had driven him to something stronger.

"I did," Potter replied stiffly, finally moving his piece. Another reckless move. His mind clearly wasn't on the game. This time, however, Riddle refrained from commenting.

"And?" he prompted, watching Potter over the rim of his glass.

Potter's head snapped up. "And it's absolutely not happening. Not now, not ever," he said, eyes flashing with a familiar mixture of defiance and thinly disguised fear.

So predictable. Tom allowed a small smile to play on his lips. "I didn't realise I was asking for your permission."

"And yet I think you should. The book says it requires the will of both of us."

"Your consent to participate is enough for the ritual to begin. As head of the family, my will is what really counts during the ritual."

"Yeah, well, I don’t consent. If you think I’m going to go along with this willingly, you’ve lost your mind."

Tom’s smile vanished.

"Watch your tone."

"Or what, send me back to Malfoy for round two? Let him beat me unconscious again?" Potter hissed, straightening up abruptly.

So this was it. Riddle had been waiting for this moment, this eruption of suppressed anger and accusation, for days. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the Firewhiskey idly in his glass.

"I don't need Abraxas for this. I'm perfectly capable of disciplining you myself," he replied simply, almost lazily, watching with satisfaction at the change that came over the boy's face at those words.

"You promised not to torture me!"

"Discipline isn't torture. You'd know the difference by now." Tom's voice was still calm, steady. "Unless you'd prefer me to take your magic instead?"

"You can't—"

"I can," Tom cut him off. "And you know I can. The Oath gives me that right. So think about it again. The ritual... or the consequences of refusing. Your choice, as always, though I suggest you choose wisely."

Potter's frustration manifested physically as he angrily pushed the chess table toward Riddle. The force knocked over the chess pieces, some of which fell to the floor. The captured bishop rolled toward the fireplace.

"Why! Why is it so important to you?!" he demanded, jumping to his feet. "I can get into Dippet’s office another way!"

"You can?" Tom arched an eyebrow. He didn't even flinch — all he did was move his hand slightly, freezing the table mid-motion. Given what he was about to do, he didn't expect the conversation to go smoothly. Unfortunately, he knew Potter well enough to recognise that he sometimes had to tolerate impertinence like that on display now. So he carried on as if nothing had happened. "That office is protected by enchantments that not even I can bypass. But someone the castle recognises as Slytherin’s heir..." He let the implication hang in the air.

"You expect me to believe the castle will just... what? Open its doors for me?" Potter sneered, but uncertainty crept into his voice.

"Precisely." With an elegant flick of Tom’s wand, the table returned to its previous position and the chess pieces rearranged themselves on the board. "A simple command in Parseltongue from Slytherin's blood is all it takes."

"That's—" Potter’s mouth opened, then snapped shut again. "You can't be serious."

"I've tested it myself," Tom replied, tapping the board. The order was clear: stop being such a drama queen, sit down and get back to the game.

Still radiating stubborn defiance, Potter simply folded his arms across his chest. "If Parseltongue is the key, I don't need your blood. I can speak it already."

Tom sighted.

"It's not about ability. It's about the lineage. The magic bound to the family itself. The castle doesn't obey voices — it obeys blood."

"And how exactly do you know this?"

"Because I checked it during our last visit," Tom said, watching with satisfaction as understanding dawned in Potter's face.

"You manipulative bastard!" the boy hissed. "You planned this from the beginning!"

"Naturally," Tom shrugged, unmoved. "If you’re serious about repaying your debt, then you should be serious about succeeding. And you won’t succeed without free access to Dippet's office."

"I never asked you to save my life!"

"Believe me, I sometimes regret it too," Riddle said coldly, deliberately adopting the tone he usually used to reprimand Potter. The boy's rebellion was starting to irritate him. "But what's done is done. So spare me the dramatics, Potter. Sit down. Concentrate. We need to discuss tomorrow's ritual."

"Tomorrow?"

Tom decided it was a very good moment to test whether he would be able to cast a Stinging Hex without a wand.

He hit. Like always when he wanted to.

"Yes, tomorrow. Now sit down. Don't make me repeat myself unless you want Crucio to be the next spell," he threatened. The boy scowled and rubbed his arm. This time, however, he had enough self-preservation to reluctantly sink into the armchair opposite. Tom smirked under his breath. He was getting better and better at training this stubborn teen. "Considering you'll be at Hogwarts by Saturday, did you think I'd postpone it indefinitely?"

o.O.o

The midnight air bit at Harry's skin as he trudged down the hill behind Riddle. Clouds obscured the moon, leaving them in near-total darkness, but Riddle moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where he was going. Harry, on the other hand, stumbled on hidden roots and uneven ground, fighting to keep pace. With an irritated sigh — probably annoyed at Harry's clumsiness — Riddle conjured a pale, floating orb of light. It illuminated just enough ground to prevent further mishaps, but nothing more.

"Wait! Where are we, exactly?" Harry asked, catching his breath.

"You'll find out soon enough," Riddle said coldly, not bothering to look back.

"Not much of an answer," Harry muttered, slipping on a patch of damp grass.

"The only one you’ll get. Watch your step."

Harry bit back another retort, wiping his muddy hands on his clothes. He was struggling to keep up. And while he would have liked to do something to force them to return, he knew that option was out of the question. Unfortunately.

Although he consciously tried to push his thoughts away, all these punishments slowly began to take effect.

Still, what was about to happen filled him with utter dread. It was all too fast; he had only learned of Riddle's absurd plan yesterday, and already they were going to carry it out. His brain hadn't even had time to process it, to get used to it — or maybe that was the point? He couldn't even protest properly. Now they were here, and Harry's only hope was that the ritual required genuine intention. And Harry couldn't imagine a world in which Tom Riddle would ever want anyone, let alone him, Harry Potter, to be part of his family.

Riddle was incapable of such feelings.

But if, by some miracle, the future Dark Lord could do it, the ritual, which had its origins in ancient Scottish clan magic, was reversible. To keep up appearances, Harry had even managed to get the older boy to promise that this would happen before sending him back to the future — predictably, Riddle had not agreed to do this immediately upon Harry's return from Hogwarts. Another small consolation was that the bond to be forged was not a parental one. It was designed to make an unrelated warrior part of the clan as the chieftain's brother, as originally practised by the ancient Picts. So, yes, better to be the brother of a psychopathic killer than his magically bound son — an alternative that made Harry's skin crawl with visceral disgust.

Of course, this did nothing to improve Harry's situation or mood. Especially as Harry had no intention of completing the mission Riddle had given him — but he could not reveal that, he had to play along. Once back at Hogwarts, he planned to find a way back to '96 and leave Dumbledore to deal with the mess of magical bonds Riddle had forced upon him. Surely the greatest wizard of the age could undo these dark connections.

This thought alone had allowed Harry to survive the last week — after Malfoy's humiliating punishment, after even more humiliating Riddle's healing. Just a little longer and he would return to his old life.

Back to Ron, Hermione. Back to the world he knew.

"Your thoughts are particularly loud tonight, Potter," Riddle's voice cut through his musings as they approached a wrought-iron gate. "I don't need Legilimency to sense your pathetic plotting."

Harry's head snapped up, momentary panic flashing across his features before he schooled his expression. Even the mention of Legilimency made his heart race uncomfortably.

"Not plotting," Harry replied with careful neutrality. "Just thinking about how pleasant it would be to be anywhere else but here with you."

Riddle's lips curved slightly. "How very honest of you." He gestured toward the gate, which swung open silently at a mere flick of his fingers. "After you."

Harry scowled at the casual display of wandless magic, a petty reminder of Riddle's power that never failed to irritate him. With deliberate slowness, he stepped through the gate — and froze. Recognition hit him like a Stunner to the chest.

Little Hangleton.

His legs locked. His lungs stopped working. The world tilted on its axis.

"No," he whispered, then louder: "No. No."

Riddle turned, eyebrow raised in mock surprise. "Is something wrong?"

Images flashed before Harry's eyes: Cedric falling, lifeless. Wormtail's knife slicing his arm. Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of the enemy... The cauldron bubbling as Voldemort rose, pale and terrible.

"I'm not going in there," Harry said, backing away until his back hit the closing gate. "I won't. You can't make me."

"Don't be dramatic, Potter. It's just a graveyard."

"Just a graveyard?!" Harry's voice rose, hysteria threatening at its edges. "You know what happened here. You saw it in my memories!"

"What happened here hasn't happened yet," Riddle said coldly, his tone maddeningly reasonable. "And it never will, if I have anything to say about it."

Harry shook his head violently. "I don't care. I'm not going near that tomb. Not ever."

Riddle's patience visibly thinned. "You will follow me, Potter," his voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "or I will make you follow me."

"Try it," Harry challenged recklessly, terror making him defiant. "Cast Imperious. See how it works, because I'm not going anywhere near that grave."

There was a pause. Then Riddle exhaled sharply, the sound more annoyance than anger.

"We're wasting time," the future Dark Lord said, and before Harry could react, he closed the distance between them in two quick strides. Long fingers gripped Harry's upper arm where yesterday's Stinging Hex had left a tender bruise.

"Let me go!" Harry yelped, struggling against the iron grip as Riddle dragged him forward.

"Stop acting like a child," the older boy hissed, pulling him towards the Riddle family tomb with brutal efficiency. "The ritual requires the family grave. This is the only place where my father's blood resides in the earth."

Harry dug his heels into the soft earth. "Why the Riddles?" he demanded, desperate to buy time. "You hate your father. You despise your Muggle roots."

"Yes, I do," Riddle confirmed but he did not slow down. He dragged Harry behind him mercilessly, ignoring his resistance. "But the Riddles are the only family where I am the eldest surviving member. Unfortunately, my uncle on my mother's side is currently in Azkaban — otherwise, I'd have eliminated him and used the Gaunt line instead."

The casual way Riddle discussed murder left Harry momentarily speechless.

They reached the tomb.

The angel statue loomed, its wings folded and a scythe across its chest. It stood like a sentinel carved from shadow. Just as it would be fifty years later. Harry's skin crawled as he was dragged towards it. He didn't need to read the inscription. He knew whose bones lay beneath the marble slab.

Riddle finally released him, only to pull a dagger and some rune-carved stones from the leather bag slung over his shoulder.

"Let's get started. Midnight is approaching."

Harry rubbed his arm, heart thudding frantically. "And if I refuse?"

Riddle's expression darkened, eyes narrowing dangerously. "I strongly advise against it, Potter. Abraxas is not the only one who knows how to use a belt."

The threat hung in the air between them, and Harry felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.

Crack! Swish. Crack! Swiii—

"I hate you," Harry hissed, pushing the unwanted memories to the back of his mind.

"Noted," Riddle replied. "It seems to be a fairly common feeling among family members. I hated my father too."

Harry's gaze drifted to the gravestone they stood beside. Three names, three dates of birth —but only one date of death. The same date for each of the names. The night when Tom Riddle had murdered his father and grandparents in cold blood.

"And look what your hatred led to."

"Nothing but good things. Now I can use it to make us family."

Harry didn't even try to respond. His expression was telling enough.

Riddle's lips curved in that infuriating smile. He used his wand to arrange the stones around them and the gravestone so that they formed a circle, then positioned himself beside the tomb, gesturing for Harry to stand opposite him.

"Let's begin," he said. He didn't even ask if Harry was ready.

The silver knife glinted ominously in the pale light as Riddle pressed its edge against his own palm first. Without hesitation, he drew the blade across his skin. Blood welled immediately, black in the dim light.

"Your turn," he said, offering the knife handle to Harry.

Harry took it, clenching his numb fingers tightly around the handle. His heart was pounding, and he was sure Riddle could hear it.

This can't work.

"Go on," a cold, unrelenting voice prompted him.

Gritting his teeth, Harry reluctantly pressed the stained blade against his palm, slicing quickly and wincing as a sharp pain spread across his hand. Warm blood pooled in his cupped hand.

Riddle merely inclined his head. "Now raise your hand and join mine."

Harry forced himself to obey, knowing this was the crucial moment — one of the two parts of the ritual where he needed to demonstrate willingness. If Riddle made him now, the whole thing would fail.

A tempting thought. But there was still hope that a monster like Riddle could not truly want family bonds — that his desire was merely for control, for utility, not the genuine connection the ritual required.

Harry slowly raised his hand. When their palms touched and their blood mingled, he felt a strange, tickling sensation spreading across his body. The air around them thickened and shuddered, as if ancient magic was awakening—something long buried stirring from slumber. The rune-carved stones erupted with otherworldly light, bathing the graveyard in an eerie crimson glow.

Harry's instincts screamed at him to pull away, but Riddle's fingers swiftly interlaced with his, locking them together.

The future Dark Lord stood motionless for a long moment, studying Harry's face with disturbing intensity. The floating orb of light hovered just above their joined hands, casting shadows that danced across their features. The scrutiny made Harry's breath catch uncomfortably in his throat. They stood too close, their faces barely a foot apart, sharing the same cold air. Harry wanted to look away but found himself trapped in Riddle's gaze, grey eyes boring into him as though searching for something hidden beneath his skin.

"Le toil, chan ann le breith," Riddle finally began, his voice resonant with power as he spoke in flawless Gaelic, "tha thu a' fàs nad bhràthair dhomh, fuil mo fhala."

By will, not by birth, you become my brother, blood of my blood.

Now it was Harry's turn. Every fibre of his being rebelled against the words he was about to speak, but Riddle's expectant gaze left no room for defiance.

"Le toil, chan ann le breith, tha mi a' fàs nam bhràthair dhut, fuil d' fhala," Harry recited, the foreign words clumsy on his tongue despite his practice.

By will, not by birth, I become your brother, blood of your blood.

The moment the final word left his mouth, the magic intensified. It crashed through their joined hands like a tide, no longer gentle but overwhelming, making Harry's breath hitch. His blood felt like it was boiling in his veins, burning with unfamiliar magic.

Then, without warning, agony exploded behind Harry's scar.

The pain was white-hot, searing, so intense that his vision went black at the edges. His knees buckled and he nearly collapsed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat. But Riddle's grip was iron, refusing to break contact. With a sharp jerk, he hauled Harry upright, positioning their joined hands so their mingled blood dripped onto the cold marble.

The magic reacted — but wrong. Violently wrong. Things did not go as smoothly as they were described in the book.

Something was fiercely determined to block the ritual. Harry could feel it as a physical presence in his body: two forces rubbing against each. As if magic recognised magic where it shouldn't exist, creating a violent resonance that threatened to rip them both apart.

A sizzling sound reached his ears, and he could smell burning in the air. Impossible though it seemed, the stones with the runes had burned away, and the crimson glow disappeared. Darkness enveloped them.

"What—" Riddle's voice cracked, the first time Harry had ever heard uncertainty there. "This shouldn't—the magic is fighting—"

"Make it stop!" Harry gasped, his free hand clawing at his scar. "Just make it stop!"

"Something's interfering," Riddle snarled, his composure fracturing as beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. "Open yourself — let my magic flow through you!"

Harry had no idea what Riddle meant. The pain in his scar was becoming unbearable; he just wanted it to stop. It hurt like hell.

Then, as if a dam had burst under pressure, something inside Harry broke. The barrier between them collapsed, allowing Riddle's magic to pour through the breach. The conflicting energies collided in a violent maelstrom — a reunion that felt fundamentally wrong. This released a shockwave of raw power that exploded outward from their joined hands.

The blast hurled them apart with brutal force. Harry slammed backward into a nearby tombstone, his head cracking against stone hard enough to see stars. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a painful whoosh. Riddle was thrown in the opposite direction, hitting the ground hard and rolling several feet before coming to rest against the base of another monument.

For several moments, the only sound was their laboured breathing, harsh and ragged in the sudden stillness. The magical light flickered weakly, threatening to die entirely.

Harry struggled to his hands and knees, his limbs feeling like lead. Adjusting his glasses, he saw Riddle slowly push himself upright through blurred vision. His movements were unsteady and graceless in a way Harry had never seen before.

Something warm trickled into Harry's eyes. He pressed his palm against his forehead, feeling wetness there. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were smeared with dark blood.

His scar had split open, bleeding freely down his face.

"Shit," Harry breathed, staring at his bloodied fingers.

With visible effort, Riddle pushed himself to his feet. For the first time since Harry had met him, the older boy looked genuinely shaken — sweat-dampened hair falling across his forehead, face ghostly pale, a smear of blood across one cheekbone. The normally impeccable Slytherin heir looked almost... human.

Exhausted.

The magical light he had conjured earlier flickered weakly, threatening to plunge them into darkness. Riddle raised a visibly trembling hand, attempting to strengthen the spell. The orb sputtered like a candle in strong wind before stabilizing slightly, casting just enough light for Harry to see Riddle's eyes fixed on his bleeding forehead with disturbing intensity.

"Your scar," the future Dark Lord murmured, taking an unsteady step forward. His voice was hoarse. "I need to see it."

"Don't." Harry's voice cracked with exhaustion and panic. "Don't come near me."

Riddle took a half-step forward, then stopped, his face twisting with frustration. "Something went wrong. The magic fought as if it was rejected by something."

"Rejected by what?" Harry asked, his voice breaking.

"I don't know!" The admission exploded from Riddle, raw and angry. He dragged a hand through his dishevelled hair, leaving it even more chaotic. "The ritual should have been simple. Blood magic, clan binding—medieval Scottish clans did this for centuries without—"

"Without what? Nearly killing everyone involved?"

"Without the magic tearing itself apart!" Riddle's composure finally shattered completely. "Something interfered. Something in you, or in me, or—" He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

"Maybe it's because we hate each other," Harry said desperately, blood still seeping between his fingers. He could barely stand on his feet — he was sure that he was getting a huge bruise where his back had hit the other monument. "Maybe magic knows you're trying to bind your worst enemy to you and it's—"

"That's not how blood magic works." Riddle's voice was flat with exhaustion. "Hatred doesn't matter. Blood magic doesn't care about fleeting affection. It's will and intention that count, nothing more. And my intention was very clear."

His gaze returned to Harry's scar with an intensity that made Harry's skin crawl.

"Whatever happened, it was centred on your scar. I'm certain of it."

Terror shot through Harry like ice water.

"No. Stay away from me."

The air between them crackled with residual magic and tension. Riddle studied Harry's face —the wild panic in his eyes, the way he'd backed himself against the tombstone like a cornered animal. Something shifted in his expression, calculation replacing curiosity.

"Later," he said finally, the word carrying the weight of a promise and a threat. "We'll discuss this later."

"There won't be a later—"

"There will be," Riddle's tone left no room for argument, although it lacked its usual commanding edge. "But not here. Not now. Now we have one more thing left to check."

With visible effort, Riddle summoned his bag, movements sluggish and imprecise. His hands shook as he reached inside.

"Are you serious?" Harry's voice pitched higher. "Look at us! You can barely stand!"

"That's no excuse," Riddle pointed out grimly, producing a small, wooden box. "/this needs to be done."

Harry stared at the box, then at Riddle's drawn face. "What is it?"

"A test." Riddle held the box between them with hands that visibly shook. He must have been exhausted. "If the ritual worked, you'll be able to open it."

"And if it didn't work?"

"Well, better hope it works, because otherwise you'll never pay off your life debt." Riddle's smile was sharp but wavering. "Tell it to open. Parseltongue."

Harry wanted to refuse. Wanted to tell Riddle to go to hell. But exhaustion weighed down his limbs like lead, and his head throbbed with each heartbeat. All he wanted was to get out of this graveyard, away from the memories and the pain.

"This won't make us family," Harry said quietly, too tired to speak with conviction. "Whatever happens here, it won't change who you are."

"Won't?" Despite his obvious fatigue, Riddle's voice was soft and dangerous. "We'll see."

With a resigned sigh that didn't quite mask his fear of what success would mean, Harry focused on the box.

"Open," he hissed.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, with a soft but distinct click, the lid rose smoothly upward, revealing a dark interior lined with emerald velvet.

Riddle's face curved into a triumphant smile — cold and satisfied even through the weariness etched in every line of his face.

"There we are." He snapped the box shut with fingers that barely cooperated. "Welcome to the family, Potter."

Harry felt like he was drowning in emptiness while his mind raged against the foreign bond now undeniably pulsing through his veins.

o.O.o

The castle rose majestically against the early June sky, its towers bathed in the golden afternoon sun. Hogwarts was as Harry remembered it — magnificent, beautiful, breathtaking — yet somehow not quite the same. He paused at the edge of the path, his trunk floating behind him, and simply stared. After three months in Riddle's oppressive flat in Knockturn Alley, the sight of Hogwarts hit him with an almost physical force.

Home. But not quite.

His Hogwarts was fifty years in the future. These stones would remain the same, but almost everything else would change. The faces, the teachers, the feel of the corridors. Even Dumbledore wasn't the headmaster yet, just the Transfiguration professor.

Dumbledore.

Harry's pulse quickened. If anyone could help him get back to his time, it would be Albus Dumbledore. But would the professor believe him? Dumbledore's suspicion of Riddle was already well-founded — Harry had seen it in the memory Dumbledore had shown him of their first meeting at the orphanage. How much more suspicious would he be of another Riddle who mysteriously appeared at the end of term?

"Feeling nostalgic?" Riddle's cold voice sliced through Harry's thoughts.

Reluctantly, Harry glanced back over his shoulder.

Riddle was a few paces behind him, eyes tracing the castle's silhouette. Despite his mocking tone, something in his expression betrayed a similar longing.

"It meant something to you too," Harry said quietly. "First real home, wasn't it? The place that finally made you feel special."

Riddle's eyes snapped to Harry's face, the vulnerability vanishing so completely it might have been imagined. "Don't try to analyse me, because you're not very good at it. I outgrew sentimentality long ago."

"Dumbledore didn't think so. He said even you needed somewhere to belong."

Riddle went very still. When he spoke again, his voice was soft, deadly.

"Two weeks," the future Dark Lord reminded him coldly, moving towards the Hogwarts gate looming at the end of the path they were following. “Tertius and Alphard have been instructed to help you, but they don't know the details. All they know is that you need to steal something from the headmaster's office."

The unspoken command hung between them: and that's all they need to know.

Harry curled his fingers around the wand hidden in his robe pocket. The simple freedom of carrying it again, of not having to surrender it to Riddle each evening, filled him with enough relief to maintain a veneer of diplomacy.

"Keeping secrets from your faithful followers?" Harry asked idly, matching his stride to Riddle's as they approached the gates. "Don't want them knowing you're collecting founder's trinkets like some obsessed schoolboy?"

Riddle stopped abruptly, turning to face Harry with dangerous intensity. "They know what I choose for them to know. And as for you, I expect regular reports. Detailed ones," he emphasized, his voice deceptively calm. "And remember that every student, every professor who sees you will see Tom Riddle's brother. Our connection is no longer merely a convenient lie — it's in your blood. Try not to embarrass me, little brother."

"Don't call me that," Harry hissed through gritted teeth.

Riddle's lips curved in a predatory smile. "But that's what you are now."

The last words hung between them, heavy with unwanted truth.

Since the ritual, something had changed inside him — something violating and wrong. In quiet moments, he could almost imagine he felt Riddle's blood flowing through his veins alongside his own, a constant, nauseating reminder of what had been forced upon him. Worse were the moments when he caught himself feeling echoes of emotions that weren't entirely his own — flashes of cold satisfaction or cruel amusement that made his skin crawl.

The thought that it might be more than imagination made panic claw at his throat.

For the first two days after the ritual, he had scrubbed his hands compulsively, as if hoping to wash away the blood he didn't want there. Last night, he had woken drenched in sweat, haunted by a nightmare in which he stood in front of a mirror and watched his features slowly morph into those of Riddle. His green eyes had grown pale and cold, fading to grey.

"My blood flows in your veins. My magic recognizes yours." Riddle leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "You can feel it too, can't you? The connection between us."

Harry looked away, panic rising. So these sensations... they weren't just his imagination?

"I don't care what magic says," Harry said fiercely, desperate not to dwell on that thought. "I'm not your brother. I'll never be your family."

"Ah, but you should care," Riddle replied quietly, the menace unmistakable. "In our world, Harry, magic is all that matters."

The older boy resumed walking, that infuriating smirk playing at his lips, as casual as if they'd been discussing the weather rather than the violation of Harry's very essence.

As they approached the gates of Hogwarts, Harry spotted two figures waiting in the shadow of the stone pillars. Even from a distance, he recognized the round silhouette of Professor Slughorn. Beside him stood a tall, lean Slytherin with the sharp features Harry had come to associate with the Lestrange family — Tertius, the youngest of the three brothers and current Head Boy.

The gates swung open silently and Slughorn stepped forward with a broad, welcoming smile.

"Tom, my dear boy!" the professor called out, his moustache twitching joyfully. "Punctual as always. And young Harry—" His twinkling eyes turned to Harry with obvious fondness. "How are you feeling about those examinations? Not too nervous, I hope?"

The sight of Slughorn's easy familiarity with Riddle made Harry's skin crawl. The last time he'd seen them together, Slughorn had been wary, suspicious — until Riddle had paralyzed him with poisoned pineapple and ripped the Horcrux memory from his mind. Now the professor beamed at his former student as if nothing had ever been wrong between them.

"Professor Slughorn," Tom replied smoothly, his voice carrying just the right note of respectful warmth. "Always a pleasure."

Behind Slughorn, the youngest Lestrange brother stepped forward.

'Riddle,' he said, inclining his head in a respectful gesture that indicated familiarity without being overly friendly.

"Lestrange." Riddle's acknowledgment held exactly the right note of pleased recognition.

"Harry," Tertius said with a slight nod, his tone suggesting he was doing Harry a considerable Favor by acknowledging him. "Welcome back to Hogwarts."

The condescension was subtle but unmistakable, reminding Harry strongly of how Secundus had treated him during their Potions lessons — perfectly civil, yet making it clear that Harry was beneath his notice unless absolutely necessary.

Clearly, the youngest Lestrange shared more than just features with his brothers.

"Lestrange, it's nice to see you again, too," Harry replied carefully, matching Tertius's formal tone.

"Oh, yes, you must have met during your last visit here, right, Harry?" Slughorn interjected with characteristic enthusiasm and without waiting for Harry's response, he turned back to Riddle:. "Tom, I know you must be eager to get back to London, but surely you have time for a quick cup of tea? I'm absolutely dying to hear about your travels — did you really make it as far as the Middle East? The stories you must have!"

"I didn't get that far, I stopped in Istanbul," Riddle said with what appeared to be genuine regret. "But I'm afraid I can't linger today, Professor. We have some rather demanding clients expecting a consultation this evening."

Slughorn's face fell slightly. "On a Saturday? Surely Mr. Burke doesn't expect you to work weekends?"

"When you're supporting a family," Riddle said with a rueful smile, glancing meaningfully at Harry, "weekend work becomes rather more... necessary. But I promise we'll have that proper chat soon."

"Of course, of course — family responsibilities come first," Slughorn nodded understandingly. "Though you must promise to visit again before too long. I'm dying of curiosity just thinking about your travels."

"In that case, I will try to find some time for you, sir."

Tom turned to Tertius, his manner becoming more businesslike. "Lestrange, I trust Harry will find your guidance invaluable during his stay."

"He'll receive every assistance," Tertius replied, his tone suggesting that failure wasn't a possibility he entertained.

Finally, Riddle's attention settled on Harry. Despite the public setting, his grey eyes held their familiar callousness. "Harry," he said, his voice carrying just enough warmth to maintain the appearance of brotherly affection, while the underlying message remained crystal clear. "I have every confidence you won't disappoint me."

The words hung in the air with their double meaning. Harry felt his jaw tighten involuntarily, but he managed to keep his expression neutral. "I won't."

"Excellent!" Slughorn beamed, apparently oblivious to the undercurrents. "I have no doubt Harry will prove every bit as talented as you, Tom. After all, talent does run in families."

Something flickered across Riddle's features — amusement, perhaps, or satisfaction. "Indeed, Professor. Blood will tell."

With final farewells exchanged, Riddle walked back through the Hogwarts gates. When the loud crack of Apparition faded away, Harry felt instant relief. The oppressive weight that had seemed to press down on his shoulders whenever Riddle was nearby lifted so suddenly that he felt as though he had stepped out of a suffocating room into fresh air.

A thought struck him: this could be the last time he would ever see young Riddle.

This improved his mood even further.

"My dear lad," Slughorn said cheerfully, placing a paternal hand on Harry's shoulder. "Let's get you settled, shall we? Tertius will show you around the castle this afternoon — get you properly oriented. And don't worry about feeling overwhelmed — Hogwarts can be quite intimidating to newcomers. I still remember how lost I felt there during my first year."

As they began walking towards the castle, Slughorn continued in his warm manner, "I've arranged for you to stay in the seventh-year dormitory with our esteemed Head Boy, Mr. Lestrange, and the other boys. They're all preparing for their N.E.W.T.s, so you'll find kindred spirits among those dedicated to exam success."

"I appreciate your concern, sir," Harry forced himself to say. Although Riddle had warned him that he would be sharing a dormitory with the youngest Lestrange scion, Harry had hoped this would not be the case.

Hope dies hard.

They reached the main entrance. As he walked up the familiar stone steps, Harry experienced a strange sense of both homecoming and displacement. During his last visit, when he had walked with Riddle through the castle courtyard, he realised that the details mattered a great deal. And this Hogwarts differed from the one he knew in precisely those details. The massive oak doors were standing open, revealing the entrance hall beyond. It looked the same as he remembered, yet it felt different in the afternoon light of 1947.

"Would you like to freshen up after your journey?" Tertius asked, his tone perfectly polite yet somehow suggesting that any such need would be quite inconvenient. "Otherwise, we have about two hours before dinner. I thought we could start with a tour of the castle. Two hours isn't much, but at least we'll cover all the important places."

Harry shook his head. "I'm fine, thank you. A tour sounds good."

"Splendid!" Slughorn interjected, pulling out his wand with a flourish. "Your luggage will be waiting for you in the seventh-year dormitory." With a casual wave, Harry's trunk began floating away toward the dungeons. "I'll leave you boys to get acquainted. Tertius, do take good care of our guest."

"Naturally, Professor," Tertius replied with that same careful courtesy.

Once Slughorn had bustled away, the atmosphere between Harry and Tertius shifted perceptibly. The Head Boy's smile remained, but it felt more like a mask now — pleasant enough, but with something calculating underneath.

"Right then," Tertius said, his voice taking on a more businesslike tone. "Shall we start with the grounds? I thought you might like to meet Alphard Black before dinner — he's currently drilling the Quidditch team for their final match.

"Lead the way."

As they walked, Tertius seemed to slip naturally into the role of tour guide, but Harry noticed the practiced quality of his commentary — like someone who'd given this speech before.

"Those are the greenhouses over there — Professor Beery's domain. Brilliant with plants, terrible with people." Tertius gestured toward the glass structures. "And that path leads down to the lake. Beautiful spot, really, though the water's bloody freezing even in summer."

Harry nodded politely, though he was more focused on studying Tertius than listening to the familiar landmarks. At seventeen, the youngest Lestrange had the same aristocratic features as his older brothers, but there was something distinctly younger about him — an eagerness beneath the carefully maintained pureblood composure.

On the one hand, Tertius was friendly and open, but at the same time, Harry couldn't help feeling that there was something strange about his behaviour. It was as if he was being nice because he had to be, while at the same time pretending very well that his love was genuine.

"The grounds are quite extensive," Tertius continued conversationally as they made their way toward the Quidditch pitch. "Students sometimes get a bit... adventurous with their exploring. Easy to get turned around if you're not familiar with the layout." He shot Harry a sideways glance. "Though I suppose most stick to the well-travelled paths. Sensible, really."

"Sensible how?" Harry asked, testing the waters.

Tertius's smile didn't waver. "Oh, you know how it is — Hogwarts has quite a few quirks. Moving staircases, passages that decide to relocate themselves, rooms that aren't always where you left them." His tone remained light, almost chatty. "Easy for someone unfamiliar with the castle to end up somewhere they never intended to be. Sometimes for hours."

Harry felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. "I see."

"Still," Tertius added with apparent cheerfulness, "that's what guides are for, isn't it? Much better to have someone show you around properly during your first few days. Helps you get... oriented."

The pause before 'oriented' was so slight it might have been accidental, but Harry caught the underlying message clearly enough. He was being warned—politely, indirectly, but warned nonetheless.

"Very thoughtful of you," Harry replied carefully.

"Not at all. We Slytherins look after our own."

The way Tertius said 'our own' made Harry's skin crawl.

As they finally approached the Quidditch pitch, Harry could see the Slytherin team in the middle of an intensive training session. The players moved in complex formations, their green robes standing out starkly against the blue sky.

"There's our captain," Tertius said, and for the first time that afternoon, something like genuine pride crept into his voice. "Alphard's been driving them mercilessly since Easter. This final match... it means everything to him."

The slender figure leading the formation — clearly the captain — spotted them immediately and peeled away in a controlled dive that spoke of exceptional flying skill. Harry felt a sharp pang of longing that he tried unsuccessfully to hide.

Alphard Black landed gracefully a few feet away, his dark hair windswept and his grey eyes bright with recognition and curiosity. The resemblance to Sirius was so strong it made Harry's chest tighten, but where Sirius had always carried himself with rebellious defiance, Alphard radiated focused confidence.

"Lestrange! Perfect timing," Black called out with a wide grin, pulling off his gloves. "Harry Riddle, right? Good to see you again."

"The pleasure is all mine, Alphard."

Although he was suffering internally, his sense of courtesy could not kill him. After all, he had to convince the two of them that he was a trustworthy younger brother of their boss.

"By the way, I saw that look when I landed," Alphard said, griming widely. Someone's got flying in their blood, haven't they?"

Harry felt heat rise in his cheeks.

"Yeah, I enjoy flying."

"Ever played properly?" Black asked, circling Harry with the assessing eye of someone evaluating potential. "You've got the build for it — quick reflexes, I'd bet. Seeker?"

Harry shrugged, fighting down memories of diving for the Snitch, of the roar of the Gryffindor crowd, of holding the House Cup above his head just months ago. "A little. But never in a formal school league."

"Tragedy, that," Alphard said with theatrical dismay. "You know, we're training most evenings before the final match. You should definitely come watch—see how real Quidditch is played." He gestured toward the equipment shed with casual confidence. "Might even find you a decent broom if you're interested. Can't have Tom Riddle's brother thinking Slytherin doesn't know how to treat guests properly."

The offer sounded genuinely friendly, but Harry caught the subtle shift in Alphard's expression — the way his eyes became more calculating even as his smile remained warm. It was exactly the kind of performance Tom would approve of.

"That's generous of you," Harry said carefully. "Though I should probably focus on my exams."

"Rubbish!" Alphard waved dismissively. "Flying clears the head better than any study session. Trust me — I've tried both."

"Physical activity does improve mental acuity," Tertius remarked smoothly. "I'm sure watching their training sessions would be quite... educational."

Something in his tone made Harry's enthusiasm dim slightly. Of course — this wasn't just a friendly invitation. It was another way to keep him occupied and under observation.

Before Harry could respond, footsteps approached, and voices called out from behind them.

"Oi, Black! Who's the audience?" The voice belonged to a burly Beater who was jogging over, followed by the rest of the team. "Please tell me you're not trying to recruit spectators again."

"Better than that, Morrison," Alphard called back with theatrical pride. "Meet Harry Riddle."

The effect was immediate and subtle. No gasps of surprise or obvious gawking, but Harry caught the quick glances exchanged between players, the way they unconsciously straightened their postures.

Morrison reached them first, followed by a sharp-faced girl who was pulling off her gloves with practiced efficiency. "Riddle?" Morrison's tone was carefully neutral. "As in...?"

"Tom's younger brother," Tertius supplied helpfully.

Morrison's eyes flicked over Harry's features with the kind of assessment that suggested he was cataloguing every detail. "Doesn't look much like Riddle at all."

Harry didn't even realize how much pleasure that statement gave him.

"Oh, honestly, Morrison, you're blind," the girl said, stepping forward with the confident air of someone used to being heard. "It's all in the bone structure. Same aristocratic features." She extended her hand with a smile that was equal parts welcoming and appraising. "Alice Rowle."

Harry shook her hand firmly. After weeks spent in the company of pre-Death Eaters, certain names no longer rejected him.

"Harry Riddle."

Potter, he added silently in his mind, as always. Always Potter.

"Right then," said a new voice as the Keeper approached, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Are we having a team meeting, or can we get back to actual practice?" He was sharp-faced and broad-shouldered, with the air of someone who'd been through this routine before. "Some of us would like to win this match."

"Williams, relax," Alphard said with a laugh. "I'm just being sociable. Harry here was asking about training."

"Was I?" Harry asked, amused despite himself by the smooth fabrication.

"Well, you were about to," Alphard said with shameless confidence. "So, how's training going, everyone?"

"Brilliantly!" Morrison's voice dripped with theatrical enthusiasm. "Assuming your definition of 'brilliant' includes Williams missing every other save.'"

"That's rich," Williams shot back, "coming from someone who thinks strategy means swinging a bat in the general direction of anything that moves."

"Hey, it works," Morrison protested. "Intimidation is a valid tactical approach."

"Valid for giving opposing teams a good laugh," Alice said dryly. "Though I suppose if we can't win through skill, intimidation is an option."

"Now, now," Alphard said with mock gravity, "we can't have our distinguished guest thinking Slytherin settles for anything less than excellence." His eyes danced with mischief. "Even if some of us confuse excellence with blind luck."

"Captain," Williams said with exaggerated patience, "remind me again whose 'excellence' led to that spectacular crash into the stands during our match against Ravenclaw?"

"That was a tactical manoeuvre," Alphard said with dignity. "I was demonstrating the dangers of overconfidence to the opposing team."

"By nearly breaking your own neck?" Morrison laughed. "Brilliant strategy, that."

The team burst into laughter, and Harry found himself smiling despite everything. There was something infectious about their easy camaraderie, the way they could mock each other mercilessly while clearly being completely loyal to one another. It reminded him painfully of his own team back in Gryffindor.

"All right, all right," Alphard said, swinging his leg over his broom. "Back to work. We've got half an hour left, and Williams still can't save a Quaffle to save his life."

"I hate you all," Williams announced cheerfully as he mounted his broom.

"Course you do," Alice said with a grin. "That's what makes us such a good team."

As the players began to disperse back to their positions, Alphard turned to Harry, Harry, we'll catch up properly later. And remember my offer—it was genuine." With that, he shot back into the air, immediately transforming from friendly host to demanding captain. "Right then, you lot! Let's see that Porskoff Ploy again, and this time, Morrison, try not to take out our own Chasers!"

"No promises!" Morrison called back cheerfully.

"They're extraordinary," Tertius said with obvious pride as they walked away. "Wild, but effective. Black's proved to be a natural leader. The team would follow him into the Forbidden Forest if he asked."

Harry merely smiled in response, his heart aching with unexpected longing for Sirius.

When they finally returned to the castle, Harry was struck by how different the weekend atmosphere felt from his memories. Students lounged in doorways and window alcoves, their conversations creating a gentle buzz that echoed off the stone walls. Harry felt their stares immediately — curious, speculative glances that followed their progress. Small groups stopped their conversations to watch him pass, whispering among themselves.

"New student?"

"Must be—never seen him before."

"Rather good-looking, isn't he?"

Harry felt heat rising in his cheeks at the unwanted attention. The whispers and stares followed them through every corridor, making him increasingly uncomfortable.

"Popular fellow, aren't you?" Tertius observed with mild amusement, apparently enjoying Harry's discomfort. "And this is just the beginning. Wait until word really gets around about who your older brother is. Then you'll see what attention looks like."

The casual cruelty in that observation made Harry's stomach tighten, but he managed to keep his expression neutral.

As they made their way through the castle, Harry finally realized what had puzzled him most. Despite being fully aware of Harry's mission — his real reason for being there — the younger Lestrange had made no reference to it, asking no subtle questions about his plans or timeline. For two hours, they had discussed nothing but the castle's layout, mealtimes, and academic procedures.

Harry had expected some sort of briefing or at least an acknowledgement of his true purpose. The absence of any such discussion was almost more unsettling than overt pressure would have been. Was this Tertius's way of maintaining discretion, or was he deliberately avoiding the subject for reasons of his own?

"You were supposed to meet with Headmaster Dippet today, but Slughorn asked me to tell you that due to an unexpected meeting regarding the organisation of exams, the headmaster won't have time," Tertius said as they made their way toward the Great Hall. "I'll be able to give you your examination schedule this evening."

"That's fine," Harry replied, though privately he wondered when — or if — they would discuss anything more substantial than academic logistics.

As they neared the Great Hall, rapid footsteps echoed behind them.

"Oi, wait up!" Alphard's voice called out cheerfully. He jogged up to them, freshly cleaned and changed into his regular robes, though his hair still bore traces of wind from flying. His cheeks were flushed from the cold air and exercise, and his entire demeanour had transformed—gone was the commanding Quidditch captain, replaced once more by the enthusiastic, slightly mischievous student.

"How was the rest of practice?" Harry asked, genuinely curious about which version of Alphard was real.

"Morrison actually managed the Porskoff Ploy without falling off his broom, so I'm calling it a bloody miracle," Alphard grinned. The smile seemed genuine, but Harry was beginning to doubt his ability to tell the difference. "Ready to brave the Hogwarts dinner crowd? Fair warning —exam season makes everyone a bit... territorial. Best to keep your head down and avoid drawing too much attention."

Another warning, delivered with a laugh but pointed, nonetheless.

"I think I can handle it," Harry said.

"Of course you can! You're a Riddle, aren't you?" Alphard's grin took on a sharper edge. "Though you might want to steer clear of the Gryffindor table. They're still sulking about our last match. Seems they think we had something to do with their Seeker's... unfortunate illness."

"Alphard," Tertius said sharply. "Careful."

"What? I'm not saying we did anything. Just that it was remarkably convenient timing." Alphard winked at Harry, but the gesture felt calculated rather than conspiratorial.

As they entered the Great Hall, Harry felt that familiar surge of wonder despite everything. The enchanted ceiling showed a perfect spring evening, stars just beginning to twinkle in the deepening blue. The four house tables were set with gleaming plates and goblets, candles floating overhead in exactly the same pattern he remembered.

The Slytherin table was nearly full, and Harry noticed how conversations seemed to quiet slightly as they approached. Nothing obvious—just the subtle shift that suggested word of his arrival had already spread.

"Right, make some space then," Alphard called out to a group of younger students. "We've got Tom Riddle's brother with us—let's show him proper Slytherin hospitality."

The response was immediate. Students shuffled aside with varying degrees of curiosity and calculation. Harry caught several meaningful glances exchanged between older students—the kind of looks that suggested predetermined plans.

"Wait, is this actually—?" a girl with sleek dark hair began.

"Harry Riddle," Alphard supplied, gesturing for Harry to sit between him and Tertius. "Tom's younger brother. Here for his O.W.L.s."

The effect rippled through the nearby students like a stone dropped in still water. Harry found himself the centre of intensely curious stares, but there was something calculating about the attention that made his skin crawl.

"Tom Riddle's brother?" a boy near the end of the table murmured to his companion. "Didn't even know he had family."

"Apparently no one did," came the whispered reply.

Harry felt his cheeks warm as he settled into his seat, acutely aware of being studied from every angle. A few students offered polite nods, others smiled with varying degrees of sincerity, but most simply stared with undisguised fascination.

"Don't take it personally," Alphard said in an undertone, apparently enjoying the spectacle. "They're just trying to work out if you've inherited the family genius. No pressure at all."

Before Harry could respond — or attempt any sort of introduction to the watching students—Headmaster Dippet rose from the staff table.

"Good evening, everyone," Dippet began, his voice carrying easily through the hall. "Before we dine, I'd like to acknowledge a special guest joining us for the next fortnight." His eyes found Harry across the hall. "Mr. Harry Riddle—brother to our former Head Boy Tom Riddle—will be taking his O.W.L. examinations here at Hogwarts."

"Now, while external candidates typically lodge elsewhere during their examinations, we've made an exception in young Mr. Riddle's case. He'll be residing in Slytherin House with our seventh-year students." Dippet's smile was warm but carried clear expectation. "I trust you'll all extend him the courtesy and hospitality that reflects well upon our school."

The hall erupted in whispers and craning necks as hundreds of students turned to stare with renewed intensity. Harry felt heat rising in his cheeks, his hands clenched involuntarily under the table. This was worse than his first sorting—at least then he'd only been one among many first-years.

A sharp elbow from Alphard jolted him back to awareness.

"Up you get," Alphard hissed under his breath. "Show yourself, say hello. Basic courtesy."

Reluctantly, Harry rose to his feet, offering a brief, awkward wave to the hall. The applause was polite but curious, and he sank back down as quickly as possible, his face burning.

"Well, that was charmingly awkward," Alphard said with a grin, leaning closer to speak quietly to both Harry and Tertius. "You really didn't inherit Tom's stage presence, did you?"

But Harry barely heard him. His attention was fixed on the staff table, where a familiar figure with auburn hair and twinkling blue eyes was watching him with unmistakable suspicion. Professor Dumbledore's gaze was sharp, calculating, and utterly without the warmth Harry had always associated with his future mentor. Those blue eyes seemed to see straight through him, questioning everything about his presence here.

The weight of that suspicious stare settled over Harry like a cold cloak, draining away the excitement he'd felt at being back in Hogwarts. Even when Dumbledore finally looked away and the meal began in earnest, Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he was being watched, evaluated, and found wanting.

"I'll work on your presentation skills later. Now let's talk about something more pleasant, Harry," Alphard said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to Harry's mood shift. "Which subjects are you sitting? And please say you're not mad enough to attempt Ancient Runes like Tertius here."

"Ancient Runes happens to be quite valuable," Tertius replied coolly. "More so than spending your afternoons chasing balls around on a broomstick."

"Oi, Quidditch is serious business—strategy, split-second decisions, physical conditioning," Alphard protested with mock offense. "Skills that actually matter in the real world."

"Only if your idea of the real world involves showing off to impressionable students," a girl with dark hair interjected with a smirk.

Harry tried to follow the banter, to appear engaged, but Dumbledore's cold assessment had lodged itself in his mind like a splinter. He was at Hogwarts, yes—but he was also very much not home.

After dinner, Harry unexpectedly found himself with some time to himself. Tertius had gone to meet Slughorn about the upcoming exams, so it fell to Alphard to escort Harry to the Slytherin common room. Harry, not sure if such an opportunity would arise again, quickly excused himself, citing general fatigue and overwhelm, as well as the need to unpack. Following Alphard's directions, he made his way through the familiar yet foreign corridors to the seventh-year boys' dormitory.

The moment the heavy door closed behind him, Harry exhaled deeply, his shoulders sagging as the tension he'd been carrying all evening finally released. For the first time in hours, he wasn't being watched, evaluated, or performing the role of Tom Riddle's supposedly devoted younger brother.

The dormitory was exactly as he remembered Slytherin quarters — dark stone walls, green hangings, and an oppressive atmosphere that seemed to seep into one's bones. Four beds were arranged around the circular room, each with a trunk at its foot. His own luggage sat waiting on what was clearly meant to be his bed, the farthest from the door.

Harry looked around — he knew he was alone but caution never hurt — then quickly moved to his trunk. He needed to check if everything was there — everything that might mean the difference between success and catastrophe. His hands trembled slightly as he opened the lid, and he forced himself to breathe steadily.

Most of his clothes were neatly folded on top, exactly as he'd packed them under Riddle's watchful eye. But it was what lay beneath that truly mattered. Harry's pulse quickened as he carefully moved aside layers of shirts and robes, his fingers searching for the familiar texture of parchment hidden between his undergarments.

There — wedged between his underpants and socks, exactly where he'd concealed them. His notes copied from the French diary.  Harry's hand shook as he traced the edge of the parchment. These fragments of text, written in French, contained references to Horcruxes that he still couldn't fully decipher. His plan was simple — find a French-English dictionary in the Hogwarts library and finally understand what knowledge had nearly cost him his life. These notes had cost him dearly — not just in the nerve-wracking process of hiding research from Riddle, but in the spells required to conceal them. Riddle still had that infuriating habit of checking his wand for recent magic, but thankfully the man's patience for sifting through minor charms seemed limited. If Riddle discovered them, Harry would face far worse than the Cruciatus Curse.

Harry's breath caught as his fingers found something else — soft, shimmering fabric that seemed to flow like water between his hands. His invisibility cloak.

For a moment, Harry simply stared at it, overwhelmed by a rush of emotion so intense it nearly brought tears to his eyes. Unlike the smuggled notes, this had been an official victory. He'd actually managed to convince Riddle to let him bring it — argued that it was superior to Chameleon charms, that portraits wouldn't be able to detect him in Dippet's office. Riddle had been reluctant, suspicious of Harry's motives, but eventually conceded the logic. Of course, Harry had to promise to return it immediately upon completing the theft.

Slowly, reverently, he lifted the cloak from the trunk and held it against his chest, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. It smelled faintly of home — of Gryffindor Tower, of adventures with Ron and Hermione, of a life that felt increasingly like a distant dream.

"I missed you," he whispered to the empty room, feeling foolish but unable to stop himself. It was just fabric, just an object, but it represented freedom in a way that Riddle could never understand. Under this cloak, Harry had been himself — not a prisoner, not a pawn, but simply Harry Potter doing what needed to be done.

He folded it carefully and set it aside, then continued his inventory. His fingers closed around a small, crystal vial that made his heart race with possibilities. Felix Felicis. Harry stared at the golden liquid in amazement — he'd had no idea Riddle even possessed liquid luck. According to the meticulous instructions Riddle had provided, Harry was to consume this on the night of the planned theft to ensure success.

Harry's lips curved in a bitter smile as he held the vial up to the dim light. Riddle's gift would indeed bring luck — just not the kind Tom intended. This precious potion would be Harry's key to returning home, not stealing some ancient sword.

But it was the final items that made his blood run cold. Three rolled parchments lay at the bottom of the trunk, bound with thin ribbon. Three carefully crafted copies of Marauder's Map — another victory, but this one tasted like ash in his mouth.

Harry's hands shook as he lifted them out, memories flooding back of the argument with Riddle over these maps. He'd pushed hard for the original, claiming he needed to monitor anyone approaching Dippet's office during the theft. Riddle had refused — Selwyn had only made two copies of the stolen original and Riddle wanted to keep the original one for himself. But Harry had persisted, emphasizing the risks of discovery, until Riddle finally ordered Selwyn to create a third copy just to shut him up.

The argument that copies might not work as well as the original proved to be misguided. Riddle stated that this was all the more reason to keep the original so that he could keep an eye on Harry.

Suddenly, the door to the dormitory opened and Harry jumped so violently he nearly dropped the maps. His heart hammered against his ribs as he spun around, guilt written across his features despite his best efforts.

Tertius stood in the doorway, his pale eyes taking in the scene with calculating precision. The door closed behind him with a soft but final-sounding click.

"Do you have something on your conscience, Harry?" Tertius asked, his voice carrying that familiar Lestrange edge — polite on the surface, but sharp as a blade underneath.

Harry fought to keep his voice level, though he could hear the slight tremor in his own words. "I was just... unpacking. Trying to get settled."

Tertius stepped into the room with deliberate slowness, his gaze sweeping over Harry's open trunk, the scattered contents, the maps clutched in Harry's hands. "Settling in. Yes, I can see that." A thin smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Find everything you were looking for?"

Harry forced himself to meet Tertius's eyes. "Everything's here."

"Good. Tom would be... displeased if anything had gone missing." Tertius moved closer, and Harry noticed the change in a way how the older boy carried himself — not quite threatening, but with the confidence of someone who knew he held all the cards "He was quite specific about what you'd be bringing with you. Said there were certain... tools that would help ensure your visit goes smoothly."

Harry's grip tightened on the maps involuntarily. "Tools?"

"Items that promote understanding. Clarity." Tertius's smile was razor-thin. "The kind that prevent... misunderstandings about location, timing, that sort of thing. I believe you have something for Alphard and me?"

The polite phrasing couldn't disguise the command underneath. Harry hesitated for a heartbeat, then reached into his trunk and withdrew the second parchment. "I suppose these are what you're referring to," he said, handing both copies to the older Slytherin.

Tertius accepted them with the air of someone receiving his due. "And the third?"

Harry's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I thought... I might need it. To know where you and Alphard are, in case I need to find you."

Tertius paused, studying Harry's face with renewed interest. When he spoke, his voice held a note of something that might have been approval. "Clever reasoning. Very... practical." He tilted his head slightly. "But I'm afraid that won't be necessary."

"Why not?"

"Because, dear Harry, the arrangement is rather clear." Tertius's smile widened fractionally. "You see, our job is to ensure we always know where we are. Your job is to ensure we always know where you are."

The words were delivered with such casual precision that it took Harry a moment to process their full meaning. When he did, heat flooded his cheeks. "I see."

"Do you? I rather hope so." Tertius's tone remained conversational, but his eyes had sharpened. "Tom spoke very highly of your intelligence. Said you were quite good at... understanding situations."

Harry forced himself to breathe steadily. "And what situation am I supposed to understand?"

"That we're all on the same side here. All working toward the same goals." Tertius stepped closer, and Harry caught the subtle shift in his posture — still relaxed, but ready. "Your success is our success. Your... difficulties would be our difficulties."

The threat was wrapped in silk, but it was unmistakably there. Harry met Tertius's gaze and slowly, deliberately, extended the third map. "Of course. We're all friends here."

"Exactly." Tertius accepted the map with a satisfied nod. "I knew Tom was right about you. You do understand situations quite well."

Harry watched as Tertius unrolled one of the copies, studying the blank parchment with evident curiosity. "Tom mentioned you'd show us how this work. Some sort of activation phrase, I assume?"

"Something like that." Harry's voice came out rougher than he'd intended.

"Excellent. No time like the present, wouldn't you agree?" Tertius looked up from the map, his expression expectant. "After all, there's no sense in delaying when we could be getting properly... acquainted with their functions." He gestured toward the maps. "Now, shall we proceed? I'm quite eager to see what all the fuss is about."

Harry looked down at the maps in Tertius's hands — his father's legacy transformed into instruments of surveillance — and felt something cold settle in his chest. "Yes. Let's get this over with."

Reaching for his wand, Harry fought not to show a mixture of rage and despair that tasted like copper on his tongue. The afternoon spent in Tertius's polite company had been nothing more than an elaborate performance. The real Tertius — the one standing before him now — was every inch a Lestrange

He hadn't thought it would be that bad.

It wasn't.

It was tragic.

o.O.o

The flat felt… different.

Silence filled every corner, and the emptiness felt strange. It was odd how completely Potter's absence affected the space — not because the boy had ever been loud or in the way, quite the opposite. But Even during the recent weeks when Potter spent his days away at lessons with Tom's carefully chosen Slytherins, knowing he would return had filled the rooms with tension, a sense that someone lived here. Now, with Potter at Hogwarts the flat felt hollow, like an empty shell.

It should have been liberating. It was liberating. Finally, Tom could pursue his own research without the constant need to monitor, to manipulate, to manage. No more watching for signs of rebellion or escape attempts. No more calculated conversations over dinner or chess board, each word weighed for its potential to extract information or strengthen psychological bonds.

Perfect freedom.

So why did the rooms feel so damned empty?

Tom moved toward the mahogany display case tucked in the corner of his room with decisive steps, banishing the ridiculous thought. The concealed compartment opened at his touch, revealing Ravenclaw's diadem in all its sapphire glory. He had intended this for his second Horcrux before... before everything changed. Before Potter. Before the revision of his entire approach to immortality.

Two Horcruxes would be enough. More had destroyed his future self — he was certain of it now. But the diadem had other uses, uses that Tom hadn't tested yet. Legend claimed it enhanced the wearer's wisdom and clarity of thought. Tonight, Tom needed both.

The problems before him tangled like serpents in his mind. First, the delicate matter of acquiring Hepzibah Smith's precious artifacts — Hufflepuff's cup and Slytherin's locket — without resorting to murder. The old witch's death would be easily concealed, but Potter would undoubtedly piece together Tom's involvement, and their carefully negotiated truce explicitly forbade killing. Tom had given his word, and while he despised the limitation, he recognized its strategic value in maintaining Potter's cooperation.

Then there was the mystery of the Deathly Hallows, their triangular symbol nagging at the edges of his memory. He was certain he had encountered it before, but the context remained frustratingly elusive.

Most perplexing of all was the blood adoption ritual's violent rejection, the way the magic had recoiled and sparked when their blood mingled. Riddle didn't admit this to Potter, but the ritual had left him physically and mentally exhausted. For a moment, he had been really frightened that they would die right then and there.

Or at least that Potter would die.

Something in Potter — something connected to that lightning bolt scar — had interfered with the ancient magic. Tom could feel it even now, a strange resonance that seemed to pulse in rhythm with his own heartbeat, as if Potter's thoughts occasionally brushed against his consciousness like whispered secrets.

Riddle lifted the diadem, its weight surprising him with its substantial presence, and settled it carefully upon his brow. The gold was cool against his skin, and almost immediately he felt a sharpening of his mental faculties, as if the world had come into clearer focus. As he turned from the display case, his gaze fell upon another container — a small, innocuous box hidden behind protective spells in the depths of his wardrobe.

The Gaunt ring.

He had meant to relocate it months ago, to place it somewhere Potter's curious fingers could never reach, but the chaos of managing his unwilling apprentice had consumed his attention.

But Potter was gone now. Safely tucked away at Hogwarts under Tertius and Alphard's watchful eyes.

The compulsion hit him like a physical force. See it. Touch it. Feel the weight of his immortality in solid, tangible form.

Tom retrieved the box with hands that trembled slightly — from excitement, surely, not uncertainty. The ring lay nestled in faded velvet, tarnished but radiating power that made his magical core sing in recognition. Without hesitation, he slipped it onto his finger.

The sensation was immediate. Overwhelming. Like doubling his magical presence, as if his very soul had gained weight and substance.

The wide windowsill had always been Tom's favourite thinking spot, and he settled there now with practiced grace, his long legs folded beneath him as he gazed out over the sprawling tapestry of London. The city pulsed with life far below, its lights twinkling like earthbound constellations, and Tom found his thoughts turning inevitably to the Deathly Hallows.

The Elder Wand. The Resurrection Stone. The Invisibility Cloak.

Three artifacts of legend. Three keys to mastery over death itself.

His fingers unconsciously twisted the Gaunt ring as the pieces began to align in his mind with startling clarity.

The Invisibility Cloak.

Potter's Invisibility Cloak.

That remarkable piece of fabric that bent light and logic with equal ease. Tom had studied it extensively during quiet evenings, marvelling at its enchantments, its apparent indestructibility. No ordinary invisibility cloak lasted more than a few years before the charms began to fade. But Potter's...

Potter's was perfect. Flawless. Ageless.

An old family heirloom, the boy had said. Passed down through at least three generations of Potters.

But what if it was something far more significant?

Tom's breath caught as the implications crystallized. What if he had been handling one of the Deathly Hallows for months without realizing it? What if Potter, in his ignorant stumbling through time, had delivered into Tom's hands one of the most legendary magical artifacts in existence?

The thought sent electricity coursing through his veins, and as his excitement peaked, another thought struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. His gaze fixed on the ring adorning his finger — his Horcrux — as his mind made connections that seemed impossible yet undeniably logical.

The link between himself and Potter. That strange resonance that defied explanation. In Potter's memories, Tom had witnessed the peculiar bond between the boy and Voldemort — the way Potter could glimpse his future self's thoughts and emotions, feel his anger and hatred as if they were his own.

That same connection was awakening between them now. Growing stronger despite Tom's careful restraint. Potter's fear of Legilimency had made Tom cautious, but the bond seemed to strengthen independently of his efforts.

Where did it come from? What could possibly create such a link between them?

Unless...

No. The thought was absurd. Ridiculous. The ritual to create a Horcrux required deliberate intent, careful preparation, precise magical theory applied with surgical precision. It couldn't happen by accident.

Could it?

What if his future self — Voldemort — arrogant, drunk on power, had split his soul again and again until it became dangerously unstable. The night he had tried to kill the infant Potter, the night his body had been destroyed by a rebounding curse, what if the impact had torn loose a fragment of his already fractured soul?

What if that fragment had lodged itself in the only living thing present — baby Harry Potter?

Tom's heart hammered against his ribs, blood rushing through his ears like a roaring tide. The possibility was breathtaking in its implications. If Potter was indeed an accidental Horcrux, then Tom possessed something far more valuable than a mere time-traveling enemy. He possessed a piece of his own soul, a fragment of his immortality walking around in human form.

The enhanced clarity from the diadem should have organized his thoughts, but instead they multiplied exponentially. Deathly Hallows, Horcruxes, the Invisibility Cloak, Potter, the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone... Each conclusion spawned a dozen new questions; each possibility opened ten new paths.

Without conscious thought, Tom cast a simple cleaning charm on the ring, his fastidious nature rebelling against the accumulated grime on the stone. As the dirt and tarnish vanished, revealing the gem's true colour beneath, he found himself staring at delicate markings etched into its surface. They were so delicate that he would have mistaken them for ordinary, annoying scratches before.

But now he could make out the shape.

A vertical line intersected by a circle, enclosed within a triangle.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE —

Lion in disguise, part I

Hermione would be proud of him. For the first time in his disaster-prone life, he was planning instead of jumping headfirst into action like a perfect embody of the Gryffindor archetype of recklessness. He wasn't blind to the irony that it had taken being trapped in 1947 with a young Tom Riddle to finally teach him patience. It was difficult for him to restrain his natural impulses, but he could not afford to act rashly. Not when opponents like Riddle's carefully chosen Slytherins were watching his every move. Harry quickly discovered that Tertius Lestrange and Alphard Black were not like Crabbe and Goyle. They were sharp minds with cunning intellects, too clever and too competent not to fulfil the task Riddle had assigned them.

Which meant Harry had to be smarter. More cunning. More Slytherin than he'd ever imagined possible.

So, the plan: to play the role of Riddle's younger brother almost perfectly; a little chaotic, a little clumsy, but essentially loyal to the cause.

And when his bodyguards' vigilance would be lulled: boom! Jump back to his own time.

Brilliant in its simplicity.

Another obstacle in carrying out his cunning plan was that Harry could forget about anonymity — again. His first visit to Hogwarts with Riddle had made that painfully clear. Yesterday's official introduction by Headmaster Dippet had only made things worse. Though the Great Hall buzzed with the usual Sunday morning chatter, Harry remained painfully aware of the curious glances that followed him like searchlights. Many of the older students, particularly those in the sixth and seventh years, remembered Riddle quite well. Some were even bold enough to approach him.

In such situations Lestrange and Black had acted as his bodyguards, allowing brief interactions with curious students but intervening with unexpected efficiency when conversations threatened to become more engaging.

It was absolutely suffocating.

(But at the same time helpful, because Harry's fear of accidentally and unintentionally changing the future had only grown since his arrival at Hogwarts.)

The teachers proved equally curious. As Harry rose from the breakfast table that Sunday morning, his unwanted shadows flanking him, two professors approached their small group. An elderly witch whose appearance painfully reminded him of McGonagall — the same tight bun, the same penetrating gaze — and a much younger wizard who moved with the coiled energy and natural grace of a warrior. The woman introduced herself as Professor Merrythought, the Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, while the man turned out to be Professor Attwell, who taught Duelling. After a not-so-subtle inquiry about his surname ("Riddle? Any relation to Tom? Oh, his half-brother? Well, well!"), they wasted no time moving on to the topic that truly interested them.

"Still feels like your brother left Hogwarts just yesterday," Professor Attwell said, his face lighting up with genuine warmth. "We still talk about him, you know. Brilliant student. Absolutely brilliant. Best duellist I've seen in ten years of teaching." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Even one year later, his N.E.W.T. examiners were still talking about his performance."

"Not only them," Professor Merrythought chimed in, her sharp eyes fixed on Harry with unsettling intensity. "So what's he up to these days? I'd have thought the Ministry would have snapped him up immediately. But when I asked my cousin — she works in Magical Law Enforcement — about Tom, she said she'd never heard that name. And a wizard like Tom would certainly be talked about." She tilted her head, studying Harry with that penetrating focus all good teachers seemed to possess. "Perhaps academic research? Tom always had a particular fascination with magical theory."

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed Alphard and Tertius glancing at each other behind the teachers' backs. Of course, when the professors approached Harry, they moved away, giving them the illusion of privacy, but Harry knew they were hanging on every word.

Which meant he had to watch his own.

"He travelled for a while after finishing school," said Harry. During their last briefing, Riddle had made it quite clear what he could and could not talk about. His travels, about which Harry knew only that they had taken place, were on the approved list. 'Expanding his magical knowledge, visiting sites of historical significance. That sort of thing." Harry had no idea which sites, but it sounded appropriately vague and educational.

"That would explain the silence." Professor Merrythought nodded approvingly. "And now?" she pressed.

"We're both working at Borgin and Burke's," Harry said, fighting to keep the vengeful satisfaction from his voice. "In Knockturn Alley. They deal in magical artifacts."

The silence that followed was pronounced.

Oh, it was so satisfying. If it weren't for the Slytherins lurking within earshot, he would have added something that would have sunk Riddle in the eyes of his professor even further.

Professor Attwell's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "Borgin and Burke's? Tom Riddle is working as a shop assistant?"

The sheer disbelief in the professor's voice made it clear exactly what he thought of Riddle's current occupation. Harry pressed his lips together to stop an inappropriate laugh from escaping. If only they knew Riddle was less "humble shop boy" and more "dark wizard recruiting future Death Eaters while hoarding cursed objects," they might skip the surprise and go straight to alerting the Aurors.

"It's a very specialized shop," Harry said earnestly, relishing every second of Riddle's public humiliation. "Tom believes it broadens his knowledge."

"We know exactly what that shop specializes in," Professor Merrythought replied crisply.

"Well—"

"My dear boy!" A jovial voice sliced through the conversation. "There you are!"

Professor Slughorn materialized beside them with suspiciously perfect timing — he'd obviously overheard enough to know his precious former student's reputation needed rescuing.

"Galatea, Patrick, I see you've already met young Mr. Riddle!" Slughorn placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, in a gesture clearly indicating the level of their familiarity. "I hope you won't be too cross with me, but I'm afraid I must steal him away. Headmaster Dippet wants to review the examination procedures with him. Can't have any confusion about scheduling, can we? These things must be done properly."

Professor Merrythought looked like she had at least a dozen more questions queued up, but Slughorn was already steering Harry away with the practiced ease of someone who'd spent years escaping awkward conversations at his own parties.

As they navigated through the thinning crowd — students drifting toward common rooms or the library — Harry risked a glance back. Alphard and Tertius had vanished, swallowed by the crowd.

Harry had no illusions. The moment he left the Headmaster's office, one of them would be waiting around the corner.

o.O.o

The meeting in Dippet's office was brief, although Harry was surprised that Slughorn did not accompany him inside, but merely escorted him to the gargoyle statue. What did not surprise him, however, was the person waiting for him outside.

Alphard Black leaned against the wall opposite the staircase, examining his fingernails with studied casualness. The moment Harry's footsteps echoed on the stone steps, Alphard's head snapped up, his grey eyes alert despite his relaxed posture.

"All sorted?" he asked, pushing off the wall.

"Yeah." Harry stepped closer. "He wanted to make sure I'd received the schedule and that everything was correct. And he warned me about the consequences of cheating." Harry paused. "Several times."

As if he needed reminders about consequences. Three months under Tom Riddle's thumb had taught him everything about them.

But if everything went according to plan, that would change soon.

Alphard smirked. With a slight nod of his head, he gestured for them to move on.

"It's probably because of one of the Gryffindors from last year that he's so paranoid now. That idiot tried to sneak in enchanted quills — plural, mind you — and got caught within the first three minutes of the Transfiguration exam. Shame on the whole school. Dippet's been twitchy ever since."

The walk back to the dungeons was surprisingly pleasant, with Alphard entertaining Harry with tales of student mischief during previous exams — most of which had gone unnoticed by the teachers, unlike the aforementioned Gryffindor's mishap.

But Harry's easy mood evaporated the moment they stopped in front of the passage leading to the Slytherin common room, as Alphard glanced around conspiratorially, checking they were alone, then pointed at the stone archway with an expectant look.

"Do the honours."

At first, Harry didn't understand what he meant. He was about to say the password out loud when it clicked.

Seriously?

Black stared at him expectantly.

Harry's heart kicked against his ribs. It had worked at the cemetery.

Sink or swim.

"Open up," he hissed.

For a moment, nothing happened. And just as Harry was about to accept that the whole ritual at the graveyard had been pointless, a passageway appeared in the wall.

Shit. It actually worked.

By the time Harry looked back at Black, Alphard had closed his wide-open mouth. Harry walked through the passageway before either of them could comment, his mind racing through implications he didn't want to analyze.

The Slytherin common room was filled with a tense atmosphere due to the upcoming exams. Students hunched over tables, textbooks splayed open, parchments with notes floating in the air. Tertius Lestrange sat near the window overlooking the lake, surrounded by the boys from his dormitory. Books and scrolls covered every available surface around them. By the fireplace, a mixed group of boys and girls practised spells, while another group huddled together, voices urgent as they fired questions at each other.

Tertius glanced briefly at Harry, nodded to Alphard, and returned to his studies. The nod seemed to be some kind of signal, because Black dropped onto the sofa and patted the empty space next to him.

"I hope you won't mind if I help you test your preparation. Can't have Tom's brother failing his Charms O.W.L., can we? He'd never let you hear the end of it."

The last thing Harry wanted was to spend the next hour being quizzed like this was actually his future on the line, but he had to pretend that he cared about his exams. So he sat, shoulders deliberately loose, expression neutral.

"I suppose not," he sighed.

What followed was almost two hours of relentless questioning. If Harry actually cared about his exams, he would have been grateful for such help Alphard proved to be an unexpectedly thorough examiner — something that Riddle would be pleased about. But he shared details from his own O.W.L. examination the previous year — which spells the examiners had seemed particularly interested in, which theoretical questions had appeared, what the practical part had entailed.

After the theory came the practice. Like Riddle, Black probably wanted to go through the entire list of mandatory spells. Although Harry knew that Alphard meant well, he felt that if he was asked to cast one more spell, he would start screaming. Despite Riddle's attempts, he had not yet transformed into Hermione and did not share the same thirst for knowledge as the other two.

"Need some fresh air," Harry said eventually, standing up. It was true enough, but he also wanted to test his limits. "Mind if I head out to the grounds for a bit?"

"I'll come with you," Alphard said immediately, already standing.

The speed of his response told Harry everything he needed to know about how much freedom he actually had. Approximately none. The realization settled in his stomach like a stone, a bitter reminder that no matter how pleasant his guards might be, they were still guards.

Harry kept his expression neutral as they left the common room, but internally, he was revising his escape plans. If he couldn't even take a walk alone, getting back to the Room of Requirement undetected was going to require significantly more cunning than he'd anticipated.

But as they made their way out of the castle, Alphard surprised him again.

"Come on," he said with unexpected boyish enthusiasm. "I've got a better idea than walking."

They made their way past the stands to the changing rooms, where Alphard opened the door to the broom storage with the easy confidence of a Quidditch captain on home turf. Inside, dozens of school brooms hung in neat rows — not the latest models by any means, but well-maintained and serviceable.

"How about a little race?" Alphard didn't wait for an answer; he grabbed two brooms, tossing one to Harry with a grin. "After all, I have to keep up my training as a chaser," he added with a wink.

Harry caught the broom on instinct. Stared at it.

His fingers tightened around smooth wood.

Flying.

"A lap around the pitch or more?" Harry asked.

"Only one? At least three. With slalom around the goalposts."

Harry's only response was a broad smile.

They wasted no time. Once they were back on the pitch, they kicked off together, and the moment Harry's feet left the ground, the weight lifted. The warm June air rushed past his face. The castle sprawled below them, grey stone and green grounds, achingly familiar yet subtly different from the Hogwarts he knew. His Hogwarts. The one he desperately needed to return to.

But for just this moment, he could let himself have this.

During the first lap, he tested the broom's manoeuvrability and responsiveness. It was surprisingly sensitive. While it was no match for his Firebolt, he had expected something barely flyable, remembering what a huge leap it had been to switch from his school broom to the new Nimbus. Therefore, he was pleasantly surprised by the broom that the young Black had given him.

Alphard was good — really good. He banked sharply around the left goalpost, his movements efficient and controlled. But Harry was better. Flying was the one thing he'd always been naturally good at, the one talent that was entirely his own and not a product of his scar or his connection to Voldemort or his status as the Boy Who Lived.

Up here, none of the rest mattered. Just a boy on a broom, chasing another boy through the air.

Harry pushed the broom into a steep dive, then pulled up sharply, spiralling around the centre goalpost with inches to spare. He heard Alphard's surprised laugh behind him and couldn't help grinning. The wind stung his eyes. His robes whipped around him. His muscles remembered this, knew this, had been starving for this.

They chased each other across the pitch, weaving between goalposts, diving and climbing in increasingly complex patterns. Alphard was creative, attempting moves that required both skill and daring. But Harry matched him easily, his body responding to the broom with that instinctive understanding that had made him the youngest Seeker in a century.

"Where did you learn to fly like that?" Alphard called, pulling alongside Harry after losing the third race. His hair was windswept, his cheeks flushed, and he was breathing hard, but he was grinning like Christmas had come early. "Seriously, that dive—I've never seen anyone pull out of something that steep that smoothly."

Harry smiled. Genuinely smiled, for once not weighing every expression. " I don't know, it just comes naturally to me."

"Naturally? That's putting it mildly." Alphard shook his head, still grinning. "You fly like—" He paused, searching for words. "Like it's breathing. Like you and the broom are the same thing." His grey eyes were bright with genuine enthusiasm. "It's a shame that the exams end before the final match. I would gladly swap Potts for you."

Harry felt something warm and dangerous unfurl in his chest at the compliment. This was how it started, wasn't it? Not with threats or curses, but with moments like this. With genuine smiles and shared flights and the feeling that maybe, just maybe, you'd found someone who understood.

Harry's grip on the broom handle tightened.

"It probably wouldn't have passed anyway."

"Oh, believe me, it would have passed if Slughorn had seen you flying," Alphard laughed.

Because this was the problem, wasn't it? Alphard was being friendly — genuinely friendly. Not performing for his benefit, not playing some elaborate game. Just... friendly. Open and direct and cheerful, with none of Malfoy's calculated cruelty or Brandon Avery's contemptuous disdain.

And the worst part? Alphard reminded him of Sirius. The easy confidence. The reckless grin. The way he moved through the world like it belonged to him.

And that made it dangerously easy to forget that Black was Riddle's man, a future Death Eater.

Too easy to forget, but Harry couldn't afford to forget.

They went outside.

"Thanks for this," Harry said finally. "That was... I needed that."

"Any time." Alphard clapped him on the shoulder as they headed back toward the castle.

The friendly weight of it made Harry's chest constrict.

o.O.o

Harry scanned his letter one last time, making sure every word was exactly as Riddle had instructed — indirect enough to be meaningless to anyone who might intercept it, but clear enough for that bastard to understand.

Dear Tom,

Hogwarts is good so far. The professors are nice, and a lot of them still remember you. They keep asking what you're doing now. Headmaster Dippet called me to his office yesterday to go over how the exams work. While I was talking to him, I noticed an old hat on the shelf behind him—could it be the famous Sorting Hat? Made me wonder what it would've said about me if I'd gotten sorted properly.

The exams are going fine so far. First one down, and I think I did alright.

Tertius and Alphard are showing me around and helping me study. Couldn't ask for better company, honestly. They loved the gifts you sent, by the way.

Harry

Nearly an hour to find the right words, but he'd managed it: important details buried beneath innocent pleasantries. Nothing for Riddle to criticize, at least.He handed the letter to Tertius, who took it without comment. His expression remained unreadable as he rolled it carefully inside his own correspondence. With practiced efficiency, he secured both parchments to the leg of the school owl they'd selected — a sturdy barn owl with dark, intelligent eyes.

"Off you go," Tertius murmured, and released the owl into the late afternoon air.

The owl was slowly disappearing into the distance, a dark speck against the dusky sky. Harry leaned against the wooden railing of the owlery, watching it with the kind of fixed attention that had nothing to do with the bird and everything to do with wondering what exactly his "guardians" had written in their own reports.

The silence stretched between them. Not quite comfortable. Not hostile either. Just three boys in an owlery, watching the sky.

"So," Alphard said eventually, breaking the quiet with his characteristic easy grin. "Potts told me you made quite the impression on the examiners today."

Shit. Of course, Potts had talked. The Slytherin seeker had been right there for the whole spectacle.

"Wasn't trying to," Harry said quickly. "Just got lucky with the spells."

Given that Harry had been hoping his stay at Hogwarts would enable him to find a way back to his own time — that he would see young Tom Riddle only in Dumbledore's memories — Harry had no desire to engage with the exams at all. And yet, as he'd sat through the written portion that morning, partly to keep up appearances and partly out of sheer boredom, he'd found himself actually answering the questions. Questions that turned out to be suspiciously easy. Some of them were almost word-for-word the same as the ones Black had drilled him on yesterday. With others, he could practically hear Riddle's voice in his head, explaining the theory with that precise, cutting clarity he brought to everything. Harry had the strange, uncomfortable feeling that if he actually received his results, they'd be better than the ones from his own time.

But the real disaster had come during the practical part.

"Dude, you don't achieve something like that just because you're lucky. Potts said you were shrinking and enlarging objects to exact measurements. Fractions of an inch. He said the examiner looked like Christmas had come early."

Harry's jaw tightened. He sincerely hoped the next practical exam wouldn't be called in alphabetical order, because if Potts was such a gossip, Riddle would find out about Harry's performance before he even left the examination room.

Tertius, who had been standing quietly on Harry's other side, leaned forward slightly to catch Alphard's eye. "How exact are we talking?"

"One-fifth of an inch," Alphard said, clearly enjoying himself. "Potts said the examiner just kept throwing out more and more ridiculous numbers, just to see if he could actually do it. And apparently Harry could. Every single time."

Tertius straightened slightly, his gaze sharpening. "One-fifth of an inch? That's— most wizards can't get within a quarter-inch of their target, let alone something that precise. And if they do manage it once or twice, it's pure luck."

Heat crept up Harry's neck. He hadn't meant to show off — or rather, he'd only meant to pass the exam competently enough not to raise questions. He certainly hadn't intended to turn it into a bloody exhibition that would have half the Slytherin house talking by dinner.

Above them, an owl hooted softly, and somewhere in the rafters, wings fluttered as another bird adjusted its position.

"Tom drilled me on those spells," Harry said, the words coming out more defensive than intended. "For hours. I spent—"

Harry recalled with reluctance the first time Riddle had returned his wand and then treated him to what was probably the most exhausting lesson in spells he had ever experienced. Even when he'd been learning to cast Accio before the Triwizard Tournament, it hadn't worn him out as much as that lesson had.

"Hours. Just those spells, over and over. Enlarge, shrink, enlarge, shrink, until my arm felt like it was going to fall off. And then he made me practice them before every other lesson we had, until one day he finally decided that my precision was sufficient." Harry's mouth twisted at the memory. "He added that I should be grateful that he only required accuracy to a tenth of an inch, and no more."

Silence.

Then Alphard let out a low whistle.

"A tenth of an inch?" He exchanged a look with Tertius. "As a standard?"

"Minimum standard," Harry confirmed.

"That's excessive," Tertius said, disbelief threading through his voice. "Even for Tom."

"Insane is more like it," Alphard corrected, shaking his head. "Most professionals don't work to that kind of precision. No wonder you impressed the examiners—you've been trained to standards they probably don't even use themselves."

"Yeah, well. That's Tom for you," Harry said flatly. As if that explained everything.

Which, in a way, it did.

Though if he'd known it was so unusual, he would have deliberately overshot the dimensions.

"He helped you prepare for the exams, then?" Alphard asked, and there was something careful in his tone that made Harry glance over. "I mean, obviously for Charms, but—"

"Some of them," Harry shrugged, seeing no harm in admitting what both of them probably already knew or suspected. Tertius would know his brother Secundus had helped him with Potions. "He took on Charms, Transfiguration, Defence Against the Dark Arts himself. Said the others could handle Potions and History and the rest, but those three were too important to leave to anyone else."

The moment he mentioned Defence Against the Dark Arts, identical smirks appeared on both their faces — the kind of knowing look that made Harry's stomach tighten with wariness.

"Defence, huh?" Tertius said, his voice taking on an almost playful quality. "Just defence?"

The question hung in the air, delicate and probing.

He could have lied. Should have lied, probably. But what was the point? They all knew where he was living, who he worked for, what Riddle was. Besides, they were future Death Eaters. They'd surely dabbled in that particular branch of magic themselves.

A lie would seem suspicious.

"We work in a shop on Knockturn Alley," Harry said carefully, keeping his tone neutral. "So other things come up sometimes. But mostly we've been focused on exam preparation. Tom wanted to make sure I wouldn't embarrass him by failing."

"Of course he did," Alphard said with a slight laugh. "Can't have his brother making him look bad." But Harry caught it in their faces—the envy they were trying to hide, the understanding that Tom Riddle teaching someone personally was a privilege rarely granted. "Still, though. Getting personal instruction from Tom—that's not nothing. Most of us would—"

"Kill for the opportunity," Tertius finished quietly, and despite his attempt at a light tone, there was an edge of genuine jealousy there.

Harry stared at them both, momentarily at a loss for words.

"You shouldn't," he said flatly. "Trust me, you've got nothing to envy. Tom's an absolutely terrible teacher."

"Terrible?" Alphard's eyebrows shot up. "Harry, you just demonstrated precision that would make most professionals weep. That doesn't happen with a terrible teacher."

"Terrible as in demanding," Harry clarified, frustration bleeding through despite his best efforts to contain it. "As in he won't accept anything less than perfection, and if you don't meet his standards, he makes you do it again. And again. And again. Until you get it right. Or until he decides you need more 'motivation.'"

He caught himself. The last thing he needed was for them to report back that he'd been complaining about Riddle's teaching methods—or anything else.

"Sounds like someone else we know," Alphard said, shooting a meaningful look at Tertius.

Something flickered across the other boy's face — discomfort, maybe — but he recovered quickly. "Tom's standards are high, then," Tertius said, his tone carefully neutral. "In all areas, I imagine. Not just magic."

The question hung between them, seemingly innocent.

"He has expectations," Harry said carefully.

"I imagine he does." Tertius agreed, his voice taking on something that might have been sympathy. "You're not of age yet, are you? So he's officially your guardian. That must be... an adjustment. Living under someone else's authority again."

Harry's teeth pressed together. The probing was gentle, almost sympathetic, but it was probing nonetheless. He had no desire to discuss this topic, especially not with people loyal to Riddle who would report every word back to their master. Riddle wouldn't appreciate hearing that his "brother" had been complaining about him.

But the resentment Harry had been carrying since Saturday night — since Tertius had confiscated every single copy of the Marauder's Map—made something sharp and petty rise in his chest.

Fine. If Tertius wanted to poke into uncomfortable family dynamics, Harry could play that game too.

"It's manageable," Harry said with a shrug. "Though I suppose you'd know all about it. Demanding older brothers acting as guardians." He paused, as if the thought had just occurred to him. "Primus has been yours since—what, you were fourteen?"

The effect was immediate and gratifying. Tertius's face went carefully blank, that studied neutrality that said everything by saying nothing at all. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

Alphard's fingers stilled on the railing. His gaze flicked between them, sharp and assessing.

The soft cooing of roosting owls seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

"Thirteen," Tertius said finally, his voice tight and controlled in a way that sounded all too familiar. "I was eleven when our father died."

"Right. So Primus had to step up." Harry kept his tone conversational, almost sympathetic. "That's a lot of responsibility for someone so young. Taking care of two younger brothers. Making sure they turned out... properly."

"He managed," Tertius said, the words clipped.

"I'm sure he did." Harry tilted his head slightly. "He seems very... thorough. The type to take his responsibilities seriously. Very seriously."

Tertius's knuckles went white where they gripped the railing.

"Primus did what was necessary," he said finally, each word carefully measured. "He made sure Secundus and I grew up to be proper wizards. That we understood our duties to the family."

Harry recognized that tone, that careful control. He'd used it himself when adults asked about the Dursleys. That rigid composure that said everything by saying nothing at all—that screamed of things better left unspoken.

For a moment, Harry almost felt guilty. Almost.

Then he remembered the Marauder's Map, and the guilt evaporated.

Alphard had gone very still beside him, his usual easy confidence replaced by something more careful. He glanced between them, clearly recognizing that the conversation had ventured into dangerous territory. For a few seconds, the only sound was the soft hooting of owls settling in for the night and the whisper of wings above them.

Then Tertius took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice had smoothed into something more neutral. Controlled.

"As far as I know, you've met both of my brothers," he said, shifting the conversation with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned to redirect uncomfortable topics. "I heard that Secundus helped you with Potions, didn't he?"

Harry was surprised by this sudden change of subject. After all, it was the youngest Lestrange who had brought this up. And now he was backing down. Harry didn't understand it. But he recognized that pushing further would be stupid. Very stupid. If Tertius was willing to let it go, Harry would be an idiot not to take the out.

"Yeah, and honestly? I'm glad Tom didn't ask Primus for that particular subject." Harry said, matching Tertius's casual tone, as if they hadn't just been trading jibes. "Secundus was stiff and clearly wasn't thrilled about wasting his time on me, but at least we managed to get along."

Tertius's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. "Secundus has always been better with people than Primus. More patient." He paused, then added with something that might have been fondness, "Secundus has always been good at potions. Better than me, certainly. Primus would be better suited to revising history of magic — he's probably the only student in Hogwarts history who wasn't bored by Binns' lectures. The only reason I passed that nightmare of a class was thanks to notes Primus gave Secundus years ago, who then took pity on me and passed them along."

"Tom asked Malfoy to help me revise it," Harry said, mainly to say something.

"And he agreed?" Alphard sounded genuinely surprised.

"Wouldn't you have agreed if Tom had asked you?" Tertius countered, some of his usual composure returning.

Harry snorted. "Oh, he agreed. But he was even less happy about it than Secundus was about Potions."

He didn't add how those lessons had ended. Didn't mention the duel, or Sectumsempra, or the brutal beating that had followed. He pushed the memory down before it could surface fully.

"So who else did Tom recruit for your revision?" Alphard asked, leaning back against the railing with the kind of easy curiosity that would have seemed genuine if Harry didn't know better. If he could forget, even for a moment, that every casual question was probably being catalogued for a future report.

"Rosier, Avery, and Macnair."

"Alastair?" Tertius sounded genuinely surprised, his earlier discomfort seemingly forgotten. "Don't tell me he was teaching you Dueling."

There it was again — that barely concealed jealousy, sharp and immediate.

"Dueling isn't until sixth year," Alphard pointed out practically, but he was watching Harry with the same hungry curiosity.

"No," Harry said, and he couldn't quite resist letting a hint of satisfaction colour his tone. These two wanted to know everything? Fine. Let them choke on their envy. "Alastair was helping me revise Care of Magical Creatures. As for duelling..." Harry watched their faces carefully, "Tom handled that himself. We practice together. There's this old castle courtyard—" He stopped, as if something had just occurred to him. "Actually, now that I think about it, when we first Apparated there, he mentioned that the ruins belong to your family, Tertius. Is that true?"

The look that passed between Alphard and Tertius was absolutely worth whatever petty revenge Riddle might exact when he heard about this conversation. Shock warred with envy, both of them failing to hide their reactions behind their practiced Slytherin masks.

"He took you to the Keep," Tertius said slowly. "For duelling practice. With him. Personally."

"Is that unusual?" Harry asked innocently, though he knew perfectly well it was.

"He took you to the Keep," Tertius repeated. Then, unable to hide his jealousy, he added, "Primus only allowed me to go there last summer when I turned seventeen."

"Well," Harry said with a shrug that he knew would sting, "I suppose Tom doesn't need your brother's permission."

The look on the youngest Lestrange's face as he looked at Harry was priceless. Alphard let out a low whistle.

"Merlin's balls," Alphard said, shaking his head. "Training you personally at the Keep. That's—" He paused, his eyes bright with barely contained excitement. "So you must have seen some of the League matches by now, right? Or—wait, don't tell me Tom let you watch when he duelled Mulciber. Because if you're about to tell me that, I think I'll die of envy right here."

Harry's focus sharpened immediately. "League? What league?"

The words were barely out of his mouth before he knew he'd made a mistake.

"The league where the Knights of Walpurg—" Alphard began, but Tertius cut him off sharply.

"Alphard," hes said, his voice hard with warning.

Alphard's mouth snapped shut, his face paling as he realized what he'd almost revealed.

"Alphard, what league?" Harry pressed. "Is it some kind of duelling competition? Does Tom run it?"

"Drop it," said Tertius harshly. His earlier jealousy had disappeared, replaced by something that sounded like wariness.

But Harry had caught the slip, and he wasn't about to let it go.

"I know about Tom's duel with Mulciber," Harry said, keeping his tone carefully casual. "I know it happened, and I know Tom won. Tom told me himself."

He did not add that Selwyn had blabbed about the duel when he rushed into Secundus's house to drag him out to watch it.

"But you clearly don't know what the League is," Tertius said, his voice final. "And you won't learn it from us."

It shouldn't have mattered — Harry knew what would become of Riddle's followers anyway. He didn't need the details of their training. But the dismissal in Tertius's voice annoyed him.

"Fine," he said angrily. "Then I'll ask Tom. And when he wants to know how I found out about it, I'll tell him it was from you two."

He knew it was a low blow, and he knew it probably wouldn't work — he had no real intention of asking Riddle anything that might reveal how much he'd been paying attention to things he wasn't supposed to know.

But the threat landed anyway.

Alphard paled slightly. Tertius, however, didn't flinch.

"Don't try to play that game with me," Tertius said quietly. "I'm the youngest of three brothers. I know every variation of 'I'll tell' there is." He took a step closer, and Harry was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of the six inches Tertius had on him. "And remember that we're in contact with your brother too."

Harry straightened, refusing to back down despite having to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. "Is that a threat?"

Tertius didn't back down either. If anything, he seemed to grow colder. "A reminder of facts. You're not the only one who can make things difficult, Harry."

The tension crackled between them. Harry's hand twitched toward his wand — not to draw it, not really, but the instinct was there. Tertius noticed. His eyes narrowed.

"Alright, alright, that's enough," Alphard said quickly, stepping between them with forced cheerfulness that didn't quite hide his genuine concern. He spread his arms, separating them slightly. "Come on, we're supposed to be on the same side here. No need to go at each other's throats."

"I'm just asking questions," Harry snapped.

"And I'm just refusing to answer them," Tertius replied with icy calm.

That was when Harry realized he had to let it go. Tertius might still be a Hogwarts student, but that tone belonged to a future Death Eater.

He took a deep breath.

"Fine, then," Harry said, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture and taking a step back. Antagonizing them was foolish. Very foolish. He hoped this wouldn't ruin the last few days' worth of effort. "I'm just tired of thinking I know everything about Tom, and then more secrets come out," he added, trying to sound like a bitter younger brother left in the shadows.

"Get used to it, because with Tom, it'll always be like this," Tertius said curtly, but he took a step back too. The cold assessment in his eyes didn't completely fade, but some of the immediate hostility did.

Alphard visibly relaxed. He clapped his hands, drawing their attention to himself.

"Right. So, since we all like each other again, how about we focus on something that won't get any of us into trouble?"

"Such as?" Harry asked, unable to hide his wariness.

"The Crossed Wands finals," Alphard said immediately. "Saturday evening. Proper duelling—well, as proper as an unofficial league can be. It's not entirely legal, but the teachers have known about it for years and turn a blind eye. Nothing bad will happen." He reached over and put his arm around Harry, squeezing his shoulder encouragingly. "What do you say? Could be fun. Better than sitting in the common room studying, at least."

"That was supposed to be something that wouldn't get us into trouble," Tertius grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.

"Oh, come on. You'll be there anyway, won't you? And I want to watch this year's finalists. Besides, it would reflect badly on our hospitality if we left Harry alone in the dormitory while we were off enjoying ourselves."

The sting was immediate. Oh yes, the Slytherins and their hidden motives. So much for thinking Alphard had suggested it out of kindness.

"You're going?" Harry asked, surprised. He had heard from Riddle about the unofficial duelling club run by students for students, but from what he had seen of Tertius Lestrange, he seemed too stiff to take part in something like that. It was like suspecting Percy Weasley of such a thing. "To duel?"

"Have to. But not to duel," Tertius said, his tone suggesting he was only going because it was required of him. "Head Boy duties. Someone needs to second the matches and make sure nobody does anything too stupid." He paused, then added, with a hint of dark humour, "Or at least make sure that if they do, there's someone there to stop them from dying."

That didn't sound quite as innocent as Alphard had made it seem. Which made Harry curious despite himself.

If he was still stuck in 1947 by Saturday, that is.

"Sounds good to me," Harry said, shoving his hands into his robe pockets. "Guess we have plans for Saturday night, then."

Tertius shot Alphard a look that could have boiled the potion over.

"If anything goes wrong, you'll have to explain yourself to his brother."

Well, if everything went according to Harry's plan, they wouldn't be able to avoid that anyway, Harry thought with grim satisfaction.

o.O.o

Perhaps the evening could still be salvaged — perhaps Harry wouldn't come across as the nosy, annoying younger brother — but then they ran into Slughorn on their way back from the owlery, and the professor was looking for them.

"Harry! Tertius! I've been looking all over the castle for you," Slughorn exclaimed, beaming at the sight of them. His cheeks were flushed, his breathing uneven—he'd clearly hustled through several corridors in search of them.

"We were in the owlery. Has something happened, Professor?" Lestrange asked politely.

"I've just heard that Professor Dumbledore is holding a revision session before tomorrow's Transfiguration exam — started about twenty minutes ago, actually — and I thought Harry might want to attend. You can never have too much revision. Tertius, you're welcome to come too, of course, although I'm sure you're well prepared."

Dumbledore. The name hit Harry like a stunner. His chance to finally get help, to find someone who might see past Riddle's lies—

"That's very thoughtful of you, Professor," Tertius said smoothly, "but I'm afraid we already have plans to review—"

"I'd love to go." The words tumbled out before Harry could stop them. Screw appearances. He couldn't pass up an opportunity like this. "Like you said, Professor, you can never have too much practice."

Slughorn beamed, clasping his hands together. "Excellent! Excellent sentiment, my boy. Very much like your brother's approach to learning. Tom was always so wonderfully eager to learn — never missed an opportunity to improve himself."

Harry caught the flash of fury in Tertius's eyes before the older boy schooled his expression into something more neutral. When he spoke, his voice remained perfectly pleasant:

"Well, I suppose I could use a refresher too." The words sounded like they physically pained him.

Alphard, who'd been watching this exchange with growing unease, clapped Tertius on the shoulder. "I'll leave you to your academic pursuits then. If you're not back too late, I'll be in the common room." The look he gave Harry could have meant anything from don't cause trouble to good luck with that.

As they followed Slughorn through the corridors, Tertius's displeasure radiated like heat from a cauldron. Harry didn't care. This was Dumbledore — the one person in this time who might actually help him, who might see through Tom Riddle's carefully constructed lies.

The Transfiguration classroom door stood slightly ajar when they arrived. Slughorn pushed it energetically open and strode towards Dumbledore, who was explaining something to a group of fifth-year students.

"Albus, I hope it's not too late for two eager minds to join your class?" Slughorn called out cheerfully, motioning Harry and Tertius forward.

Dumbledore turned. His eyes found Harry's.

Everything in Harry's chest tightened.

"Of course not," Dumbledore said warmly, though something cold lurked beneath the pleasantness, like ice under a thin crust of snow. "We're always happy to welcome eager students. Mr. Lestrange, I am glad that you honoured me with your presence. And you must be young Mr. Riddle." A pause, deliberate and weighted. "Tom's brother, I presume?"

The emphasis on that last phrase was barely there. Just enough to notice. Just enough to cut.

"Yes, sir," Harry managed, steadier than he felt. And because he couldn't help himself, he added, looking Dumbledore straight in the eye: "Half-brother."

Harry sincerely hoped that this younger version had already mastered the art of Legilimency. He had probably never wanted so much for someone to look into his mind before. Maybe the Thought Wardening Course was flawed in this aspect, too.

"Half-brother," Dumbledore repeated softly, his blue eyes studying Harry with an intensity that made Harry's skin prickle. The professor's suspicion was almost palpable — he clearly didn't trust anyone connected to Tom Riddle. "Of course. Well then, let me explain what we're doing here."

He gestured toward the classroom, where students had arranged themselves into small clusters. "The fifth-years are practicing their O.W.L.-level transfigurations, while the seventh-years tackle N.E.W.T. material Please join a group appropriate for your level."

Harry's gaze drifted toward the Gryffindors. Old habits. But before he could take a step, a voice called out.

"Riddle! Over here!" Potts — the same sandy-haired boy who'd taken the Charms practical with him — waved from the back corner where a small group of Slytherins had gathered. "Come on, we've got room."

Meanwhile, Tertius scanned the room, weighing his options. The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs occupied one corner, laughing at something one of them had transfigured. The Ravenclaws worked quietly but intensely near the windows. Harry watched the calculation flicker across the older Slytherin's face. Joining the Gryffindors would look suspicious. But choosing the Ravenclaws meant distance. Meant he couldn't monitor Harry's interactions. Couldn't eavesdrop if Dumbledore approached.

As Harry made his way to the Slytherin group, he felt Tertius's glare burning between his shoulder blades. The seventh-year stalked toward the Ravenclaws like a man walking to the gallows.

"Brilliant!" Potts greeted him, grinning widely. "I was wondering if you'd turn up. After that performance with the Engorgement Charm today, it'd be nice to work with someone who knows what they're doing."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean? I know what I'm doing too," protested one of the boys standing next to the two girls. The girls exchanged glances, curious but trying not to show it. The third boy, stockier with a permanently sceptical expression, snorted.

"Let's see if he inherited the family talent or just the name," he muttered, but there was no real malice in it — more like the casual testing that Slytherins seemed to consider a sport.

"After what he did in the exam today, I don't have any doubts," Potts grinned.

Harry, mentally cursing Riddle for the thousandth time for not warning him that the ridiculous precision he demanded wasn't normal, reached into the bag and pulled out a card. Transform a teacup into a tortoise. Classic. He'd done this one countless times in his own fifth year, though admittedly not always successfully — he still remembered the turtle that could be lifted like a cup because it had a handle growing out of its shell.

"Right then," one of the boys said, sliding a chipped teacup across the desk.

Harry raised his wand, aware of how the others leaned in slightly. He casted the spell. The teacup shuddered, sprouted four stubby legs, and became a perfectly ordinary tortoise that immediately began its slow journey toward the edge of the desk.

"Not bad," the sceptical boy admitted grudgingly.

One of the girls gently picked it up and examined it carefully from underneath.

"Exactly like a real one," she said.

Compared to his earlier attempts, before Riddle's lessons, this transfiguration was perfect. Harry didn't know whether to be pleased or terrified.

They continued working through various transformations, and Harry found himself oddly relaxed. These Slytherins were nothing like Riddle's older followers. They were just students, worrying about exams and joking around with each other. They teased each other in a friendly manner and burst into loud laughter when someone spectacularly messed up their Transfiguration, which helped to relieve their stress and tension.

When one of the girls struggled with her pincushion-to-hedgehog transformation — the spines kept coming out as actual pins — Harry leaned over.

"Try rotating your wrist a quarter turn more on the upswing," he suggested, demonstrating the movement. Riddle's advice. "And think less about the pins becoming spines and more about the whole transformation as one fluid change."

She tried again, and this time a proper hedgehog appeared, snuffling around the desk. The girl shot him a grateful look that was almost warm — high praise from a Slytherin.

Throughout the exercises, Harry kept stealing glances at Dumbledore. The professor moved between groups, and Harry watched. Desperate for some sign of recognition. Some hint that Dumbledore saw through the lies.

With the Gryffindors, Dumbledore was warm and encouraging, his eyes genuinely twinkling as he corrected a girl's wand movement. The Hufflepuffs received patient, gentle instruction. Even with the Ravenclaws — where Tertius sat rigid as a statue — Dumbledore maintained an air of scholarly enthusiasm.

But when he approached the Slytherins, something shifted.

He was still polite. Still helpful. But there was a carefulness to his manner, like someone handling potentially dangerous potions ingredients.

"Let's see how you're getting on," Dumbledore said, arriving at their group. His gaze swept over their various attempts: Potts' tortoise had teacup handles for legs, while one of the girls had managed everything except the head, which remained decidedly ceramic.

When his eyes landed on Harry's perfectly transformed tortoise, now munching contentedly on a piece of lettuce someone had provided, Dumbledore's eyebrows rose slightly.

"Excellent work, Mr. Riddle. Very precise." The compliment sounded genuine. Carefully measured. "I heard about your performance in today's Charms practical. Mr. Brown was quite impressed with your Engorgement and Shrinking Charms. Such precision requires considerable magical control."

"Thank you, sir." Harry tried to project I'm not who I say I am through his eyes alone. Please see it. Please.

"Did your brother help you prepare?" The question sounded casual. The undertone wasn't.

"Yes, sir. Tom's been tutoring me," Harry replied, hoping it would make Dumbledore even more suspicious.

Something flickered across Dumbledore's face — disappointment? Concern? Whatever it was vanished before Harry could name it, replaced by that same polite distance.

"I see. Well, he's certainly done an admirable job. Though I suspect you have considerable natural talent of your own." He moved on to help Potts with his handle problem, but Harry noticed how Dumbledore positioned himself. Keeping Harry in his peripheral vision. Watching.

The rest of the class passed in a blur of transfigurations and careful observation. Harry watched Dumbledore, Dumbledore watched Harry when he thought Harry wasn't looking, and Tertius watched them both with barely concealed alarm. When Harry's and Tertius's eyes met across the room, the older boy's expression promised consequences.

When Dumbledore finally called time, dismissing them with reminders about tomorrow's exam, Harry felt deflated and oddly relieved in equal measure. He'd hoped — what? That Dumbledore would somehow see through everything? Pull him aside and offer to help? However, the professor had already turned away to address a group of younger Gryffindors who had questions for him. He did this practically right in front of Harry, clearly suggesting that he did not want to have any further contact with him.

A feeling of disappointment swept over Harry.

"Well, that was useful," Potts said, packing up his things. "Good luck tomorrow, Riddle. Try not to make the rest of us look too bad, alright?"

Harry managed a smile and some appropriate response. His mind was elsewhere as he followed Tertius out of the classroom. The older boy walked ahead, brisk and silent, until they reached a junction in the corridor. Instead of turning left toward the dungeons, Tertius veered right. A less-traveled staircase. The long way around.

"Where are we going?" Harry asked, though he had a pretty good idea.

"Somewhere we can talk without an audience," Tertius said curtly.

They descended two flights. Tertius finally stopped in an empty corridor lined with suits of armour. The torches here burned lower, casting shadows that made Tertius look even more forbidding when he rounded on Harry.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking?" Tertius hissed angrily. "Tom's orders were absolutely clear: stay away from Dumbledore. You know it, I know it, and you went anyway."

"And how would it have looked if I'd refused?" Harry shot back. "Slughorn announces a revision session in front of everyone, and I say no? That wouldn't be suspicious at all."

"Don't play games with me," Tertius snarled. "You could have made an excuse. Said you were tired, felt ill, anything. But you wanted to go."

"Of course I wanted to go! He's Dumbledore!" Harry's frustration boiled over, words tumbling out too fast to stop. "He's supposed to be—"

He caught himself. Just in time.

He'd almost said the only one who sees through Tom's lies.

"Supposed to be what?" Tertius's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"The greatest wizard of our time," Harry finished lamely. "The man who defeated Grindelwald. Anyone would want to learn from him."

"Anyone except you, if you had half a brain." Tertius stepped closer, using his height to full advantage. "Did you see how he looked at you? Like you were something he'd scraped off his shoe."

The words hit harder than Harry expected.

Because Tertius was right.

Dumbledore had looked at him with that cool distance, that carefully controlled suspicion Harry remembered from his fifth year. Only this time it was worse. Underneath the politeness, Harry had seen something that looked horribly like disgust.

"Calm down. Nothing happened," Harry said through gritted teeth. "It was just a revision session."

"A revision session you weren't supposed to attend. And now I have to explain to Tom why I let you waltz into Dumbledore's classroom when his orders were explicitly to keep you away."

"You're going to tell him?" Something cold dropped into Harry's stomach.

"Of course I'm going to tell him." Tertius's laugh was humorless. "What, did you think I'd cover for you? Risk my own neck for Tom Riddle's little brother who can't follow simple instructions?"

"It'll make you look incompetent," Harry tried desperately. "Letting me go against his orders—"

Tertius's voice could have frozen fire. "I prefer that to explaining to your brother why I didn't tell him about your disobedience right away."

"If you don't tell him, you won't have to explain anything," Harry tried.

Tertius looked at him like he was an exceptionally dull troll.

"Do you really believe your brother doesn't already know about this? Do you think Tom isn't watching his copy of the Hogwarts map right now?"

Harry's heart sank. Of course. The map. He'd forgotten completely.

Knowing Riddle, he'd probably already sent an owl demanding an explanation.

"You're all so fucking scared of him," Harry said bitterly.

"And you're not scared enough," Tertius said quietly. "Now I suggest you spend tonight writing a letter. One that'll convince your brother that disobeying his direct order was necessary for the mission he entrusted to you." Having said that, Tertius turned away, indicating that he considered the conversation over.

As they walked back to the dungeons in tense silence, Harry felt something crumbling inside him — the last fragile bits of hope turning to dust. Dumbledore had looked at him like he was already lost. One of Riddle's. Beyond saving. Tertius and Alphard were loyal guards, not potential allies. And now Riddle would know about tonight, would probably tighten the surveillance even more.

He was completely, utterly alone.

The Room of Requirement — his only chance of escape — seemed more distant than ever. How was he supposed to slip away when he had two shadows reporting his every move? When even the one person who should have helped him looked at him with suspicion and disgust?

As they reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Harry made a decision. If he couldn't count on anyone else, he'd have to save himself.

No more hoping for rescue.

No more waiting for someone to see through the lies.

He'd gotten himself into this mess by walking through that wardrobe. He'd have to get himself out.

Alone.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR —

Lion in disguise part II

The professors at the head table drank their morning coffee and ate toast. Some sat in silence, while others chatted animatedly with their neighbours. Dumbledore, who had the empty headmaster's seat beside him, discreetly glanced at the Slytherin table from time to time, but stopped after Slughorn leaned towards him and asked him a question.

The atmosphere around the Slytherin table was similar. Alphard was talking to a girl from the Quidditch team, as usual, with ease and charm. They must have been joking about something because their laughter echoed loudly above the table. On the other side of the table, Tertius was engaged in a serious discussion about numerology with a group of seventh-year students — something involving probability formulas, which apparently surprised half of last year's class. The boy sitting to Harry's right was frantically comparing his notes with his neighbour's. Something must have been wrong with them because they were discussing it with increasing fervour.

Most of the older Slytherins had apparently chosen Numerology over Care of Magical Creatures — a small mercy. It meant Harry probably wouldn't have to endure Potts breathing down his neck during the practical.

Comforted by this thought, Harry looked down at what had been a perfectly poached egg a moment ago, but which now resembled a scrambled mess. His appetite disappeared completely. Had he really done that? When?

"You planning to eat that, or just torture it to death?"

Harry blinked. Alphard was watching him with something between amusement and concern, nodding at the massacred egg.

"Not hungry," Harry muttered.

"Clearly." Alphard helped himself to more toast. "Though I've got to say, I've never seen anyone hold that much animosity toward breakfast food. What did that egg ever do to you?"

Before Harry could respond, the familiar rush of wings filled the Great Hall. Dozens of owls swooped in through the high windows, scattering feathers and conversation. One of them hooted as it flew over Harry and Tertius, dropping two letters between their plates.

"Oh," Alphard said, straightening. "Fast."

Tertius reached for the letters, checked the addresses, then leaned slightly across the table and handed Harry his. "I was just about to write to him."

"Apparently he didn't feel like waiting," Harry said flatly.

He had no desire to read the reprimand awaiting him, but a meaningful glance from Tertius was enough to make him sigh and break the seal. Surprisingly, he did not feel the slightest bit nervous — perhaps the mere knowledge that he was in the same castle as the Room of Requirement had that effect.

Harry,

I find myself requiring clarification. When I gave you explicit instructions to avoid Dumbledore, I was under the apparently mistaken impression that you understood basic English. Obviously, I overestimated your comprehension skills. Allow me to clarify: "avoid" does not mean "attend his revision sessions."

I expect a full explanation by return owl, tonight. And do consider making it convincing — I'm not in the mood for creative interpretations of reality, and you really don't want to test my creativity in response.

And Harry? I strongly suggest you don't mistake my distance for impunity. Remember that the next time you're tempted to test the boundaries of my tolerance.

Your concerned brother,

Tom

The words were neat. Controlled. Absolutely livid beneath the thin façade of civility.

Great. Just great.

Beside him, Tertius was reading his own letter. Harry watched from the corner of his eye as the older boy's jaw tightened. His knuckles went white around the parchment. A muscle jumped in his cheek.

Whatever Riddle had written, it wasn't pleasant.

Tertius folded the letter in half with almost pedantic precision, then in half again and again, the precision of this movement was telling, then slipped it into his pocket.

Their eyes met for half a second.

Tertius looked away first, but not before Harry caught the flash of something in those brown eyes. Fury, yes, but underneath — fear. Raw and immediate.

Harry knew that look. He'd seen it in his own reflection often enough these past months.

"Bad news?" Alphard asked, voice carefully neutral despite the obvious interest in his grey eyes.

"Family matters." Tertius's voice could have frozen fire. "Nothing to worry about." A pause. Then, still not looking at Harry: "But later, I'd like to discuss something with you, Harry."

Harry nodded once, eyes fixed on the remains of his breakfast. The impending confrontation. Tertius's rage. Whatever punishment Riddle was already planning.

He should probably care about all of it.

He couldn't make himself care.

The fear from last night still had him by the throat.

It had crept in after the lights had gone out and silence had fallen over the castle. The unfamiliar bed in the Slytherin dormitory had felt wrong: too soft, too cold, too foreign. Too here. He tried to focus on the sounds around him — the steady breathing of the boys next to him and the soft rustling of bedsheets as someone turned over — but the Slytherins cast silencing spells on their beds. In the complete silence, his thoughts spiralled.

In all those years — all those conversations in Dumbledore's office, all those cryptic warnings and careful lessons — his Dumbledore had never mentioned this. Never hinted they'd met before. Never warned him about time travel or Tom Riddle or any of it.

Why?

Had Dumbledore not recognized him? Impossible. Not when Dumbledore had studied Voldemort's past so obsessively, had known every detail of Tom Riddle's Hogwarts years.

So why the silence? Why had he never said anything?

Two possibilities, each worse than the last. Either Dumbledore had always known — had deliberately let Harry walk into this nightmare because it had to happen — or the future had already changed. Was changing. Right now. Every breath Harry took in 1947 might be erasing something — someone — from 1996.

His parents. His friends. Himself.

The panic had clawed up his throat then, sharp and breathless, his heart hammering against his ribs like it was trying to escape. What if he was slowly erasing his existence and he wouldn't even know until he simply stopped being—

He'd pressed his hand to his chest in the darkness. Felt his heartbeat. Still solid. Still real.

For now.

But the fear hadn't left. It sat in his stomach now like a stone, cold and heavy. And beneath it — the desperate, almost physical need to do something. To act. To find a way back before it was too late. Before he changed too much.

Before he erased himself completely.

"—listening to me?"

Harry blinked. Tertius was staring at him, and from the edge in his voice, it wasn't the first time he'd said something.

"Sorry. What?"

Tertius's expression suggested he'd like nothing more than to hex Harry with something nasty. The only thing stopping him was the dozen witnesses currently pretending not to eavesdrop on the Head Boy's conversation.

"I said," Tertius repeated, each word clipped with barely restrained irritation, "after your Care of Magical Creatures exam, meet me by the greenhouses. We're going to the library." He paused, as if daring Harry to object. "I need to verify something for my Numerology exam. And you could use the revision time before Transfiguration — or whatever you have next."

Tertius's tone made it clear this wasn't a suggestion.

Harry opened his mouth, but Alphard chimed in.

"I've got classes until four, so you're stuck with Tertius for a bit." He said it lightly, but his eyes were watchful. "I'll grab you from the library around half past four for practice, though."

Every minute scheduled. Every moment supervised.

Harry wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that this suffocating surveillance was ridiculous, that he wasn't going to do anything, that they were being paranoid. But he couldn't. Not with half the Slytherin table listening. Not when he knew exactly why Tertius was suddenly treating him like an unexploded Filibuster Firework.

Riddle's letter had probably been explicit about what would happen if Harry wandered off unsupervised again. The youngest Lestrange must be absolutely terrified of failing him again. And terrified people made stupid decisions. Harry had learned that lesson well enough over the past few months.

"Lovely," Harry said. "Can hardly contain my excitement."

Tertius's jaw twitched. "I'm delighted you approve."

"Oh, come on." Alphard leaned forward, grin firmly in place as he tried to salvage the increasingly hostile atmosphere. "It won't be all bad. You can fill in for Potts at practice — poor bastard's also taking Numerology."

Harry frowned. "What's the point? I'm not actually playing for the team."

"No, but we need someone as Seeker. Gives the Chasers a real target, keeps everyone sharp." Alphard shrugged. "Otherwise, they're just tossing the Quaffle around like it's a casual Sunday afternoon."

"So I'm a motivational prop."

"Exactly! See, you're catching on." Alphard looked genuinely pleased. "Besides, you're not terrible in the air. Might as well make use of that."

Harry felt Tertius' piercing gaze upon him.

The smart thing would be to just agree. Nod along. Be the compliant younger brother they needed him to be.

And honestly? The library wasn't the worst option. He still had that French text to translate.

Harry sighed, forcing conciliation into his voice.

"Waiting by the greenhouses after my exam," he said. "Library until half past four. Then Quidditch. I get it."

"Exactly." Tertius's shoulders relaxed fractionally. "Try not to deviate from the plan."

Try not to ruin everything again, Harry heard in the silence that followed.

Too late for that, he thought. About fifty years too late.

o.O.o

The written portion of the Care of Magical Creatures exam had begun promptly after breakfast. In the future, it was one of the exams he cared least about; he had no intention of continuing with this subject in his sixth year anyway. Now, his result shouldn't matter either, but when Harry handed in his paper, some irrational part of him felt genuinely disappointed about the two questions he hadn't known.

Two questions. Two.

In '95, he'd skipped more questions than that and hadn't given it a second thought. Besides, apart from those, he was confident about everything else — he had even gotten a question about the Hungarian Horntail, which he'd written about in two detailed paragraphs drawing on extremely relevant first-hand experience he couldn't mention thanks to the Thought Wardening Curse. There was also a question about Mountain Trolls, and in that case too, he'd been absolutely certain of his answer. Practical experience helped.

And yet this irrational disappointment followed Harry through the hour-long break and into the practical examination like a persistent itch he couldn't scratch.

The worst part was that it had nothing to do with him or any actual academic ambitions. Some irrational part of him had wanted to prove something. To show Macnair that he wasn't a complete hopeless case, someone not worth the time or effort. And the truly ridiculous thing was that Harry never forgot for a moment that Macnair was a Death Eater-in-training — a future murderer who'd eventually help kill and terrorize countless people.

But the man was also an Auror. A good one. And during their revision sessions, Harry had been forced to admit that Macnair must have been an exceptionally effective Auror, given that he'd somehow managed to inspire reluctant respect — and worse, a genuine desire to impress him —in someone who knew exactly what he'd become.

Macnair simply had something about him that made it hurt twice as much when he looked at you with contempt.

And when he nodded in approval, you felt as if you had climbed Mount Everest without oxygen.

Pathetic, really.

Fortunately, the practical part went better for him. He drew two tasks from the leather pouch and hold his breath.

First task: identify and safely approach a Knarl hidden among a group of hedgehogs. Harry had done it methodically, watching for the telltale aggression when he'd offered food. The Knarl had given itself away immediately, bristling with suspicion.

Second: demonstrate proper handling of a Thestral.

In order to find them, Harry and the examiner — a middle-aged witch dressed in an outfit that Harry immediately associated with dragon keepers — moved away from the gamekeeper's hut and approached the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

And at that very moment, Harry's heart stopped.

By the tree line, a massive figure was waiting for them — easily eight feet tall, broad-shouldered, moving with the careful gait of someone still growing into their size. He looked young. Impossibly young. Seventeen, maybe eighteen at most.

No beard. That's what made him unrecognizable at first. Without the wild tangle of hair covering half his face, he was just a boy. A giant boy with a face that hadn't yet learned to hide hurt.

But Harry knew that height. Knew those eyes.

Hagrid.

The realization hit like a Stunning Spell to the chest. This was his Hagrid, only fifty years younger. Already expelled. Already blamed for a crime he didn't commit. Already experiencing the consequences of Riddle's lies.

Harry's throat closed.

"Everythin's ready, ma'am," Hagrid said, his voice not quite as deep as it would become, still carrying the uncertain edge of youth. As soon as the examiner nodded, he ducked his head and hurried away, shoulders hunched as though trying to make himself smaller. Trying to be invisible.

Harry watched him go, something cold and sharp twisting in his gut.

How could he have forgotten about him?

The witch put her fingers in her mouth and whistled loudly. Harry, who was carrying a bucket of fresh meat, set it down on the ground mechanically.

Three Thestrals emerged from the forest. The mother and her two foals. Their skeletal forms were more reptilian than horses, with leathery wings and white, pupil-less eyes.

Harry let out a slow breath, trying to force the tightness from his chest.

"So much for my famous luck."

"You can see them, then," the examiner had said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"Good. That'll make this simpler." She made a note on her parchment, her tone normal. No surprise. No follow-up questions about what death he'd witnessed. No sympathetic look.

Said everything about the 1940s that needed saying, didn't it?

"Feed them and then check the mother for injuries or illness. I advise you not to approach the foals unless they approach you first."

The task proved easier than expected, though Harry couldn't concentrate at first. His thoughts kept circling around Hagrid. Around the hunched shoulders and ducked head. Around the casual cruelty of a sixteen-year-old boy who'd opened a Chamber and let a monster loose, then blamed the one person who couldn't defend himself.

Harry felt like screaming with anger and helplessness. Only the thought that Hagrid had ultimately been cleared of the charges allowed him to refocus on the exam.

The foals turned out to be curious and interested in him, circling him with the fearless enthusiasm of the young. One of them kept nudging him with its nose. The others quickly lost interest in Harry and decided the bucket of meat was far more interesting. Harry wisely ignored them. Seeing that her young were safe, the mother allowed Harry to feed her and examine her. He did so in exactly the same way that Macnair had shown him two weeks earlier. Quick and efficient.

The mother seemed to be in excellent health.

"Well done," the examiner said, writing something that looked like the letter O on her parchment.

Harry should have felt satisfaction. Instead he felt nothing except the lingering image of Hagrid's retreating back.

Lost in thought, he made his way toward the greenhouse. Though he was tempted to stray from the path, find Hagrid and talk to him (after all, Tertius couldn't know when he would finish his exam), Harry refrained from doing so. After the incident with Dumbledore, he really had to keep up appearances.

Besides, what would he say to him? If he introduced himself, in Hagrid's eyes he would be nothing more than the younger brother of the boy who had gotten him expelled from school.

The false name Riddle had forced him to adopt had never felt heavier.

Halfway to the greenhouse, Harry noticed Tertius leaning against a tree with his arms crossed. His steps faltered, then continued with deliberate evenness. Something hot and sharp flared in his chest.

"You know," he said as he drew close enough to be heard, "I did receive a letter this morning. Same as you."

Tertius straightened. "I'm aware."

"So you know I'm not an idiot."

"Recent evidence suggests otherwise."

Harry's jaw clenched. "I was walking to the greenhouses. Exactly like I said I would."

"Now you're going straight to the library." Tertius fell into step beside Harry, effortlessly matching his pace with his longer stride.

For a moment, they just walked in silence.

"You need to write your response. Tom's expecting it tonight."

"I'm aware."

"We have nearly two hours before Alphard collects you and I need to leave for my Numerology exam," Tertius continued, as though Harry hadn't spoken. "Plenty of time for you to compose something suitably... explanatory."

"I can't wait."

Tertius stopped abruptly and turned towards him with visible anger.

"I wasn't joking. I don't know about you, but I don't like getting hit with Cru—" He cut himself off. The word hung unfinished in the air between them.

That was enough.

Harry straightened, met the taller boy's eyes directly. "Imagine that, neither do I" he hissed. "But I won't let him intimidate me. He sent me here, so he can't complain now that I care about my exams."

Tertius just stared at him. Then, suddenly, he turned sharply and started walking again.

Harry followed him without a word. The image of Hagrid's hunched figure fuelled his anger.

o.O.o

The library was more crowded than Harry had anticipated — despite the pleasant afternoon outside, exam season had driven even the most committed rule-breakers indoors. A cluster of seventh-years near the windows were surrounded by tottering stacks of books, while a student in the Ancient Runes section had face-planted onto his textbook, soft snores suggesting complete surrender.

Tertius led them to a table in the back corner, far from the windows and the other students. Private, but with clear sightlines to the entrance.

Naturally.

Harry dropped his bag onto the chair, and Tertius immediately produced a clean piece of parchment, a quill, and a pot of ink from his own bag. He set them in front of Harry.

"There you go," Tertius said. "Take your time. And do try to make it... diplomatic."

Something in his voice had shifted. The earlier anger had bled away, leaving something that sounded uncomfortably like pleading.

Harry glanced up, but Tertius had already buried himself in his Numerology textbook, jaw tight, refusing to meet his eyes.

Right. Because if Harry's letter made things worse, Tertius would be the one explaining it to Riddle.

Harry pulled the parchment towards him. The anger he had felt when he saw Hagrid was still lingering inside him, just below the surface. It fuelled his anger at Riddle's absurd expectation that he would apologise for daring to contact Dumbledore. That he would explain himself.

To hell with him!

Tom,

I went to Dumbledore's revision session because I'm taking Transfiguration tomorrow and could use the help. Surprisingly, academic excellence requires actually attending classes taught by competent professors. Revolutionary concept, I know.

I hope you will appreciate it when I get O.

I assume Tertius has already explained the situation in his letter, so I won't bore you with unnecessary details. I'm sure you'll tell me exactly what you think of my decision-making when you next see me.

Your obedient brother,

Harry

He read it over once. Sarcastic, borderline insolent, would probably earn him at least a stinging hex — possibly something more creative if Riddle was feeling inspired.

Harry didn't care.

He was exhausted. Terrified. Furious at himself for nearly forgetting what Riddle really was. He was trapped in a timeline that might have already destroyed his own.

Besides, some petty part of Harry refused to think about seeing Tom Riddle in person again. Refused to plan for it. He'd find a way into the Room of Requirement, find a way back to 1996, and none of this would matter.

It couldn't matter. He wouldn't let it.

"Are you done?" Tertius's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Yes," Harry rolled the parchment, pressed his wand tip against the seam, and murmured a sealing charm. He wasn't giving Tertius the opportunity to read it and panic.

The older boy reached out for it.

"I just hope whatever you wrote in there doesn't get us into more trouble," Tertius said quietly, tucking the letter into his bag. "I will send it before my exam."

Harry shrugged.

"Tom's just a drama queen. He's making a big deal out of nothing."

Tertius didn't comment.

"Alphard will be here in about an hour. Did you bring any revision books?"

"No, because I want to take the opportunity to borrow something on Astronomy. I still don't understand all these sky maps, and I'm sure they have some decent atlases here," Harry said, keeping his tone light and hoping his mental crossed fingers weren't visible on his face.

Let him finally succeed at something in this bloody past.

Tertius sighed, already starting to push his chair back. "Then I'll come with—"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake." The words burst out before Harry could stop them. He took a breath, forcing his voice back to something approaching reasonable. "I'm going from this table to the library counter. Maybe fifty feet. I'm not going to do something stupid in the time it takes to find an astronomy book."

"But you don't even know the library layout. It'll be faster if—"

Harry rolled his eyes, sliding back into his role as the annoying younger brother and immediately regretting his earlier outburst. Smooth, Potter. Really selling the compliance act. "I can read, and the shelves are labelled. Tertius, relax."

Tertius hesitated, clearly torn between duty and the complicated Numerology problem he'd been working through.

"Look," Harry said, softer now. Half-joking, half-serious. "I promise I'll manage. And if I happen to run into Dumbledore on the way, I'll walk right past him. Won't even say hello. Won't even make eye contact. Happy?"

Tertius studied him for a long moment. Weighing. Calculating. Probably running through a mental catalogue of everything that could possibly go wrong in a fifty-foot journey through clearly labelled shelves.

Then his shoulders dropped fractionally. "Fine. Just... don't take too long."

"Scout's honour."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Harry grabbed his bag and slipped between the shelves before Tertius could change his mind.

The Hogwarts library hadn't changed much in fifty years — the basic layout was the same, the general organization of sections familiar enough. But Harry forced himself to move slowly, glancing at shelf labels like he was seeing them for the first time, taking a slightly roundabout path toward where Astronomy texts should be.

He was Tom Riddle's younger brother, supposedly attending an Irish magical school until recently. He wouldn't know this library.

The Astronomy section was right where he expected it, tucked between Arithmancy and Ancient Runes. Harry ran his fingers along the spines, looking for something appropriately intermediate level. Not too advanced, not too basic.

Celestial Navigation: A Practical Guide for Fifth and Sixth Year Students. Perfect.

He pulled it free, then leaned slightly out from behind the bookcase. Tertius's head was still bent over his work, quill moving in quick, irritated scratches across parchment.

Good.

Harry shifted direction, moving one aisle over. The language section was smaller than he'd expected: Latin, Ancient Greek, some Old Norse, a handful of modern European languages shoved together at the end.

French. There.

Dictionnaire Français-Anglais: Édition Magique

Not too thick, not too conspicuous. He slid it off the shelf and tucked it under his arm with the astronomy book, keeping it partially hidden.

The library counter sat near the entrance, manned by the middle-aged witch who had the kind of face that suggested she'd seen every trick students could pull and wasn't impressed by any of them.

Harry approached, setting both books on the counter.

"Checking these out, dear?" She reached for them, then paused, eyes catching on his face. "Oh! You must be young Harry Riddle. Tom's brother."

Of course.

"That's me," Harry said, managing something resembling a smile.

"What a lovely surprise." Her whole demeanour shifted, warmth flooding in. "Tom was such a model student. So dedicated, so brilliant." She reached for the books, already processing them. "Always here researching, always asking such insightful questions. We don't see students like him often."

'Perhaps that was better,' Harry thought bitterly. After all, it was enough that he had murdered one student and framed another. Two wasted lives were still too many.

Harry's smile felt like it might crack his face.

"He mentioned the library was excellent," Harry offered reluctantly.

"Oh, he would know! Spent more time here than anywhere else, I think." She stamped both books with practiced efficiency, still beaming. "I've created a library card for you—five books maximum. Since you're only here through exams, just remember to return them before you leave."

"I will. Thank you."

Harry slipped the dictionary into his bag immediately, keeping the astronomy book in hand where Tertius could see it. Nothing suspicious about that — just a student borrowing study materials for his exams.

Perfectly normal.

When he returned to the table, Tertius glanced up briefly. "Find what you needed?"

"Yeah. Got a decent atlas." Harry held it up as evidence.

"Good."

Tertius returned to his notes, and Harry settled into his own chair, pulling out parchment and opening the astronomy book to a random chapter. He might as well take some notes — he did have an Astronomy exam on Friday, and sitting here doing nothing would look suspicious.

Besides, it would give him something to focus on — something other than the French dictionary hidden in his bag or the image of Hagrid's hunched shoulders and ducked head that kept replaying in his mind.

For now, this had to be enough. He was carrying out his plan, step by step.

And in the future — his future — Hagrid would be cleared of all charges. That had to count for something.

Small victories. That's all he could manage right now.

He opened his notebook and began copying down the names and positions of various constellations, trying not to think about anything else.

o.O.o

Alphard arrived at the library fifteen minutes late, still in his school robes with his bag slung over one shoulder. He looked entirely too cheerful for someone who'd just kept the Head Boy waiting.

Tertius's jaw tightened. "You're late."

"Slughorn caught me after Potions." Alphard shrugged, unrepentant. "Wanted to ask about Harry — how he's settling in, whether he's enjoying Hogwarts, et cetera. You know how he gets."

Harry wasn't even surprised. He just hoped the Head of Slytherin House wasn't sending owls to Riddle. Although even that wouldn't really surprise him. Slughorn liked to feel needed. Irreplaceable. In the shadows, but at the centre of events.

"I need to send the letters before my exam," Tertius said, standing and gathering the sealed envelopes — his own explanation to Riddle, and Harry's insolent response. "Tom demanded them tonight."

"So we'll send them now." Alphard gestured toward the door. "Owlery's on the way to the pitch. Plenty of time."

Tertius looked as though he wanted to argue, but Harry had already packed up and was now standing, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

"Fine." Tertius handed the letters to Alphard with visible reluctance. "Don't lose them."

"I'm not going to lose them." Alphard assured him, carelessly tucking them into his robe pocket. "Come on, Harry. Let's get Tertius his peace of mind."

They left Lestrange in the library entrance, his expression caught between relief and lingering anxiety. Harry didn't blame him. Those letters were flying toward Riddle, and neither of them were particularly eager to imagine his response.

The castle corridors glowed with afternoon sunlight, filled with students returning from classes. Alphard asked about the exam, naturally curious, and they talked all the way to the Owlery about Care of Magical Creatures. Harry answered with obvious distraction — enough that it didn't escape the observant Slytherin's attention.

"Hey, what's up?" Concern threaded through Alphard's voice. "Something's bothering you. Worried about your brother's reaction?"

"Didn't sleep well." The lie came automatically. "And there were two questions on the exam I couldn't answer. Stupid things, probably, but—"

"Two questions." Alphard pushed open the Owlery door, releasing the familiar smell of bird droppings and old straw. "The world won't collapse if you get an E instead of an O." He glanced sideways at Harry, something sharper beneath the casual tone. "But flying helps. Gets you out of your head, yeah?"

Harry nodded, not trusting his voice. Because Alphard was right, and that made it worse.

That morning, the thought of flying had sparked genuine excitement. Now all Harry wanted was to return to the dormitory, pull his curtains shut, and start translating the French text.

He couldn't change Hagrid's past, but he could still fight for his future.

But the worst part? He still had to fake enthusiasm so the other boy wouldn't suspect anything.

Alphard selected a large tawny owl, tied both letters to its leg with practiced efficiency, and sent it off toward London. Harry watched impassively as it disappear into the distance.

Riddle would have those letters in a few hours.

"Right then." Alphard clapped him on the shoulder, steering him back toward the stairs. "Let's fly."

Something in Harry's chest loosened slightly. Flying. Yes — he could fly, and for a while at least, he wouldn't have to think about Riddle's crimes or the potential consequences of his insolent reply.

He was slightly bothered by the last, though.

So just wind, sky, and the simple, uncomplicated joy of speed.

He felt slightly guilty about it, but he deserved a break, didn't he?

They crossed the grounds toward the pitch, the grass springy beneath their feet. The late afternoon sun turned everything golden, warm, almost peaceful. Harry could see the Slytherin team already gathered near the equipment shed — familiar figures now, after days of seeing them in the common room and at meals.

Morrison spotted them first, his broad shoulders and beater's build unmistakable. "About time, Captain."

"Had business." Alphard's tone carried just enough authority to forestall further complaints. He nodded toward the changing rooms. "Give me five minutes."

He disappeared inside, leaving Harry with the team.

"So," Morrison said, leaning against the equipment shed. "Potts says you made the Charms examiners nearly fall off their chairs."

Harry felt heat rise in his face. Of course, Potts had told them. "It wasn't that impressive."

"Precision to a fifth of an inch?" Alice raised an eyebrow. "That's examiner-level accuracy."

"Tom's been... thorough in helping me prepare for the exams." Harry shifted his bag on his shoulder, uncomfortable with the attention. "Anyone could do it with enough practice."

Williams snorted. "Most professionals don't bother with that level of precision. Too tedious."

"Exactly." Morrison grinned. "So either you're mad, or Riddle's a complete taskmaster. Which is it?"

"Both, probably," Harry muttered.

They laughed — easy and casual, like he was just another teammate. The sound twisted something in Harry's chest. Some of these Slytherins had probably been at Hogwarts when Riddle framed Hagrid. But before his mood could sour completely, Alphard emerged from the changing rooms in his Quidditch robes, captain's badge gleaming on his chest.

"Right, listen up." He hauled the equipment chest out of the shed, the wood scarred but well-maintained. "Potts is sitting his Numerology exam, so we're down a Seeker."

"And?" Alice crossed her arms.

"And Harry's filling in." Alphard glanced at Harry, something almost conspiratorial in his grin. "We're running scoring drills. Goal is to get as many points as possible before he catches the Snitch."

Morrison frowned. "Is that even useful practice? No offense," he added, nodding at Harry, "but we need to train for actual game conditions. Just because you're good at spells doesn't necessarily mean you'll be good at catching the Snitch. Have you played on a team before?"

"Only recreationally," Harry lied smoothly.

Act. Don't think.

"You'll get your game conditions." Alphard's tone didn't change, but something sharpened beneath the easy charm. "Trust me."

Harry caught the subtext immediately. Alphard had seen him fly two days ago, knew exactly what he was capable of. But he wanted his team to see it for themselves. Wanted them to understand that Tom Riddle's brother wasn't just some tagalong who needed watching.

The manipulation was obvious. The pride in Alphard's voice when he talked about Harry's flying — that was real too. Both things existed at once, tangled together until Harry couldn't separate surveillance from genuine camaraderie.

"Potts will be back Thursday," Alphard added, lifting the Quaffle from the chest. "Today, we make do."

"But then there's the practical Numerology exam," Alice noted.

"I've booked the pitch for later. He should be back in time." Alphard lifted the Quaffle from the chest. "Don't worry, my team. I have everything under control."

Harry grabbed one of the school brooms from the rack, testing its weight. He'd flown it two days ago with Alphard — knew its balance, its quirks, the slight pull to the left that required constant correction. Serviceable. Not his Firebolt, but good enough.

Good enough to prove himself.

The thought crystallized with sudden, sharp clarity: he wanted to leave them stunned. Wanted Morrison's jaw on the ground and Alice speechless.

For Hagrid.

"Positions," Alphard called, mounting his broom.

Harry kicked off, and the world fell away.

Just like that, he could breathe again. The wind caught his hair, filled his lungs, pushed back the crushing weight that had been sitting on his chest since last night. Up here, for just a moment, he didn't have to think about timelines or Dumbledore's cold disgust or Riddle's impending fury.

Up here, he could just fly.

Alphard released the Snitch.

It shot upward, a golden blur against the darkening sky, and Harry's instincts took over. Everything else—the exhaustion, the fear, the desperate grinding anxiety—vanished. There was only the Snitch, the wind, and his ability to track it.

Normally he'd waited a moment for the Snitch to disappear — no sane Seeker would set off in pursuit immediately — but this time Harry wanted to impress them.

Twenty feet up. Fifteen feet west. Spiraling now, catching a thermal, beginning to bank left—

He leaned forward and the broom responded. The school broom wasn't as quick as his Firebolt, required more muscle to control, but he knew how to compensate. Had learned its temperament two days ago, and his body remembered.

Below him, distantly, he heard the whistle — practice starting, Quaffle in play. Didn't matter. The Snitch was everything.

It dove suddenly, a feint. Harry didn't follow, stayed level, waited for the inevitable correction—

There.

The Snitch leveled out, searching for altitude. Harry dove, cutting the angle tight, gaining with every second. The wind screamed past his ears. Closer. Closer.

His fingers closed around cold metal.

Thirty seconds. Maybe less.

Harry pulled up, heart hammering with the simple, uncomplicated satisfaction of a perfect catch. Clean and fast and exactly right.

Then he looked down.

The Slytherin team had frozen mid-play, hovering in mid-air like someone had cast a Freezing Charm. Morrison's mouth hung open. Alice had actually lowered her Quaffle. Even Williams looked stunned.

Alphard was grinning like he'd just won the House Cup.

"Merlin's beard." Morrison recovered first, shaking his head slowly. "You weren't joking."

"Told you." Alphard flew up to Harry's level, eyes bright with vindication and something that might have been genuine pride. "Think you can score before he catches it again?"

Morrison laughed—rough and surprised. "I think I'd like to bloody try."

"Again?" Harry asked, hovering above them.

Alphard's grin widened, then he shouted to his Slytherins below: "Again. And this time, actually try to score before Harry makes us look incompetent."

Harry rose higher, eyes already tracking the Snitch as it darted between the hoops. His body still ached. His mind would spiral again soon enough.

But for this moment — just this moment — he could fly.

He dove.

o.O.o

Harry lay on his stomach, parchments spread out in front of him. On his left was a French-English dictionary. In the middle were his notes with the original text. On his right was a blank parchment on which he arduously wrote his translation, word by word.

The bed curtains were drawn tightly. A silencing spell had been cast. A wand, stuck in a stand transmuted from a pillow, cast a dim but sufficient light.

If someone caught him now...

No. Don't think about it. Just focus on the words.

Horcruxe.

He flipped through the dictionary pages, finger tracking down the columns. He skipped most of the sentences before this passage – he was too impatient; he wanted to get straight to the point.

Un Horcruxe est...

Horcrux to be... No, that made no sense. Harry crossed it out and tried again.

Est — third person singular of être. To be. So...

Horcrux is.

Better. Next word.

Une méthode...

Method. That was easy. Harry scribbled it down.

Pour attacher...

Pour meant "for" or "to." Attacher... He could guess the meaning of the word himself, but he preferred to check anyway. He flipped pages. To attach. To fasten. To bind.

Horcrux is method to bind...

L'âme.

Soul.

Harry froze, finger still on the dictionary page. His heart beat slightly faster, but he kept going. He had to know. He had to.

À un objet matériel...

À—"to." Objet—"object." Matériel—"material."

Horcrux is method to bind soul to material object...

Sur terre.

On earth.

He wrote it down. His hand shook slightly, barely noticeable.

Permettant ainsi...

Permettant—"allowing" or something like that. So... enabling? Ainsi—"thus" or "thereby."

Au sorcier qui l'a créé...

Sorcier—wizard. Qui—who. L'a créé—to create? Created? Damn, Harry didn't know French tenses.

Wizard who create it...

D'obtenir l'immortalité.

Obtenir—to obtain, to achieve, to gain. L'immortalité—

Immortality.

Harry stared at the words on the clean parchment, at that clumsy, broken sentence built from basic word forms.

Horcrux is method to bind soul to material object on earth, allowing thus wizard who create it obtain immortality.

Horcrux.

It was a way to... to split your soul. To hide part of it in an object.

So you couldn't die.

Harry's heart started hammering harder. A ringing began in his ears—quiet, high-pitched, growing louder with each second. His breathing became shallow.

Riddle was searching for immortality.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY-FIFE —

Lion in disguise, part III

Harry lay on his back, eyes fixed on the curtain overhead. He felt a dictionary under his head and parchment under his right arm. A soft light emanated from the discarded wand nearby. An inkwell had spilled at some point —he'd need to clean the bedding before opening the curtains, but he couldn't summon the energy to care right now.

He was exhausted.

He didn't know how long he had spent translating, but it must have been hours. It had gone painfully slowly. Word by word, and when the sentences had taken on a meaning, he had had to fight not only fatigue but also fear.

He hadn't finished yet, but he had no more strength to continue.

So he lay there waiting for dawn, thinking about what he 'd found.

Horcrux is method to bind soul to material object on earth, allowing thus wizard who create it obtain immortality.

The words kept circling, over and over, like an eerie song lodged in his head.

A fragment of someone's soul. Hidden within an object. Making the creator immortal. Connected to the most forbidden branch of dark magic — so horrific that even the French wizard had refused to describe how they were made. So vile I will not speak of it here, the diary had stated, though I know the method.

They are almost impossible to destroy, the next paragraph claimed, revealing that this could only be achieved with truly powerful magic — nothing ordinary would work. Fiendfyre. Basilisk venom. That sort of thing.

Harry's pulse quickened.

Basilisk venom.

The memory struck without warning. The Chamber of Secrets. The slowly materializing teenage Riddle. Black ink spilling from the diary pierced by the basilisk's fang. That terrible scream, as if something was being destroyed. Killed.

Could… could it have been a Horcrux?

The realization crashed over Harry like a physical blow.

If the diary was a Horcrux and the fragment of soul was teenage Riddle, which Harry destroyed in 1993, then—

His heart pounded harder.

Then—

Oh God.

Then Riddle had already made it.

Cold fear flooded through him. This Tom Riddle. The one Harry had been living with for three months. The twenty-year-old who tutored him and played chess with him and forced him into blood adoption.

He'd already done it.

At sixteen.

The same age Harry was now. Sixteen.

What kind of person split their soul at sixteen?

The kind whose destiny was to become the most powerful dark wizard of this age — a wizard so terrifying that people would be afraid to say his name, Harry answered himself immediately.

But…

If Riddle had already created the Horcrux in his fifth year, why had he asked Slughorn about them in his sixth? Harry remembered the way Slughorn had looked when he'd mentioned them, the revulsion, the shame. He'd told Riddle something.

Something he'd regretted ever since.

Something Dumbledore desperately wanted to know.

Only… it didn't make sense.

If Riddle had anchored his soul to the world and achieved immortality, why return to his professor with questions about Horcruxes? Why arouse unnecessary suspicion?

Harry sat up abruptly.

Horcruxes.

Plural.

Oh no.

There was the answer.

Could Riddle be considering creating more than one?

That would be pure evil. That would be entirely in keeping with young Voldemort's style, though.

An utter disaster.

To destroy Voldemort, you'd have to destroy all his Horcruxes first. To do that, you'd need to know how many he had created.

Two? Three? Or more?

The French wizard had warned that splitting the soul had consequences — no one did such things and remained unchanged.

True enough. Voldemort — the one Harry knew — was utterly mad. Brilliant, yes, but insane. Yet 1940s Riddle was different — Harry had never encountered anyone more calculating and chillingly logical.

So — had he created just one Horcrux? Or none? Or perhaps he 'd proved an exception to the rule once again, and the first division of his thoroughly evil soul had brought no side effects —and only the subsequent ones had brought him to the point where it was hard to tell whether he was still human or some monster with a serpent's face.

Could it be that Riddle, during his conversation with Slughorn, had wanted to find out if it was possible to create more than one Horcrux? Could that have been the most important piece of information — the question on which everything depended?

Nausea twisted through Harry's gut.

No, no, no! He must be wrong!

But he wasn't. He knew he wasn't.

Harry forced air into his lungs, struggling against the tightness in his chest.

The diary had been destroyed in 1993. Voldemort's sixteen-year-old self, gone. But in 1995, Voldemort had been resurrected in the graveyard. Which meant—

Which meant there had been at least one more Horcrux besides the diary. At least one other piece of Voldemort's soul, hidden somewhere, keeping him tied to life.

That's why Dumbledore was still searching in 1996. That's why the memory mattered.

Because there were others.

And then, unexpectedly, anger flared, sharp and bitter, cutting through the helplessness already drowning Harry.

Why did Dumbledore always have to be so secretive? Why couldn't he just tell Harry why retrieving that memory mattered? Why couldn't he trust him with the truth?

If Dumbledore had shared his suspicions — explained why that fragment of memory was critical, warned Harry that this single piece of information might be the key to destroying Voldemort forever — Harry would have dropped everything and focused on the headmaster's mission. But instead—

Instead, the memory was lost. Erased by Riddle himself, right in front of petrified Harry, who could only watch.

The anger toward Dumbledore died instantly, consumed by the crushing weight of his own guilt. Because in the end, it didn't matter whether Dumbledore had explained or not. Harry had made his choice. Had decided following Malfoy was more important than following orders.

And now the memory was gone, and it was his fault, and there was nothing — nothing — he could do to change it.

o.O.o

Riddle's reply arrived by morning owl.

The tawny bird dropped the letter directly onto Harry's plate, narrowly missing his eggs. Fully aware of the two pairs of eyes watching him, Harry broke the seal with feigned nonchalance.

Harry,

Thank you for that illuminating explanation. It's unexpectedly refreshing that your academic ambitions have finally taken precedence over your instinct for self-preservation.

I am also pleased to note your confidence regarding your Transfiguration grade. Naturally, I trust you will substantiate this confidence with your actual performance. Do not disappoint me.

Tertius has indeed provided his account of events. Between his letter and yours, I now have a fairly complete picture of your decision-making process. I was particularly interested in the moment when you weighed up my direct order against your own desires and found my authority lacking. As your guardian, I must address this matter upon your return.

Thus, you may expect a thorough discussion when you return from Hogwarts. I suggest you prepare for it more carefully than you did for your response to my earlier letter. As I mentioned previously, distance does not mean impunity. You should know that your behaviour has inspired me to discover previously untapped reserves of creativity, so I eagerly await your return.

Do enjoy the rest of your exams.

Your patient brother,

Tom

Harry's eyes tracked over the words a second time. Previously untapped reserves of creativity. Wonderful. Riddle was apparently planning something special.

He should probably care about that. He should be calculating exactly how badly he'd misjudged yesterday's sarcasm. He should be dreading the "thorough discussion" that awaited him in London.

But he couldn't make himself care.

Not when he was certain his escape plan would work. Not when he'd soon return to the future.

Outside, the June sunshine streamed through the high windows of the Great Hall. Warm light pooled across the Slytherin table. The enchanted ceiling stretched above them in a perfect shade of blue, cloudless and bright. It was the kind of brightness that made last night's darkness seem impossible.

Harry's panic had receded with it.

Morning brought coffee. Bacon. Eggs. The comfortable buzz of students discussing school and summer plans. And with it came perspective. It was the sort of cold, practical clarity that came from being too exhausted to feel proper fear.

Yes, Riddle might have already created a Horcrux. Or several. But questions weren't actions. Maybe he'd only asked Slughorn about theoretical limits. Maybe he'd created just the diary and nothing more.

Maybe was a dangerous word. But it was better than certainty.

And Slughorn was here. Now. In this castle. Just as he would be in fifty years' time. Harry would be able to corner him when he returned, ask the same question that Riddle had asked. Perhaps he would even get the same answer.

Nothing was lost.

He just had to return to his own time.

"Harry." Alphard's voice reached him from the side, slightly worried. "Bad news?"

Harry silently chastised himself for that moment of inattention. His self-appointed bodyguards must have mistaken his thoughtfulness for fear, as both Alphard and Tertius were watching him with barely concealed concern.

"Family matters," Harry said, folding the letter. If anyone were listening to them, there would be nothing strange about this response. "But nothing to worry about," Harry added, seeing the look forming on Tertius's face.

Well, yes…

Only one letter had arrived. For Harry.

And Tertius certainly wanted to know what Riddle had written. Whether Riddle's silence meant forgiveness or something worse. But he could not ask directly. Partly because of his pride, partly because half the table was listening intently, pretending not to be interested in their conversation.

"You look terrible," Alphard said, still in that careful tone. "Did you sleep at all?"

Harry picked up his toast. "Enough."

He'd maybe managed an hour before dawn, if that.

Alphard and Tertius exchanged another brief, worried glances.

Harry took a bite. Tasted nothing.

Tertius had just opened his mouth to ask a question when an unexpected source offered him a momentary reprieve from this conversation.

"Potts!" Morrison's voice boomed from the entrance of the Great Hall. The broad-shouldered Slytherin strode toward them, grinning. "Mate, what a show you missed yesterday!"

"Did I?" Potts looked up from his porridge. Expression carefully neutral.

Morrison slid onto the bench beside him, still grinning. "Your replacement caught the Snitch in under a minute. First bloody try."

"Thirty seconds," Alice corrected. She shot Harry an appraising look. "We barely touched the Quaffle before he had it."

"Beginner's luck." Potts's spoon scraped against porridge. Sharp little sounds.

Morrison clapped him on the shoulder. "Right. But you were also a beginner once, and I don't recall you being so fortunate."

"Lucky for you he's only here for exams," Alice said as she leaned out from behind Alphard and glanced sideways at Harry, winking at him. "Otherwise, Black might have some interesting team decisions to make."

Potts's spoon stilled. "I hardly think—"

"Relax. Harry's only filling in while you're sitting exams. One practice. Your position's safe." Alphard reached for the marmalade. Deliberately casual. But Harry caught the warning glance at Morrison. Enough.

Potts relaxed fractionally. But when his eyes found Harry again, they were cold.

Harry looked away. He should probably feel something about that — guilt, maybe, or satisfaction.

But he couldn't care less. The memory of yesterday's training faded with what he had discovered that night.

"So," Alphard continued, smoothly redirecting, "how's fifth-year Numerology? As bad as N.E.W.T.s? Tertius moaned about his exam half the night."

Pott started complaining about numerology, even more than Tertius had the previous day. Another Slytherin joined in. Alice expressed her sympathy completely insincerely, someone noticed, someone laughed.

Normal. Easy. The same kind of conversation that would be going on at these tables fifty years.

Harry felt nothing except the weight of last night's translation pressing against his ribs.

How many pieces could a soul be split into? Was there a limit? And what did it do to a person, carving themselves apart like that—

"So." Tertius's voice was carefully casual as he reached for a coffee. Too casual. "Your brother's letter. Anything... important?"

Harry met his eyes. He saw the desperate question beneath the bland expression.

Did he mention me? Why didn't I get a letter too?

"Just his usual expectations." Harry forced himself to take a bite of toast. "Academic excellence. Proper behaviour. The standard lecture."

Tertius pointed the jug towards Harry, silently asking if he wanted a refill. Harry nodded. "Nothing else?"

The question came too quickly. Too sharply. It betrayed fear.

Harry reached for his cup and took a long sip to buy some time. He did not want to rush his answer.

He could tell the truth: that Riddle was planning creative punishments; that he had read both their letters; and that he was looking forward to thorough discussions. He could watch Tertius spiral into the same kind of panic that Harry knew too well.

Or he could lie.

"He's looking forward to discussing my Transfiguration results when I return," Harry said finally. The lie slid out smooth — practice made perfect. "Says he expects nothing less than an Outstanding after all my studies."

Not entirely untrue. The letter had mentioned the exam.

Tertius exhaled. Not quite relief, but close. "Right," he said finally. Stiffly. "Of course."

Harry hoped that Tertius would interpret his vague answers as proof that he wasn't being blamed for the Dumbledore incident. That Riddle's silence meant forgiveness rather than something worse brewing in the dark.

The last thing Harry needed was the Head Boy deciding his recklessness required stricter supervision.

It would be disastrous for his escape plan.

o.O.o

Tom,

Your concern for my well-being is a constant reminder of how lucky I am to have such a devoted guardian. The creativity you mentioned sounds absolutely fascinating — I can hardly wait to experience it firsthand. I just hope you're not all talk.

The exams are going fine. Transfiguration today went exactly as expected. I'm sure Professor Dumbledore's revision session will have been entirely worthwhile, regardless of what you might think about my choices. I'll be sure to listen carefully to your feedback once I receive my marks, though.

By the way, Tertius has been looking anxious lately. I think he was expecting a response to his letter and feels somewhat overlooked. Just thought you should know — he's been exceptionally diligent in making sure I don't get lost or bored at Hogwarts, exactly as you asked. He and Alphard have been keeping me company constantly, and I'd hate for Tertius to think his efforts aren't appreciated, especially since I suspect he worries he might have displeased you in some way.

I would tell you that I miss you and eagerly await my return to London, but you always say that honesty is what matters most. So I hope you'll forgive me for not saying it.

The weather here has been brilliant lately — sunshine, clear skies. Perfect conditions for flying and for enjoying some distance from the city. Any chance I could stay here a bit longer?

Your devoted brother,

Harry

o.O.o

Harry,

Your recent correspondence has been remarkably entertaining. I particularly appreciated your concern about whether I can substantiate my promises. Rest assured, I have never been one for empty threats. You'll find I'm extraordinarily consistent in delivering on my word - a quality you'll have ample opportunity to appreciate very soon.

How touching that you've taken such interest in Tertius's emotional well-being. It speaks well of your integration into my social circle - I'm pleased you're developing appropriate sympathies. However, Tertius has known me considerably longer than you have and understands perfectly what my silence signifies. He requires neither reassurance nor intermediaries.

Regarding your extended stay: I'll be collecting you personally next Saturday. This date is non-negotiable. Your exams conclude next Friday, giving you ample time to pack and express appropriate gratitude to Headmaster Dippet for his extraordinary generosity. It would be unconscionably rude to impose further on his hospitality when he's already accommodated us so graciously.

Besides, unlike you, I've found myself missing my younger brother. London feels remarkably empty without your particular brand of charm brightening my days. I'm quite looking forward to our reunion.

As for your exam results, they will likely arrive by post at the end of July. This will give us time to address other matters that require my immediate attention.

Your devoted brother,

Tom

o.O.o

The Transfiguration written exam had been a complete disaster. Harry had only answered five out of twenty questions. He spent most of the time staring at the parchment, his thoughts circling endlessly around his night-time translation and its horrifying implications. He almost panicked again at the thought that his assumptions might have been too optimistic, and that Voldemort might have created more than one Horcrux after all. Riddle might already have created more than one Horcrux. Questions about transmutation theory now seemed utterly pointless. He noted the irony — just two days ago, he had been upset about not knowing two answers in Care of Magical Creatures. Now, he had failed to answer fifteen.

The practical had gone better, mostly because Riddle's brutal drilling had apparently burned the spellwork into Harry's muscle memory where exhaustion and fear couldn't reach it. They'd gone in alphabetically, which meant Harry had been paired with Potts again. The other Seeker's previous friendliness had evaporated completely — replaced by a cool distance that wasn't quite open hostility but definitely wasn't warm. Clearly, the Quidditch team's praise still stung, despite Alphard's reassurances about Potts keeping his position. Harry wasn't particularly bothered — he just hoped Potts wouldn't tell anyone how badly Harry had done on the written portion.

His transmutations were within the norm for an average sixteen-year-old, although, if he hadn't been so sleepy, he would have done better. The mouse he created from a piece of wood was cream-colored instead of white. The mug he transfigured from the mouse had an odd bump that looked like a nose, complete with small whiskers which were painted onto the porcelain. The examiner made notes with an unreadable expression, but Harry thought he had done quite well. Potts's mug was a more obvious example of a mouse transformation — its tail had become a handle that still twitched occasionally.

History of Magic was a complete catastrophe.

After the incident with Abraxas Malfoy, Harry felt such aversion to the subject that he couldn't bring himself to revise at all. And after two sleepless nights spent obsessing over Horcruxes and escape plans, he was running on fumes.

He'd taken his seat in the Great Hall — O.W.L. students in front, N.E.W.T. students behind. Tertius was somewhere in the back rows. Harry hoped the other students blocked the Head Boy's view, because what happened next was humiliating.

He opened the exam parchment. Read the first question. Then the second. The words blurred together. His head felt stuffed with cotton. At some point, he must have closed his eyes, because the next thing he knew, the examiner was calling time.

The parchment in front of him was blank except for his name.

Perfect. Just perfect.

Outside the Great Hall, Tertius was already waiting with a group of seventh-years, all of them dissecting exam questions with the enthusiasm of people who actually cared about History of Magic grades.

"How did it go?" Tertius asked as Harry approached.

Harry shrugged. "It's History of Magic. Who actually studies that voluntarily? It's deadly boring." He paused, attempting to appear nonchalant. "But I should pass."

Flint, the Slytherin who slept in the bed next to Harry's in the seventh-year dormitory, laughed.

"If you pass, I'll start believing in miracles. I saw how hard you were working — did you even wake up to sign your name?"

Damn.

"It wasn't that bad," Harry said weakly.

Tertius stared at him. "You fell asleep during the exam?"

"Flint's exaggerating." Harry waved a hand dismissively, but his voice sounded too defensive. "I'm just tired. I could use some rest, honestly."

"Right." Tertius's gaze flicked to the other seventh-years, then back to Harry with an expression Harry didn't like at all. "Come on, then. I've got Numerology this afternoon anyway — need to revise."

Flint grinned at Harry. "I've got no idea why anyone would study that voluntarily. It's all calculations. Pure torture."

"Anyone with ambition," Tertius shot back, already turning away. He called over his shoulder to the group: "See you later."

Harry followed, fighting another yawn.

But instead of heading toward the common room, Tertius veered sharply into a side corridor just before the turn.

"This way."

He pushed open the door to what looked like an abandoned classroom — the kind that hadn't seen students in years, judging by the thick layer of dust coating every surface. The air tasted stale.

Tertius closed the door behind them with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than a slam.

"You look like death," he said flatly. "When did you last sleep?"

Harry leaned against the nearest desk instead of answering, immediately regretting it when his fingers met something sticky. He wiped his hand on his robes, leaving grey smears. "Couldn't you have picked somewhere cleaner for this conversation?"

The dirt didn't really bother him, but the prospect of talking to Tertius did.

The older Slytherin pulled his wand, vanishing the dust from the desk with a wordless spell. "There. Happy now?"

"Thrilled." Harry stifled another yawn. "What's this about?"

"That." Tertius gestured at him. "You can barely stand. You look as if you really fell asleep during the exam." The older boy crossed his arms and looked closely at Harry. Harry felt uncomfortable under his intense gaze. "So I'll ask again: when did you last actually sleep? And don't bother lying — I can see the answer on your face."

"I've been sleeping."

"Don't." The word came out sharp. "I have eyes. Those circles under them didn't appear overnight."

Harry straightened, exhaustion sharpening to irritation. "Even if that were true, it's none of your business."

"Except it is." Tertius's voice stayed level, almost reasonable. The kind of reasonable that was more unnerving than anger. "I'm Head Boy. Student welfare falls under my responsibilities. When I see someone clearly struggling—"

Harry laughed, harsh and bitter. "Oh, spare me. We both know this isn't about prefect duties. Tom told you to watch me, so here you are, being a good little—"

"Careful." The word came out quiet. Dangerous.

They stared at each other. The sun light slanting through grimy windows cast strange shadows across Tertius's face, making him look older than seventeen. Tired.

"You started sleeping badly after Monday," Tertius said finally, quieter now. "After Tom's first letter arrived. That's when it started, isn't it?"

"I told you, I'm fine."

"And I'm Merlin himself." Tertius uncrossed his arms, the gesture somehow making the space between them less confrontational. Not friendly — just less hostile. "Look, I'm not trying to—" He stopped. Started again. "I have an older brother too. You've met him."

Harry waited. Said nothing.

"Primus and Tom have... certain similarities. In how they approach things. How they handle—" A pause. "—family matters."

The careful phrasing spoke volumes.

Harry leaned back against the desk, reassessing. Maybe it would be better to let Tertius think he'd guessed right. In some ways, he had. And the faster this conversation ended, the faster Harry could get back to the dormitory.

"Yeah. I noticed that when I met Primus." Harry kept his voice flat. Neutral.

Tertius smiled wryly.

"You know, Primus mentioned you in one of his letters, actually. Said you had 'quite the mouth on you.'" The smile faded. "They have shared philosophies. About responsibility. About how younger brothers should be... managed."

Something twisted in Harry's chest. Unwanted sympathy for Tertius Lestrange, of all people? No way.

"Managed," Harry repeated.

"Primus thinks Tom's too soft on you, actually."

The laugh burst out before Harry could stop it — sharp and without mirth. He managed to turn it into something that might pass for a cough.

"Well, if he sees me after Tom gets his hands on me when I return from Hogwarts, he'll probably change his mind."

The words came out before Harry could suppress them. Exhaustion made him careless.

Tertius just nodded. No surprise. No shock. Just understanding.

"Is that why you've been exchanging so many letters?" Tertius asked finally. The question came out quieter than everything before. Almost sympathetic. "Trying to... negotiate what's coming?"

Harry considered his response. While it would be convenient to steer the conversation in that direction, did he really want to go there?

"Yes," he finally admitted, reluctantly. Tertius needed to explain Harry's behaviour to himself somehow. Since he had suggested the excuse himself, it seemed like the best option. "Tom's not exactly happy about the Dumbledore situation."

He didn't add that his own provocative letters had only made things worse.

Tertius was quiet for a moment. When he spoke again, his voice had gone careful. Too casual. "And he's made that clear? In writing?"

There it was. The real question underneath all the sympathy. The vulnerability that had made Tertius share about Primus in the first place. The fear that had been eating at him since Monday, when Harry had disobeyed and made Tertius look incompetent by extension.

Harry met his eyes. "He's made it clear enough."

"Right." Tertius looked away, toward the grimy windows. "And... in those letters. Did he mention—" A pause. Briefly. "—anyone else?"

Finally. Harry was surprised that Tertius had waited two days to ask this question.

"You mean did he mention you," Harry corrected him calmly.

Tertius's jaw tightened. "I'm asking if his displeasure extends beyond your choices on Monday."

"I don't know," Harry said honestly. One look at Tertius's face told him it wasn't the answer the other boy wanted. The Head Boy needed reassurance. And Harry needed him less vigilant. "But when I asked him why he hadn't replied to your letter, he said you've known him long enough to understand what his silence means."

The words hung in the dusty air between them.

Tertius's shoulders relaxed. Not much — just enough that Harry noticed the tension bleeding out.

"I see." He cleared his throat. "That's... good to know."

Harry wanted to say something, but a yawn interrupted him. Perhaps it was for the best; the conversation was already awkward enough. Too much had been said. Too much understanding exchanged between people who shouldn't understand each other at all.

"Can we go now?" Harry asked quietly. "I'd like to rest before this afternoon."

"Yes. Let's go."

They walked through the corridors in silence, but it felt different from the tense quiet on the way there. Less like two people circling each other and more like... Harry didn't know what. Exhausted truce, maybe.

When they reached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Tertius gave the password and held the door open — a small courtesy he hadn't bothered with before. Inside, the seventh-years had claimed their usual territory by the windows. Someone had already started an argument about probability theory that was rapidly escalating.

Tertius glanced at the group, then back at Harry.

"Go on," he said, jerking his head toward the dormitory stairs. "Get some sleep. You look like you're about to keel over."

Harry blinked. He'd expected to have to negotiate and make excuses. Instead, it was Tertius who practically ordering him to go to bed.

So he must have looked even worse than he felt.

"What, you're not afraid I'll do something monumentally stupid while you're not watching?"

The corner of Tertius's mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "The chances of Dumbledore materializing in the Slytherin common room are approximately zero. And even if you get some brilliant idea—" He gestured at the room's layout, the single entrance, the seventh-years settling in for their study session. "—you'd have to walk through here to leave. I'll see you."

Harry almost laughed, surprised at how serious it sounded. As if Tertius had really considered all this before telling Harry to go to bed.

"Besides," Tertius added, settling into a chair by the window and already pulling out his Numerology texts, " He said you would be useful during training. I would rather not have to explain to your brother why we let you fly when you could barely stand on your feet."

"He'd probably blame me anyway," Harry said, trying to sound light-hearted. "See you later, then,’ he added and disappeared into the corridor leading to the Slytherin dormitories."

o.O.o

Tertius would probably have reconsidered his decision if he had known what giving Harry time without supervision would lead to. Fortunately, it was too late for that. T The thought gave Harry a grim satisfaction, tainted slightly by their recent conversation. He closed the dormitory door behind him — empty at this hour, exactly as he'd hoped. Even if Tertius was tracking his movements with the Marauder's Map, there was nothing suspicious about his approach to the trunk with his clothes. The map couldn't show what he pulled out alongside his pyjamas: an invisibility cloak, two tightly-rolled parchment scrolls, a small vial of Felix Felicis.

Harry tucked the first two items into the pockets of his school robe, which he hung on a hanger next to his bed. Not for the first time, he felt grudging appreciation for Balenciaga's tailoring — the pockets were charmed like Hermione's beaded bag, holding far more than they should. He wondered briefly if it was the same spell. Useful, that.

The Felix Felicis went under his pillow. He was exhausted, genuinely exhausted, and he wasn't sure how long the potion's effects lasted. Better to sleep first. He could take it later, when he needed it most.

With that thought, Harry laid his head on the pillow. Just for a moment, to rest his eyes.

The moment he pulled the duvet over himself, he was gone.

Two hours vanished in what felt like seconds. The dormitory door opened; Tertius, calling his name softly. Harry mumbled something about needing a few more minutes. Expected argument and insistence.

Instead, footsteps retreated. The door closed again.

Harry hugged the pillow tighter, genuinely grateful.

The next wake-up call came from Alphard. More insistent this time, but still gentle. Harry managed to sit up, rubbing his face.

"Give me ten minutes to sort myself out?"

"Five, because we're already late. Potts finished his practical Numerology half an hour ago," Alphard said, and disappeared back into the common room.

Harry counted to fifteen — Alphard did not return. Only then did he grab the Felix Felicis from under his pillow, uncorked it with shaking hands, and took a careful sip.

The effect was immediate.

Energy flooded through him — not the jittery, anxious kind that came from too much coffee, but something smoother. Clearer. Like every clouded thought in his head had suddenly crystallized into perfect focus. His exhaustion didn't disappear, but it stopped mattering. He felt sharp. Alert. Lucky.

He shoved the vial back in his pocket, threw on his robes, and headed for the common room. On impulse — the potion's impulse, maybe — he left his Astronomy textbook behind. He'd planned to use it as an excuse to stay on the stands while the team practiced. But now that felt wrong. Unnecessary.

The potion would show him the right path. He just had to follow it.

o.O.o

Fifteen minutes later, Harry stood on the Quidditch pitch with Alphard and the rest of the Slytherin team. The afternoon sun sat low on the horizon, casting long shadows across the grass.

"I hope no one minds Harry playing the seeker again." Alphard said, handling Harry the broom. "I want Potts to feel some competition. Motivate him."

Morrison gave Potts a meaningful look. "I think that will provide the perfect motivation. Maybe Slughorn will be able to convince Dippet to let Riddle stay for an extra week."

Harry glanced at Potts. The other Seeker's expression had gone carefully blank.

"If you don’t mind, I certainly don’t," Harry said.

He should. That was the feeling — not quite a thought, more like gravity pulling him in the right direction. He should play. He should be here.

Potts's blank expression cracked slightly. Displeasure leaked through.

"Same rules as last time: we try to score as many points as possible before one of our seekers catches the snitch," Alphard said to the rest of the team, releasing the golden snitch.

Harry and Potts kicked off together. The rush of wind felt amazing after two days of stuffy exam halls and sleepless nights. Harry rose higher, circling lazily while the Chasers ran through formation drills below. Alphard's voice carried up from the pitch — instructions, corrections, encouragement. He'd stopped watching Harry entirely, focused on the rest of his team.

Perfect.

Harry's attention sharpened. There — a glint of gold near the Ravenclaw stands. He leaned forward, and his borrowed broom responded instantly. The acceleration pressed him back against the handle as he dove.

Potts had seen it too. They raced toward each other, the Snitch wobbling between them like a drunk butterfly. Harry stretched out his hand. His fingers closed around cold metal wings.

Ten minutes. He'd caught it in ten minutes.

Potts pulled up short, jaw tight. Didn't say anything. Didn't need to.

They released the Snitch again. Rose back into the air. Circled. This time Harry felt it — that subtle pull, like a hand on his shoulder turning him in a new direction. Not toward the Snitch. Toward something else.

"I need to use the loo," he called down to Potts.

The other Seeker actually looked relieved. "In our changing room, under the Slytherin stand. The door should be open. Can't miss it."

Harry flew down, landed, and leaned his broom against the stands. He looked around. The team was busy with a complicated exercise involving all three chasers and both beaters. No one was watching.

He entered the changing room, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. His robe was hanging on a hook by the passage to the showers. Without bothering to take off the training robe he had borrowed from Alphard, he took the invisibility cloak out of his pocket and threw it over his shoulders. He tucked the texts about Horcruxes into his trouser belt — the parchment would probably get crumpled, but the content was what mattered most.

Clutching his wand in his hand, he cautiously approached the open door. He peered through it; he didn't have a very wide field of vision, but from Alphard's shouts, he could tell that training was still in progress.

It seemed that no one had noticed his disappearance. And he was now invisible.

Feeling that this was the moment, Harry slipped through the gap between the door and the frame and started running.

He'd never run this fast in his life. The potion sang in his veins, guiding his feet around corners, through corridors, past clusters of students who never saw him coming. Everything felt fluid, effortless. He knew exactly when to slow down, when to speed up, when to press himself against a wall as a teacher passed within inches.

And finally, the seventh floor. Harry skidded to a halt in front of the Barnabas the Barmy tapestry, his chest heaving.

He started walking.

I need the place where things are hidden. I need to go home. I need the cabinet that brought me here.

Once.

Twice.

Three.

The door materialized.

Harry's hand hit the handle. He wrenched it open and stumbled through.

The Room of Hidden Things. Mountains of furniture and towers of books were piled haphazardly alongside centuries of abandoned magical objects, forming precarious columns that reached towards the shadows beyond the reach of the wand light. The air smelled of dust, old parchment, and something darker lurking beneath — like secrets left to rot.

Harry knew where the cabinet was. Not from memory. The potion knew. It pulled him forward like a compass needle swinging toward true north.

He ran again. Around a mountain of chairs. Past a stack of rusty. Through a narrow gap between two enormous structures made of chairs, tables and desks, which seemed to be held together only by the magic filling the room.

There.

That bloody wardrobe he suffered so much because of.

Harry's hands were trembling. He pressed them flat against the cool wood of the cupboard door. This was it. This was the way home. Back to 1996, back to Hermione and Ron. Back to Dumbledore, who would surely help him get rid of all the restrictions that Riddle had placed on him.  Back to a world where Voldemort was an enemy, not someone he played chess and duelled with, and someone who tested his spell theory.

Stop. Don't think about that.

Think about the Legilimency that had ripped through his mind. The belt punishment. Abraxas's lashing crushing his ribs. Crucio lighting up every nerve until he couldn't remember what it felt like not to hurt.

That was Voldemort. Already. At twenty.

Voldemort, who had split his soul.

Voldemort, whom Harry — according to prophecy — was meant to destroy.

The determination hit like adrenaline, sharp and clarifying. Felix Felicis hummed in his veins, urging him forward.

Do it. Now.

Open the creaking door, take a step forward, go inside.

The interior smelled musty, just like in the future. Harry put his glasses in his pocket and made sure that the parchments with the texts about Horcruxes were tucked behind his belt. Then he focused on one feeling, the most important one at that moment: longing for his own times. The desire to return to the future.

Home. Take me home. Take me back to my own time, my own world, where I belong—

Nothing.

He stood there, barely breathing, waiting for the tug. For the sensation of being pulled through space and time. For anything.

The cabinet remained perfectly, absolutely still.

Harry's eyes opened. Same dark interior. Same musty smell. Same emptiness.

No.

He stepped out. Backed up. Stared at the cabinet like it had personally betrayed him.

Maybe he'd done it wrong. Maybe he had to close the doors? He climbed back in, pulled the doors shut, sealed himself in darkness so complete it pressed against his eyeballs.

Please. Please work. I need to go home.

Nothing.

Harry shoved the doors open again, his chest felt tight.

One more time. He'd try one more time.

He stepped inside. Closed the doors. Opened them. Stepped out. Stepped back in. Closed them. Waited. Nothing. Out again. In. Out. In.

Nothing, nothing, nothing—

On the seventh attempt, Harry stayed inside. Pressed his back against the wooden wall and slid down until he was sitting on the cabinet's floor. The doors hung open in front of him.

His hands were shaking. He pressed them against his knees, trying to make them stop.

It wasn't working.

That bloody wardrobe wouldn't work.

A sound escaped — sharp, airless. Not quite a laugh. His chest hitched.

Again. Louder this time. Scraping up his throat like broken glass.

Stop. Stop it. Control yourself.

But the sound kept coming, building, and suddenly he couldn't breathe around it—

Harry leapt to his feet, screaming as he slammed his fist into the cabinet wall. Again. And again. The wood was solid and unyielding. Something might have cracked or broken — his hand or the wood; he didn't know and didn't care — but he kept hitting it anyway.

Every punch landed with a dull thud that echoed wrong in the enclosed space.

"Work!" The word tore out of him, raw and too loud. "Just—fucking—WORK!"

A kick this time. His foot connected with the door and the impact sang up his leg. Another kick. Another. Then his fist again, slamming into wood that refused to give, refused to break, refused to do anything except sit there like the useless broken thing it was—

His knuckles split. He felt it happen, felt skin tear and something warm and wet on his hand, and he didn't care, didn't stop, just kept hitting — walls, doors, it didn't matter anymore, he couldn't control it — while something in his chest cracked wide open.

"I want to go home!" Each word punctuated with another hit. The cabinet shuddered but held firm. "I want—I can't—why won't you—"

His voice broke completely.

"Please." He pressed his forehead against the cold wood, breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please, I just—I need—"

He needed Ron making stupid jokes. Hermione rolling her eyes at his Potions essay. Dumbledore's infuriating secrets and twinkling eyes. He needed his own time, his own war, his own Voldemort — the one he was supposed to fight, not the one who called him mine like he meant it.

His hands finally stilled against the wood. Bleeding. Shaking. Useless.

Harry closed his eyes and let his forehead pressed against the cabinet wall again.

The Felix Felicis was still flowing through his veins, telling him that he was exactly where he needed to be and doing exactly what luck required of him.

Yet he'd never hated being lucky more.

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he sank to the bottom of the wardrobe.

Hugging his knees tightly, he allowed himself something he hadn't allowed himself in a long time — he cried.

He cried out of grief, out of anger.

Out of fear that his plan had failed and that he might be stuck in the past forever.

o.O.o

Tom returned to his flat on Knockturn Alley with the particular satisfaction that came from achieving a long-awaited goal. Bug had already returned, so today's trophies would be waiting for him in the library.

Slytherin's locket. Hufflepuff's cup. Both acquired in a single evening.

And he'd kept his word to Potter. Technically.

Hepzibah Smith was still breathing when he'd left her house. The fact that she wasn't entirely sane anymore was another matter; next time, Potter should be more precise in his demands.

As soon as Riddle crossed the threshold of the library, his gaze fell on two items placed on his desk. The intricate S proudly swirled on the clasp of the Slytherin locket. Helga Hufflepuff's cup was slightly tarnished, but a stronger cleaning charm would restore the artifact to its former glory easily enough.

Together with Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem — already displayed in the specially prepared case in his library — they made up almost the entire collection.

All that was missing was Godric Gryffindor's sword, and the set would be complete. All four together. For the first time in almost a thousand years.

Acquiring the two latest additions to his collection required more finesse than he had initially anticipated, especially given his promise to Potter to avoid unnecessary killing. However, devising a way to circumvent these limitations had proved enjoyable in itself. Besides, if he was going to start working at the Ministry soon, it was actually advantageous to have fewer corpses in his past. Especially considering how many he'd already accumulated.

The plan itself had been elegantly simple. He'd arrived at Hepzibah's residence as expected, all charm and fascination with her stories. As he had expected, she'd been pathetically eager to show off, practically begging him to admire the locket and cup she kept locked away.

Earlier that week, Riddle had sent Bug to the old witch under the pretext of delivering a small gift from his master. Mrs. Smith had been delighted; it didn't matter that it was just a small box of Begis chocolates. It was the gesture that counted. The memory.

And for Riddle, the knowledge that Bug could freely Apparate to Mrs. Smith's house.

It was the weakest point in the entire plan. But thanks to Potter's memories, Riddle knew that house-elves were capable of things most wizards would never suspect them of.

This oversight in the protective spells was a blessing for him, but a curse for Hepzibah. While Riddle charmed Hepzibah with sweet words, Bug lurked in her kitchen, waiting for the right moment to attack the old witch's house-elf.

The poisoned fruit had the same effect on her as it had on Slughorn — it paralysed her swiftly and completely. Riddle turned the locket in his hands and listened to the chatter of the old witch as she reached for the first chocolate-covered strawberry. Her words died mid-syllable as her body stiffened.

Riddle had been free to act.

Memory modification on that scale required precision. He had to remove every trace of the cup and locket from her mind: every conversation about them, every moment of ownership and every plan to show them to visiting scholars. Such extensive tampering carried risks. Side effects. There was potential for long-term damage to her cognitive functions.

Tom hadn't particularly cared.

Smith's elf had required similar treatment, though with less finesse necessary. In the near future, he'd need to dispose of the creature entirely — after all, killing a house-elf wasn't quite the same as killing a human. Potter could hardly object to that. Perhaps a cursed object, charmed to activate only at an elf's touch. Such accidents happened with surprising frequency in the wizarding world. No one would question it.

And certainly not in the home of a witch renowned for her passion for rare artefacts.

Afterwards, Riddle had finished his tea, and helped himself to a strawberry — an ordinary one this time. Bug had already Apparated the poisoned fruit and the stolen artefacts back to Riddle's flat. The most important rule: leave no traces. Dumbledore's inquisitiveness from the future had awakened previously unknown reserves of caution in Riddle. Another thing for which he should thank Potter.

Hepzibah Smith had had a suspiciously absent look in her eyes as she walked him to the door and Tom had kissed the air above her hand.

Now, feeling inwardly pleased with his own cunning, Riddle took a few steps back to admire his collection from a distance. Three artefacts, each representing a fragment of magical history. They were meant to be his Horcruxes. But only a fool never revises his plans.

Fortunately, these artefacts also had other uses. Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem had already proved its value.

The library door burst open.

Bug practically fell through it, chest heaving, eyes wide with panic. "Master! Master, Bug is looking at map like Master ordered, and—and—"

The house-elf's voice strangled in his throat, unable to force the words out.

Ice flooded through Tom's triumph.

"What." The word came out flat. Dangerous.

"Your brother is not on the map, Master!" Bug finally managed, his voice pitched high with fear. "Bug looked everywhere—common room, dormitory, Great Hall—nowhere! The dot, it is gone!"

Tom crossed the distance between them in three strides and ripped the Marauder's Map from Bug's trembling hands. His eyes found the seventh-floor corridor immediately.

Two dots. Only two.

Tertius Lestrange.

Alphard Black.

No Harry Riddle.

Nothing.

Rage detonated behind Tom's ribs — white-hot and all-consuming. The sound of breaking glass filled the air.

His hands crumpled the parchment. Before he could control the impulse, he was hurling the map at the wall with a scream.

The crumpled map bounced off the wall and rolled to the feet of the terrified house elf.

Riddle stood frozen, chest heaving, watching his reflection in the fractured glass.

Red eyes stared back.

He forced air through his teeth. Forced himself to think clearly.

Potter had tried to run.

Again.

Despite the surveillance. Despite the warnings. Despite everything Tom had done to ensure this exact scenario wouldn't happen.

Riddle's jaw tightened until his teeth ached.

Now all he could do was hope that Potter had been foolish enough to use Felix Felicis to aid his escape. The potion had been brewed by Tom for one purpose: to ensure his own success. His own fortune. And his fortune was intrinsically tied to Potter remaining exactly where Tom needed him. In the past. Under Tom's control.

Riddle forced himself to take a deep, calming breath.

If Potter had taken the potion, luck itself would work against his escape.

And when Potter emerged from wherever he was hiding—when he returned to Knockturn Alley as he inevitably must—

Tom would make certain he never tried to leave again, his Horcrux or not.

o.O.o

The owl arrived at dawn. Tom hadn't slept at all that night, not even after Bug had informed him that Potter was back on the map. The Cappadocian mage's advice had proved true: strong emotions could unleash magic. Tom had not felt such rage in a long time.

It had its advantages. He'd mastered several new wandless spells.

With a pleasant tingling in his fingers, he opened the window for the owl that had been tapping on the glass. It entered with a flutter of wings.

Lestrange or Potter?

o.O.o

Tom,

I take full responsibility — Tertius and Alphard really tried, but I tried harder. Don't punish them.

Please,

Harry.

o.O.o

Harry,

Bring me You-Know-What, and I may consider your request. Remember, however, that you will still bear the consequences of all your actions at Hogwarts. And there will be many of them. Then, consider whether you really want to add to them.

Tom

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX —

Mission impossible part I

"Gentlemen, let's establish what we have to work with. Apart from your infectious enthusiasm for the task at hand and Tertius's charming personality, of course," Alphard said, leaning casually against the teacher's desk that had seen better days.

The abandoned classroom was bathed in the pale, dusty light of late Saturday morning. It was the same place where Tertius had spoken to Harry just two days earlier: just as dusty and musty as before. The only difference was that this time, Alphard had cast anti-eavesdropping charms on it. It was better if no one found out that three students were planning to break into the headmaster's office.

Harry sat on the edge of a desk in the first row, his legs swinging idly. He felt overwhelmed — not just by the failed escape attempt, but by everything that had come with it. The realisation that he was truly trapped in the past. At the mercy of Tom Riddle: a young Voldemort who would almost certainly torture him the moment Harry finished his exams and returned to his clutches.

And his only chance of appeasing the future Dark Lord’s wrath was to deliver the Sword of Gryffindor — the very object that, in another time, was destined to destroy his Horcrux.

Alphard really couldn't blame him for his lack of enthusiasm. Not that he knew what Harry knew.

"Two copies of the Hogwarts map," Harry began reluctantly, unconsciously raising a hand to rub the bridge of his nose. It was still tender, despite Alphard’s healing spell.

Harry hadn't truly expected a furious Lestrange to be waiting for him the moment he emerged from the Room of Requirement on Thursday night. And he certainly hadn't anticipated that the Head Boy, pushed to his absolute limit by panic and fear of Riddle, would lose all composure and break Harry’s nose with a vicious right hook. It was a crude, violent reaction — just like any common Muggle, the very kind everyone here despised so deeply.

Apparently, in moments of total loss of control, purebloods were exactly the same as everyone else.

"It would be best if you handed one back to me," Harry continued carefully, knowing this was a sensitive issue. He glanced at Alphard. "Just so I know if anyone's coming."

Alphard looked at Tertius, who was pacing near the window with the restless energy of someone fuelled by caffeine and nerves.

"He gets it back the night of the mission," Tertius said immediately, his voice clipped. "Not a moment before."

"Hey, I'm here! Don't talk about me in the third person!" Harry protested, immediately straightening up.

"I'll talk about you however I like," Tertius hissed, stopping mid-stride.

The air in the abandoned classroom thickened instantly. To say that Tertius had developed a new obsession since Thursday night would be a massive understatement. The youngest Lestrange had shortened Harry’s leash so drastically that Harry couldn't even go to the bathroom without a shadow. That meant a solo walk back from the midnight Astronomy practical exam had also been out of the question, leaving them both severely sleep-deprived now.

And sleep-deprived, desperate people tended to go for each other’s throats.

Harry stared back at the older boy, wondering fleetingly what exactly had possessed him when he wrote to Riddle, offering to take the full blame. To take the fall for this prick?

His only excuse was that he had been acting under the influence of really strong emotions. He hadn't been thinking clearly. And Tertius hadn't hesitated to exploit that moment of weakness, practically dragging Harry to the owlery before dawn to send the letter.

"Alright," Alphard interjected, his tone deliberately light as he pushed himself up to sit on the teacher's desk, legs dangling. "That solves the issue of unwanted observers catching us red-handed in the corridors. But it still leaves other, rather pressing matters unresolved."

He behaved as if the tension that had been building between Harry and Tertius since yesterday was not about to explode at any moment. As if they had the time — or energy — for another fight.

However, he gave himself away by placing his wand on the counter and casually running his fingers over it.

Harry knew how quick the chaser's reflexes could be.

"How exactly do you plan to get into the headmaster's office?" Alphard continued, looking at Harry expectantly. "And once you're in there, what will you do? Do you know where to find this... this thing Tom needs? Do you have any ideas for portraits hanging on the walls? The moment they see you, they will raise the alarm. And we will be cooked."

Harry sighed. He knew he had to give in, because rationally speaking, Tertius had every right not to trust him. But that didn't make the whole situation any easier. Although he was a Gryffindor, he had spent enough time among Slytherins to know that power games were like that: not very spectacular but hidden in small gestures.

And that was why Alphard, seemingly doing nothing, defused the tension, allowing Tertius to save face.

And simultaneously took away Harry's chance to have the last word.

"I have... other resources," Harry muttered, avoiding Tertius’s penetrating gaze. "For example, I have a cloak. An Invisibility Cloak."

Tertius, who had resumed his pacing, scoffed. "A Disillusionment Charm woven into wool? Dippet’s wards will strip it before you cross the threshold."

"No," Harry said, his voice firm. "A real one. The enchantment — it doesn't fade so easily." He hesitated, then added the lie he had prepared. "It's... a legacy. From my second guardians. It's... a legacy. From my second guardians. I managed to grab this while I was escaping. You know, before the Aurors got their hands on it."

Tertius stopped abruptly and stared at him for a long moment, visibly re-evaluating. "Rare," he conceded, his tone shifting from mockery to cold calculation. "And extremely valuable. If it's genuine, it might actually fool the visual wards. That's a start, at least."

"It will," Harry said shortly. "As I said, it's a real Invisibility Cloak."

"Are you certain?" Tertius asked, his voice low and hard. He approached Harry.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm not betting my neck on your word alone. I want to see it beforehand. Inspect it myself."

When Tertius began to approach him, Harry jumped off the desk. They ended up face to face — or rather, face to chin, given Tertius's height advantage.

Harry hated having to look up. "Tom has already seen it," he said, keeping his voice steady. "He said it would do."

That should have settled the matter. Riddle's word was usually law, and questioning his judgment was dangerous territory. But the air in the room thickened again, heavy with Tertius's lingering paranoia. The Head Boy wasn't taking chances, not after Thursday.

"You will show me," Tertius insisted, taking another step closer, his voice brooking no argument. "Tonight."

Harry instinctively tightened his fingers around the wand hidden in his pocket. He 'd been a Seeker for years. His reflexes were also lightning fast.

"We're going to Crossed Wands tonight," Alphard reminded them from his perch on the teacher's desk, not moving an inch. "Unless, Tertius, you plan on skipping your duties as a second?" His gaze flicked between them — noting Harry's hand in his pocket, the rigid set of Tertius's shoulders. He let out an exaggerated sigh, as if he were watching two firsties squabble over a Chocolate Frog. "For Merlin's sake, could you two stand down? I'm getting tired of waiting for one of you to throw the first hex."

Lestrange's jaw tightened. He held Harry's gaze for a beat longer, then stepped back. "Tomorrow, then."

Harry realized it was a lost cause to argue. But his reluctance to hand over the Invisibility Cloak was visceral. He had barely gotten it back after months of Riddle keeping it in his possession; the thought of handing it over to a Lestrange made his skin crawl.

"Fine," Harry snapped. "But you examine it in my presence. And you hand it back the second you're done."

Lestrange opened his mouth, likely to tell Harry exactly where he could shove his conditions, but this time Harry cut him off.

"I’ve had it in my trunk for a week, Tertius. It’s not like I can use it to slip away when you don't even let me go to the bathroom without an escort."

"Given your track record, you're lucky I let you close the door."

"Gentlemen," Alphard intervened again, this time his voice sounded unusually serious. "Focus. We’re planning a break-in, remember?"

Tertius exhaled sharply through his nose. He glared at Harry for a second longer, then turned away, moving to lean against the dirty windowsill. He crossed his arms over his chest, fixing Harry with a vulture-like stare that promised this conversation wasn't over.

"Fine. The Cloak will conceal your identity," Alphard noted, nodding with growing approval. "But that still doesn't solve our biggest problem. The portraits might not see you, but they can certainly hear you. It will be pitch black in that office. "All you have to do is bump into a chair, knock over a quill during the search, breathe too loudly, and we're done for."

He paused, looking at Harry with a calculating tilt of his head. "Tom is thorough. He anticipates variables we haven't even thought of. What else did he give you?"

Alphard was right, of course. Riddle anticipated everything.

Harry felt a wave of reluctance. He knew that, if he admitted to having a vial of liquid happiness, it would be confiscated just as quickly as the Marauder's Map copies had been. Although the potion had not worked properly before, Harry still had a faint hope that he might find another opportunity to use it.

Unfortunately, he had no choice.

Yesterday, Tertius had unceremoniously snatched Riddle's letter from Harry's hands and read his ultimatum: their pardon depended entirely on the success of this mission. Since then, the Head Boy had been borderline manic about the mission. Even Alphard had lost some of his usual relaxed demeanour, though he seemed more driven by the thrill of the scheme than the paralyzing fear that gripped Tertius.

Besides, Harry had to admit — grudgingly — that the awareness he was not alone in this had an unexpectedly soothing effect.

"You're right. Tom thought of everything," Harry sighed, defeated. He returned onto the desk where he had been sitting earlier. "I also have half a vial of Felix Felicis."

The effect was immediate. Alphard froze, his eyes widening as if with sudden, dawning realization. As if the pieces of a puzzle seemed to fall into place.

"So that’s what it was for," he breathed, half to himself. He glanced briefly at Tertius, who merely nodded as if to confirm that he had come to the same conclusion. Then a grin spread across Black's face — that easy, reckless grin that made Harry's chest ache with unwanted recognition. "Merlin, Harry, why didn't you start with that? With Felix Felicis, we can't fail. You could walk into Dippet's office whistling and probably trip over exactly what you're looking for."

"Don't get too excited," Harry said, his voice flatter than he intended. "It doesn't work."

Alphard's grin faltered. "What do you mean, it doesn't work?"

"I mean—" Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustration and bitterness blurring together. "It doesn't work properly. Tom must have brewed it wrong."

Tertius stared at him from across the room. "Tom. Messed up. The brewing."

He repeated the words slowly, separately, as if tasting the sheer absurdity of the sentence.

Harry just shrugged. Yeah, it didn't work, end of story.

"Just to be clear," the Head Boy said, his voice heavy with scepticism, "we are talking about the same person, aren't we? Tom Riddle? A genius in literally every field of magic he touches? A wizard who corrected Professor Slughorn’s brewing techniques in his third year?"

Tertius pushed off from the windowsill and took a slow step forward, tilting his head as he scrutinized Harry. "I'm genuinely curious about your reasoning."

Harry shifted his weight on the desk, suddenly finding the dusty floorboards very interesting. A spike of unease pricked at him. Admitting this meant admitting to his self-appointed bodyguards exactly how hard he had tried to ditch them.

"My reasoning is that I used it on Thursday," Harry said, his voice tight. He forced himself to look up, though he avoided Tertius's gaze. "I drank a sip to... to slip past you. To get to the seventh floor unnoticed."

"And?" Tertius prompted.

"And it didn't work," Harry snapped, defensive now. "If it had worked as it should have, you wouldn't even have noticed that I was gone. And you certainly wouldn't have had a reason to break my nose."

He didn't mention the Room of Requirement. To his surprise, neither of them had grilled him yet about what that room actually was or how a door had materialized in a blank wall. Harry assumed they were simply too distracted — between the looming heist, the fear of Riddle's punishment, and the illegal Crossed Wands tournament Tertius was seconding tonight, they probably just hadn't had the bandwidth to interrogate him about it yet.

Lestrange studied him for a long moment. Something flickered in his brown-gold eyes — not quite amusement, but something similar. Something vindictive.

"Let me make sure I understand correctly," he said slowly. "You took Felix Felicis that Tom brewed specifically for you. You used it to sneak out undetected. And you were caught exactly where your brother ordered you not to go."

He paused, a smirk touching his lips. "And your conclusion is that the potion failed?"

Harry stared at him, exasperated. "I was caught. You broke my nose! In what universe is that the potion working?"

"Are you quite sure you're ready for your Potions exam next week?"

Harry blinked. "What does that have to do with—"

Alphard sighed, hopping off the desk and finally stepping between them before the tension could escalate again. He leaned against the desk where Harry was sitting "Actually, Harry... This is basic knowledge. And it's not so much about potions as it is about the theory of magic itself."

Harry looked at Black, trying not to blush. Since when had his lack of knowledge embarrassed him?

Riddle and his entourage were a bad influence on him.

"Explain."

"Felix Felicis is a psychoactive substance," Alphard began, slipping easily into the smooth, lecturing cadence with which Harry was now familiar. "It’s incredibly difficult to brew not just because of the ingredients, but because of the brewer's mindset. You have to maintain absolute mental neutrality. If you don't... the potion absorbs the brewer's will. Their definition of a 'successful outcome.'"

Alphard paused, letting the implication hang in the air for a moment before continuing.

Tertius crossed his arms, beaming with smugness.

"You drank the potion and wandered off to the seventh floor. You tried to slip the leash. And what happened? We noticed. We caught you." Tertius’s smirk widened, cruel and knowing. "If Tom brewed it to keep you under control, then a broken nose is a small price to pay for success, isn't it? I’d say the potion worked perfectly."

Harry felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach.

Was it really that simple? Had his plan been doomed from the moment he uncorked the vial? The thought was suffocating. It meant Riddle hadn't just anticipated Harry might try to escape; he had woven his countermeasures into the very magic Harry tried to use against him.

It made Harry feel small. Predictable. Like a chess piece thinking it was making a bold move across the board, only to realize a hand was already hovering over it, guiding it back to its designated square.

For a wild, desperate second, a new thought struck him: If the potion worked... if it stopped me from leaving because Riddle wanted me to stay... maybe… maybe?

Hope, fragile and dangerous, began to spark in his chest—

"Right," Alphard said loudly, clapping his hands together and shattering Harry’s train of thought before it could fully form. "So, we have the maps. We have the Cloak. We have the rigged —sorry, highly effective — Liquid Luck. That’s a solid start. But it’s still not enough."

Black pushed away from the desk and began pacing the narrow space between Harry's desk and the teacher's podium, thinking out loud.

"The portraits," he said, half to himself. "That's our real problem. Everything else is manageable, but the portraits..."

It's good that they didn't know about the Sorting Hat. That was a real problem.

"They're not just decorative," Tertius agreed, his voice clipped. "They're guardians. Bound to the castle's magic and loyal to whoever sits in the headmaster's chair."

"I'm aware." Alphard's tone carried a hint of wry amusement. "My great-grandfather was headmaster, remember? Phineas Nigellus. His portrait still hangs in our family home. The old bastard used to love to gossip — he'd sell his own mother for a good scandal — but now? If you ask him about the castle's secrets? He chokes. The magic binds them. If Dippet's portraits see anything suspicious, they won't have a choice but to report it."

Harry's attention drifted as they talked. He remained perched on the desk, legs dangling, but his mind was elsewhere.

If I went back, Harry thought, without drinking the potion this time...

"Thanks to the Cloak, the portraits won't notice him," Alphard concluded. "But…"

"But they can still hear him."

"What about the Silencing Charm?' Alphard suggested. "Cast on himself, not the room. That way his footsteps, his breathing — all of it becomes inaudible."

"Clever. But it's not enough. Think about it — he's not just walking through. He has to search. Open drawers. Shift items. The portraits might not hear him breathing, but they'll certainly see a drawer sliding open on its own, or a book in mid-air."

"But it will be at night; it will be dark."

"How do you imagine that will work? Is he supposed to search Dippet's office in the dark?"

"If his invisibility cloak is as real as he claims, as long as he keeps his wand under it, the light will only be visible to him."

"But what if he needs to reach for something? Or what if his cloak slips? It's too risky, Alphard. Besides, some portraits can see in the dark. We have one like that at home."

Alphard sighted. "You're right. So, we need a way to neutralise the portraits entirely. We need to stop them from observing, not just hide from them."

Would the wardrobe work if Riddle's potion wasn't pulling me back like a dog on a leash?

The thought was intoxicating. Dangerous. Harry knew he shouldn't entertain it — knew that even thinking about another escape attempt while Tertius was watching him like a hawk was foolish. But the possibility gnawed at him, refusing to be dismissed.

If the potion had been the cage, actively working against his escape attempt by suppressing the magic of the wardrobe, then maybe — just maybe — the wardrobe itself wasn't broken. Maybe it had been the Liquid Luck all along, steering him away from 'failure', ensuring his path aligned with Riddle's design.

If I could get back there. If I didn't drink anything beforehand. If I just—

"—some kind of concealing spell," Tertius was saying, his voice cutting through Harry's spiralling thoughts.

Alphard stopped pacing. "What kind of spell?"

"A freezing charm. Temporary — puts portraits into a sort of stasis." Tertius uncrossed his arms, straightening slightly. "Primus uses something like that from time to time. His office is full of family portraits. Ancestors who like to comment on his business dealings, his clients, our..." He paused, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. "...family discussions. When he needs privacy, he freezes them. They don't see or hear anything until the charm wears off."

"And you know this spell?"

"No." Tertius's admission came reluctantly. "He's never taught me. But I could write to him. Ask for the incantation."

"That would take days," Alphard pointed out. "Owl to London, owl back, then Harry has to learn it, practice it—"

"I know the spell."

The words left Harry's mouth before he'd fully decided to speak. Both Slytherins turned to look at him — Alphard mid-stride, Tertius with sharp surprise flickering across his features.

Harry swallowed. "Tom taught me. Before I came to Hogwarts."

A beat of silence. Then Tertius's expression shifted, cycling through emotions too quickly for Harry to catalogue. He caught a flash of something that looked like jealousy — sharp and quickly suppressed — before it settled into calculated assessment.

"Tom taught you Primus's spell," Tertius repeated slowly.

"I don't know if it's the same one. But it freezes portraits. Puts them in stasis, like you said." Harry shrugged, trying to appear casual despite the weight of both their stares.

"Well," Alphard said, breaking the tension with deliberate lightness. "That's convenient."

Tertius ignored him. His eyes hadn't left Harry's face. "Can you cast it effectively? On multiple targets?"

Harry hesitated. "We practised."

"That's not what I asked." Tertius took a step closer. "Dippet's office will have dozens of portraits. Maybe more. Can you freeze them all simultaneously, or do you need to target them one by one?"

The honest answer stuck in Harry's throat.

"We practised on one," he admitted reluctantly.

Tertius's expression flickered. "One."

"Tom doesn't exactly have a gallery in his flat." The words came out more defensive than Harry intended. He thought of Riddle's apartment on Knockturn Alley — the bare walls and the bookshelves that served as the only decoration. No portraits. No mirrors, except in the bathroom. Nothing that could watch, nothing that could report, nothing that could be used as a window into Riddle's private domain. The man's paranoia ran so deep that he'd stripped his living space of anything that might have eyes.

"Wonderful," Tertius muttered. "So you've practised once, on a single target, and now you need to cast it on an entire room full of them."

"Then we'll have to find Harry some portraits to practise on," Alphard said, as if this were the simplest thing in the world. "The castle is full of them. It shouldn't be difficult." He resumed pacing the room, then suddenly stopped. "But we haven't discussed one thing, and we should start with that. How will Harry even get to Dippet's office?"

"That won't be a problem," Harry said quietly.

Tertius raised an eyebrow. "You know the password?"

Harry met his gaze steadily. "I don't need one. I'll just ask it to open."

"In Parseltongue," Alphard whispered with sudden realisation.

Harry just nodded.

The blood adoption had made him a Riddle in more than name — it had made him an Heir of Slytherin, and Hogwarts would recognise that whether Harry liked it or not.

Tertius and Alphard exchanged a glance. Neither commented nor questioned it.

"Well then," Alphard said, breaking the silence with a clap that seemed a little too loud. "Maps, Cloak, Luck, Spell, and the way to access the headmaster's office. Gentlemen, I think we have a plan."

o.O.o

The fifth-year Slytherin moved like lightning. His wand made a complicated pattern in the air — too fast for Harry to follow — and a crackling bolt of sickly yellow energy shot across the platform. The sixth-year Slytherin raised her wand to counter, but she was too slow. The curse caught her square in the chest. She crumpled instantly, her body convulsing as she hit the ground.

The protective runes carved into the platform's edges glowed brighter, and the dome flickered as the girl's spell ricocheted off its invisible barrier.

Beside Harry, Alphard sucked air through his teeth. "Fuck me, that's got to hurt."

That didn't sound good.

"Nerve-scorcher. Nasty bit of magic, but it's still legal," Alphard explained, seeing Harry's questioning look. "Trust me, you don't want to be hit by that. Aspey will be sore for a week."

Tertius Lestrange was already vaulting onto the platform, wand raised. The Ravenclaw Head Girl rushed from the opposite side.

Above them, the crowd erupted. Some roared with approval, while others groaned in disappointment. Somewhere to Harry's left, a student's voice rose above the chaos: "Yes! Yes! YES!" Another groaned theatrically. Harry caught a snippet of conversation from two Slytherin nearby: "That's ten sickles you owe me, mate."

"Bloody hell," Morrison grumbled. "I really thought she had it."

Harry watched as Tertius gave the winner a quick pat on the shoulder on his way to where Aspey lay on the ground. The Ravenclaw Head Girl was already kneeling next to her, checking her pulse.

Within seconds, two more figures climbed onto the platform from opposite sides — a boy and a girl.

"Medical backup," Alphard whispered into Harry's ear.

 Harry recognized them vaguely from the exam halls, though he couldn't remember their names. Their prefect badges glinted in the torchlight. Both dropped to their knees beside Aspey. The boy — Hufflepuff, judging by his robes — raised his wand and cast something that made the air shimmer silver around the fallen girl's torso. Diagnostic spell?

Tertius reached them, looming over the clustered group. He said something and the Hufflepuff prefect looked up, still kneeling, listening intently. After a moment, he nodded.

Then the other prefect — Gryffindor, Harry noted — abruptly pushed the boy aside. Her wand moved in a more complex pattern, tracing symbols in the air that left faint golden trails. Healing magic, proper healing magic, not just diagnostics.

After a few seconds, the Hufflepuff boy seemed to understand and added his own wandwork, the silver shimmer from his spell weaving together with her golden light in a way that suggested practiced coordination.

Aspey's eyes fluttered open. She tried to push herself upright, but the Ravenclaw Head Girl's hand immediately pressed down on her shoulder, firm but gentle, keeping her flat against the platform.

Harry watched, impressed. Those prefects really looked like they knew what they were doing.

And it seemed to work.

A moment later, the broad-shouldered boy from Hufflepuff — the current Grand Master of the Crossed Wands, according to Alphard — bounded onto the podium. He waited until the self-appointed medical helped the groggy defeated duellist to her feet, then grasped the Slytherin boy's wrist and raised it high.

"Winner of third place — Malcolm Flint of Slytherin House!"

Flint raised his other fist triumphantly, and the galleries erupted in cheers once again.

"Fifteen-minute break!" Pemberton — Pembridge?— called out, his voice magically amplified. "Finals next. Place your last bets now if you're feeling lucky!"

The underground chamber exploded into noise and motion. Students immediately broke into animated conversation, voices rising to fill the vast space. Along the balconies, people shifted positions — some heading toward the corridor outside where Harry knew that students had set up shop selling butterbeers and pumpkin pasties, others moving to get better views for the finals, still others clustering together to settle bets or debate the merits of the upcoming match.

"—telling you, Whitmore's going to destroy her—"

"—Davies has gotten loads better since Christmas though—"

"Oi, Pritchard! Grab me a butterbeer while you're up there!"

"Get your own bloody butterbeer!"

Harry let the noise wash over him, his attention drifting to the duelling chamber itself. He'd been impressed when they'd first arrived, but the break gave him time to really look.

He was amazed that such a room even existed. And even better, it was unused.

Or at least not used by the professors.

The rectangular platform dominated the centre of the space, being significantly larger than the one Lockhart had conjured during Harry's second year. Ancient runes, intricate patterns that still glowed blue, were carved deep into its edges, creating an invisible barrier that had deflected more than a few wild spells during the earlier match. The ceiling arched high enough above the platform that spellfire could reach impressive heights without the danger of ricochet.

The balconies ringed the platform on all four sides, supported by thick stone pillars. Centuries-old stonework, Gothic arches, the kind of architecture that spoke of medieval Scotland and old, old magic. Torches burned in iron sconces along the walls, their light flickering across the faces of students packed shoulder-to-shoulder along the railings.

When was this club shut down? And why? It clearly didn't exist in his time — he'd never even heard of it, and Ron would definitely have told him about somewhere so exciting. Not to mention the twins. Had it been dissolved after Voldemort's first downfall? Or perhaps even earlier? Maybe at the same time that Hogwarts stopped officially teaching duelling? Classes doomed to oblivion yet so useful, because they could teach students how to actually fight back.

"So," Alphard said beside him.

Harry's attention snapped back. There was something in Alphard's tone — that studied casualness that meant he was working up to something.

Black’s fingers drummed once against the stone balustrade, then stilled. His gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance, tracking the movement of students below but not really watching them.

Then he shifted closer, and Harry caught it — that characteristic flick of the wand, subtle and practiced.

The ambient noise of the chamber dulled instantly, muffled as if someone had stuffed cotton in Harry's ears. A silencing charm, and a good one. The kind that created a bubble of privacy in a crowded room without being obvious about it.

Alphard turned to face him fully, his eyes sharp despite the easy smile on his face.

"Coming back to Thursday afternoon..." he began, quite out of the blue. "The seventh floor."

Here it was.

"What about it?" Harry kept his voice neutral, curious but not defensive.

"That room." Alphard's gaze didn't waver. "I didn't even know there was a chamber there. Been at this school six years, thought I knew every corridor worth knowing." He paused. "Even the map doesn't show it."

Harry's heart kicked once, hard, against his ribs.

He'd known one of them — Alphard or Tertius — would ask eventually. Had counted on it, actually, ever since morning, when he'd learnt about the unwelcome properties of Felix Felicis. The trick was making sure Alphard asked the right questions and reached the right conclusions on his own.

He was glad it was Alphard — he preferred Alphard.

"It doesn't show on the map because it's not always there," Harry said carefully.

Now he just had to be cautious. That damned Thought Wardening Curse could activate at any moment. Fortunately, he'd been working on circumventing it for weeks — and he was getting better and better at it. Intent was the most important. Frame it right, change the details that mattered, and he could talk about almost anything. He just had to be smart about it.

"Not always there," Alphard repeated slowly. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It only appears when someone really needs it. And each time it's something different, depending on what you need." Harry watched Alphard's expression shift from interest to scepticism.

"A hidden chamber that appears on demand and transforms itself? That sounds like something out of a children's story."

"I know how it sounds. I didn't believe it at first, either. Tom didn't believe me when I told him about it. Or at least, that's what I thought. But he must have considered it at least possible, given that he ordered you two to make sure I didn't even go near that seventh-floor corridor." Harry sighed, strategically averting his gaze. He didn't care much about Tertius, but he felt an unwanted twinge of guilt about playing Alphard for a fool.

"Tom knows about it?" Surprise sharpened Alphard's voice.

And he never told us. The second, unspoken half of the sentence hung heavily in the air.

"He found out from me. And I found out from my guardians in Ireland. The second ones," Harry clarified.

Alphard turned his whole body toward Harry, leaning his right side against the balustrade. His entire posture screamed: I'm listening.

Time for a story.

"They were both from England, both went to Hogwarts. Sirius especially loved telling stories about the castle — made it sound like the most magical place in the world." Harry's throat tightened slightly. Not entirely an act. "That's why I sometimes feel like I know this castle as well as if I'd studied here myself."

Alphard said nothing, but his stillness was expectant. An invitation to continue.

"But it was Remus who once told me about a chamber that appears on request. Apparently, he   had played a prank on the caretaker and needed to hide the evidence fast. He just happened to be on the seventh floor."

Alphard snorted with amused disbelief.

"Seriously, I know how it sounds. Tom reacted the same way when I first told him. But I think eventually he must have decided there might be some truth to the story, since he forbade me from looking for the room. Said it could be dangerous."

"And he was right. Hogwarts hides a great many surprises, and not all of them are pleasant. Your brother knows that better than anyone."

Harry nodded. "I know. He told me about how the school was nearly closed during his fifth year."

Suddenly, Alphard stiffened. "He told you about that?"

Harry shrugged. Careful, he reminded himself.

"He said he managed to track down the boy responsible for that girl's death."

Alphard visibly relaxed.

"Ah, right. But getting back to the room…"

Well, yes, Myrtle 's death was nothing to worry about, Harry thought bitterly. Nor was Hagrid's fate.

"It exists, and it works. You saw me walk out of it yourself. And so far, at least, it seems harmless."

The setup was done. Now it was time to switch tactics.

"And I'm telling you, it's amazing! I asked it to turn into the tent where I lived with Lupin and Sirius, and it did. Just—" Harry snapped his fingers. "—appeared. Like the room had reached into my head and pulled out the exact memory. "Everything was exactly right — the patched canvas, the camp stove that never worked properly, even the burn mark on the floor from when Sirius accidentally set his sleeping bag on fire."

The details came easily because they were real, just repackaged. The Weasleys' tent at the Quidditch World Cup, Grimmauld Place's cluttered rooms, memories twisted just enough to fit the narrative.

"Down to burn marks?" Alphard's scepticism was giving way to fascination. "That's—that's extraordinarily detailed transfiguration. Or conjuration. Or—" He shook his head. "What kind of magic even is that?"

"I don't know." Harry's answer was honest. "But it felt real. Solid. Not like an illusion or a memory charm. When I touched things, they had weight. Texture." He paused, then added quietly, "My mug was there. This chipped blue thing with a badly drawn snitch on it that Remus bought me at my thirteenth birthday my. I'd forgotten about it until I saw it sitting on the shelf."

The emotion in his voice wasn't forced. He was thinking about the Burrow, about Mrs. Weasley's kitchen, about all the small comfortable things he'd lost when he'd fallen through time.

Alphard was quiet for a moment, absorbing this. "So the room reads your mind? Pulls out memories and reconstructs them?"

"Something like that. Or maybe it just... understands what you need." Harry chose his next words with surgical precision. "According to Remus, it could create anything. If someone needed a place to hide things, the room turns into it. If they needed a workshop with particular tools..." He let the sentence trail off, watching Alphard's expression.

"A room for any purpose," Alphard murmured, more to himself than to Harry.

"Exactly." Harry kept his tone light, conversational. "I didn't test it extensively — I was too worried about Tom's and your reaction when you found out I'd gone looking for it despite his orders. But from what I saw, it seems capable of becoming whatever space you require. As long as you can picture it clearly enough."

"Any space," Alphard repeated. His fingers drummed against the balustrade — a faster rhythm now, betraying active thought. "With any features you might need."

There. That shift in tone. He was working toward something.

"I suppose so," Harry said casually. "Why?"

Alphard didn't answer immediately. His gaze had gone distant, unfocused, the look of someone mentally testing a hypothesis.

Harry allowed himself an internal smile — he had him!

Now there was only one question left: did Alphard care more about the success of the mission Riddle had given Harry, or about literally following the orders of the former head prefect?

Then Harry caught movement from the corner of his eye. Across the chamber, the current Grand Master of the Crossed Wands had begun making his way back toward the platform, weaving through clusters of students still absorbed in animated post-match discussions. But there was a shift in the atmosphere — subtle at first, then building. Students were starting to notice, conversations tapering off, bodies turning toward the arena.

"I think the next match is about to start," Harry said.

Alphard blinked, pulled from whatever internal calculation he'd been running. His eyes focused on the platform below, taking in Pemberton's approach.

"Right. Yes." He straightened, and with a subtle flick of his wand, the silencing charm dissolved.

Sound crashed over them like a wave — Harry's ears rang with the sudden assault of noise after the muffled quiet of their private bubble.

Pemberton hopped onto the podium with athletic ease, landing in the centre and raising both hands. The gesture alone was not enough to silence the crowd, so he pulled out his wand and amplified his voice:

"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please."

The effect was immediate. Conversations died mid-sentence. Students who'd been moving along the balconies froze in place. Even the younger years who'd been shoving each other for better positions went still.

Pemberton's grin was fierce and anticipatory. "The moment you've all been waiting for the moment we've been building toward all year." He turned in a slow circle, making eye contact with different sections of the crowd. "Tonight, we crown this year's Crossed Wands champion!"

A roar went up from the assembled students. Stamping feet made the balconies vibrate. Someone started a rhythmic chant that quickly got drowned out by competing cheers.

Pemberton let it continue for several seconds before raising his hands again. Silence fell more quickly this time, eager and expectant.

"Our finalists," he announced, "representing Gryffindor House — sixth year — Cerys Davies!"

A tall girl with dark red hair pulled back in a severe braid emerged from the crowd on the eastern balcony. She moved with the confident stride of someone who'd fought her way to this moment through skill and determination. As she descended the stairs to platform level, the Gryffindor section of the gallery erupted in cheers loud enough to rattle the enchanted torches.

"And representing Ravenclaw — seventh year — Elias Whitmore!"

The boy who stepped forward from the western balcony couldn't have been more different from Davies. Lean and wiry where she was solid, he had the kind of compact build that suggested speed over power. His dark hair fell across his forehead in artful disarray that was deliberate. The Ravenclaw cheers were more measured than Gryffindor's volume, but no less intense.

Both duellists made their way to opposite ends of the platform, ascending the short steps with the ease of familiarity.

"How many matches have they fought to get here?" Harry asked Alphard, taking advantage of a moment when the wild cheers of the crowd had died down a little.

"To reach the finals? Ten. This is their eleventh."

Harry whistled softly, fighting the growing feeling of envy. If this club had survived to his time... Ron would surely have joined from his first year, and Hermione would have immediately reported it to the teachers.

A sudden pang of longing pierced him at the very thought of his friends.

Harry didn't fight. He let himself feel it.

Pemberton waited until the duellists had taken their positions at opposite ends of the platform before speaking again.

"The rules, as always: no spells with irreversible or fatal effects. No illegal magic — and yes, that includes everything on the Ministry's prohibited list, regardless of how creative your justifications might be." This earned scattered laughter from the crowd. "The match ends when one duelist is disarmed, incapacitated, or otherwise unable to continue."

He paused, making sure everyone — especially the competitors — was paying attention.

"Alternatively, victory can be claimed if a second judges their duellist's situation too dangerous to continue and intervenes to prevent serious harm. This is not a decision to make lightly, and the second's judgment is final." His gaze swept over both ends of the platform. "Head Boy, Head Girl — please step forward."

Tertius and the Head Girl also stepped onto the platform, meeting Pemberton in the middle of the duelling space. He produced two small objects from his pocket — coins, maybe, or tokens of some kind. Harry couldn't see clearly from this distance.

"Standard draw," Pemberton said, holding out both hands, fists closed. "Choose."

The Ravenclaw Head Girl tapped his left hand. Tertius, by default, got the right.

Pemberton opened both fists, revealing what looked like coloured stones — one red, one blue.

"Red for Gryffindor, blue for Ravenclaw," he announced for the crowd's benefit. "Leticia draws blue: she'll second for Whitmore. Tertius draws red: he's with Davies."

Interesting, Harry thought. Lestrange would be watching over the Gryffindor duellist, while the Ravenclaw Head Girl would protect her own housemate. He wondered if that made it easier or harder — whether house loyalty added pressure or clarity to their judgment.

Harry, of course, was wholeheartedly rooting for his house.

Both seconds moved to their designated platforms — raised sections positioned just off the main duelling stage, close enough to intervene quickly but far enough to stay out of the immediate line of fire. Tertius positioned himself carefully, wand held loosely at his side but ready. His eyes never left the duellists as they settled into their starting positions.

He looked professional in every way — not like someone who hadn't slept for two nights, consumed by fear and stress.

Pemberton took a final look at both duellists, then at both seconds, confirming everyone was ready. Then he stepped to the very edge of the platform, preparing to descend. "Duellists —prepare yourselves!"

The chamber fell into breathless silence.

Davies and Whitmore faced each other across the platform. The distance between them —perhaps twenty feet — suddenly seemed both vast and intimate. This was it. The culmination of months of training, dozens of matches, countless hours of practice.

Slowly, precisely, following protocol that must have been drilled into them, both duellists bowed. Not deep — just a respectful inclination of the head and shoulders. Acknowledgment of skill, of worthy opposition, of the battle about to begin.

Although illegal, Crossed Wands also honoured an old tradition.

"May the best duellist win," Pemberton declared as both competitors straightened.

Then he jumped off from the platform, leaving the arena to them.

Davies's wand came up first, but Whitmore's movement followed so quickly it might as well have been simultaneous.

"Stupefy!"

"Bombarda!"

Red light clashed with violet in a shower of sparks. The duel had begun.

o.O.o

The plan had worked. Mostly.

As Harry had anticipated, Alphard had reached the conclusion on his own — that the Room of Requirement could be used to practice the heist, creating a perfect replica of Dippet's office where Harry could rehearse freezing portraits and navigating the space without risk of discovery. What he hadn't anticipated was Alphard's immediate impulse to share this brilliant idea with Tertius. And not just share it — present it as fully formed strategy requiring immediate implementation.

Right after the Crossed Wands finals, when Lestrange was practically swaying on his feet from exhaustion and stress, still coming down from the adrenaline of seconding two brutal duels.

In hindsight, Harry should have seen it coming. Black was loyal to Riddle above all else, and any plan that deviated from established orders — even to better serve those orders — required the consent of all those involved. Especially those higher up in the hierarchy. In this case, the Head Boy acting as Riddle's proxy.

Tertius's response had been immediate and predictable: absolutely not.

The argument had lasted nearly an hour, playing out in the same abandoned classroom where they'd planned the heist Saturday morning. Harry had sat on the edge of a desk, swinging his legs and trying to look appropriately invested while Alphard made his case and Tertius shot it down with increasing irritation.

"Tom's orders were explicit," Tertius had said. " Seventh floor corridor is forbidden. The entire floor.

"Tom's orders," Alphard had countered, "were to stay away from dangerous unknowns. If we understand what the room is, if we're using it for his purposes—"

"If such a room even exists," Tertius had cut in, voice sharp with scepticism. "A chamber that transforms itself on demand? That reads minds and conjures whatever you need? That's not magic, Black. That's a fairy tale."

Harry bit his cheek to keep from speaking. A fairy tale. Sure. The same fairy tale he had used in his fifth year during Dumbledore's Army meetings. The same fairy tale that had transported him back in time when he entered a cupboard that shouldn't have been there.

"Harry walked out of it. I saw the door appear—"

"You saw a door. In a castle full of hidden passages and trick walls. That doesn't prove—"

"Then we test it," Alphard had pressed, leaning forward with the kind of stubborn determination that probably served him well as Quidditch Captain. "We go there together, all three of us. Harry demonstrates. If it works the way he described, we have the perfect training ground. If it doesn't, we drop it and never mention it again."

Harry had kept his mouth shut during most of it, letting them argue. Black had been as enthusiastic about the idea as Harry himself, and his arguments were logical, methodical, flawless: the mission's importance, the need for practice, the fact that Harry had already been to the room and emerged unharmed, the strategic advantage of rehearsing in an environment identical to their target.

Nearly an hour of circular debate later, Tertius had finally conceded. But his conditions were non-negotiable: they would write to Riddle first, explain the plan, and wait for explicit permission before proceeding. No exceptions. No circumvention.

The owl had departed Sunday afternoon, bearing Tertius's carefully worded letter requesting authorization to utilize the seventh-floor chamber for mission preparation.

Now it was Monday morning, they were having their breakfast at the Great Hall and Harry's nerves were strung tight as piano wire. He did not give a thought to the Potion's exam awaiting him today.

Every few minutes, the distinctive sound of wings would filter through the ambient noise — a collective rustle as the morning post arrived in waves rather than all at once — and Harry's head would snap up.

A while owl swooped down three seats to his left, dropping a package wrapped in brown paper.

Not for him. Not for Tertius.

Harry returned to his toast.

Two minutes later, another flutter of wings. A sleek barn owl descended toward the Ravenclaw table, a rolled parchment tied to its leg.

Still nothing.

"You're going to give yourself whiplash," Alphard murmured beside him, spreading marmalade on his toast with. "If Tom's sending instructions, they'll arrive when they arrive. Watching the ceiling won't make it happen faster."

Easy for him to say. Alphard wasn't the one whose entire escape plan hinged on a sociopath's permission slip.

Harry forced himself to look down at his plate, to take another bite of toast that turned to sawdust in his mouth. Across the Great Hall, the doors to the Entrance Hall swung open.

A stir went through the Gryffindor table as Cerys Davies walked in.

The sixth-year girl looked tired but triumphant. She moved a little stiffly — probably a lingering effect of a hex she’d taken to the ribs during the final — but the way her housemates made room for her at the table spoke volumes. She was their Crossed Wands champion.

Harry watched her sit down, his mind wandering back to the underground chamber.

It still baffled him that something like that — so dangerous and yet so meticulously structured — could exist under the teachers' noses. Riddle had mentioned the tradition was decades old, which meant half the current staff had probably participated themselves as students. Dumbledore almost certainly knew. Slughorn? Maybe. Flitwick had been a duelling champion in his youth — had he learned in that same underground chamber?

And now they did nothing about it, simply allowed the students to continue the tradition.

The thought was both fascinating and disturbing. Here was a Hogwarts where staff turned a blind eye to students practicing combat magic in secret chambers. No adult supervision. No official oversight. Just prefects serving as seconds and medics, students teaching students, knowledge passed down through informal networks that disregarded house divisions.

Like a better, more developed and accessible version of their Dumbledore's Army.

Harry thought of Percy Weasley and couldn't quite imagine him agreeing to serve as a second in an illegal duelling tournament. Then again... Percy took his prefect duties seriously. Perhaps he would have seen it as a responsibility. A duty to protect students, even — especially — in activities that weren't strictly sanctioned. Harm reduction over prohibition.

He glanced down the Slytherin table. Aspey, the girl who had lost the match for third place, was sitting a few seats away. She was pale, holding her teacup in both hands to hide the tremor, her movements careful and pained. That Nerve-Scorcher curse Alphard had identified hadn't just been for show — it was vicious, leaving lingering nerve damage that would take days to fully heal.

The Gryffindor-Ravenclaw final had been cleaner, more technical, but no less violent. Harry had watched, mesmerized, as Davies and Whitmore traded spells with an impressive speed. After watching two matches, his fingers had itched to hold his wand properly, to try out the shield charm variation Whitmore had used to deflect a Blasting Curse...

Whoosh.

A rush of air interrupted his thoughts. A sleek black owl dropped a letter beside Tertius Lestrange's plate.

Only beside Tertius's plate.

Harry held his breath and glanced briefly at Alphard sitting next to him. He seemed just as excited, although he hid it better than Harry.

Tertius didn't react immediately. He finished chewing his current bite of scrambled eggs with infuriating calm. Swallowed. Reached for his coffee, took a measured sip. Set the goblet down with deliberate care.

Only then did he pick up the envelope and broke the seal. Unfolded the parchment. His eyes tracked across the page, expression perfectly neutral. The Head Boy's face gave away nothing—not approval, not refusal, not even mild interest. Just that same carefully controlled mask he wore when dealing with anything that might reflect poorly on his competence.

The silence stretched. Harry's nails dug crescents into his palms under the table.

Finally — finally! — Tertius looked up. His brown-gold eyes met Harry's directly, holding his gaze with deliberate precision.

And slowly, deliberately, he nodded.

Harry let out the breath, he knew what that meant.

Tom Riddle had agreed.

Under the table, hidden from view, Harry's hands were shaking as hope returned to his heart.

Chapter Text

— CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN —

Mission impossible part II

The empty seventh-floor corridor stretched in both directions. Torches flickered, shadows shifting across stone walls. Harry leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed, watching Tertius check the Marauder's Map and peer around the nearest corner again.

"We know the map works," Alphard said flatly from his spot by the wall where the door to the Room of Requirement was supposed to appear. "Stop fussing and come here, because if you keep delaying, someone will actually come."

"I'm being thorough," Tertius said coolly, straightening up with dignity. "Tom's instructions were explicit about discretion."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek to keep from snorting.

Bloody Riddle's instructions.

The plan had been simple. Get Tertius and Alphard to the seventh floor. Demonstrate the Room of Requirement by requesting the Room of Hidden Things — casually, naturally, as if it were just another test of the chamber's abilities. Once inside it, it would be easy to get lost among the towering piles of discarded items. They'd search for him, of course, but the Room was enormous, maze-like. He'd have time to find the wardrobe and—

But Riddle had anticipated him. Of course, Riddle had anticipated him. The letter Tertius had received that morning had been characteristically brief: You may use the Room for preparation. Under no circumstances is Harry to activate it himself. Ensure he understands this and do not disappoint me a second time.

And that had settled the matter.

"Right then," Tertius said, finally abandoning his surveillance. He fixed Harry with a suspicious look. "Walk me through it. Again."

"I've already explained it twice," Harry said, not bothering to hide his irritation.

"Then a third time won't tax you unduly." Tertius's voice stayed polite, but something sharp edged underneath. "Humour me."

"You walk past that section of wall three times. While you're walking, you need to think very clearly about what you need. The space you require. Be specific." Harry slowed each word down as though Tertius were a particularly stupid mountain troll. "That's it. That's the entire complicated, arcane ritual."

"Watch your tone — I'm not an idiot." Finally, the youngest Lestrange moved toward Alphard and nudged him away from the wall. "Step back." Then, to Harry, "Stay where you are. Don't move. Don't—" He paused, mouth tightening, "—just don't."

"Whatever you say," Harry said, rolling his eyes.

Tertius shot him a warning look before turning to face the blank wall. For a long moment, he simply stood there, shoulders rigid. Then, cautiously, he began to walk.

One. Measured steps. Two. He turned precisely. Three.

Harry watched in frustration. It should have been him doing this. Should have been his chance.

Alphard let out a sharp breath when a door appeared on the previously empty wall. It was solid, oak by the look of it, with a handle that gleamed in the torchlight.

Tertius stared at it for a long moment. "Merlin's beard," he whispered.

"Told you," Harry said, the words sharper than intended.

The Head Boy reached for the handle, then hesitated. His hand hovered over the brass before he finally grasped it and pushed.

The door swung open silently.

Tertius went in first, wand already drawn. Harry and Alphard followed — Alphard craning his neck to see everything at once, Harry's jaw tight.

"You could have asked for anything," Alphard said, shaking his head, "and you chose your bedroom?"

"There will be plenty of opportunities for testing," Tertius said, and Harry caught a thread of wonder beneath his usual scepticism. "For now, I wanted to see if it really replicates spaces as accurately as Harry claimed."

The room had outdone itself.

The seventh-year boys' dormitory had been recreated in meticulous detail: four-poster beds with green curtains, desks, trunks, chairs — and even Harry's Potions notes, which he had been reviewing that very morning, scattered carelessly across the nearest desk.

Harry's throat went tight. He'd never thought to use the Room this way. For Dumbledore's Army meetings, they'd just needed space and practice equipment. Simple. Functional. It had never occurred to him to test how exact the replication could be.

And watching Tertius move through the room now — opening drawers, checking shelves, examining every bloody surface like he was building a case — Harry realised, with a sinking feeling, that he'd underestimated the youngest Lestrange.

Again.

Tertius approached his own bed, running his hand over the coverlet as if testing its texture. Then he knelt and opened the trunk at its foot. He looked at the contents of his trunk for a moment. Then, with careful deliberation, he reached inside and withdrew something — a quill, from what Harry could see. One with distinctive raven feathers that Tertius had been using all week.

"This is mine," Tertius said quietly, turning the quill over in his hands. "This exact quill. There's even a crack in the shaft."

He looked at Harry — wondering, suspicious.

"The room doesn't just create approximations," Harry said, keeping his voice level despite his growing frustration. "It reads what you need and makes it real. Or real enough."

"Real enough," Tertius repeated. He turned the quill once more, then: "Let's test that." He slipped the quill into his pocket.

Meanwhile, Alphard had given up on caution entirely and was making straight for Flint's trunk like it was Christmas morning. He reached for the lid—

A sharp crack of magic. Alphard yelped and jerked his hand back, shaking his fingers.

"Bloody hell!" He examined his hand, flexing his fingers experimentally. "Stinging hex on a trunk? Really?"

"Apparently Flint values his privacy," Tertius said from across the room where he'd moved to inspect the desk.

Alphard's eyes narrowed — not giving up, then. He moved to the next trunk—Donovan's—and this time approached more carefully. When his fingers touched the lid, another protective charm activated, but this one was subtler. A faint shimmer of magic.

"Aha." Alphard pulled out his wand. "Alohomora won't work on this, but if I just—"

His wand moved in a complex pattern, his lips moving soundlessly. The shimmer around the trunk flickered once, twice—

"Alphard." Tertius's voice went sharp.

"Almost got it—"

"Alphard, stop."

"Just give me a second—"

A flash of red light. Alphard threw himself sideways, the Stinging Hex missing him by inches and hitting Carrow's bed curtains instead.

"What the hell, Lestrange!" Alphard straightened, indignant.

"We're not here to rifle through our housemates' private belongings," Tertius said sharply. "Testing the room's accuracy is one thing. Breaking through protective charms to satisfy your curiosity is quite another."

"Since when did you become such a model prefect?" Alphard shot back, though he lowered his wand with visible reluctance. "You used to be fun, Lestrange."

"That was before I had to think about how to break into Dippet's office."

"Fair point." Alphard cast one last longing look at Donovan's trunk, then shrugged dramatically. "Fine. Have it your way. But you owe me for this moral superiority nonsense. And since we've already established your bedroom is boring, I want my turn. Move."

Tertius opened his mouth as if to protest, then apparently decided against it. He allowed himself to be ushered out, following Alphard into the corridor.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, the oak panels dissolved back into solid stone. Tertius immediately reached into the pocket where he had hidden the quill earlier — then went still. He turned the pocket inside out. Empty.

"Well, at least one thing is certain."

Harry's stomach dropped. These people were too clever. Too dangerous. No wonder Riddle had built what he did with followers like this.

Almost all of them, anyway. Black was bouncing like a kid on Christmas morning. Harry couldn't remember seeing any of Riddle's Slytherins this openly excited — even Selwyn seemed reserved by comparison.

"Right," Alphard said, rubbing his hands together. "Focus. Need. Intent."

Black strode past the wall with a spring in his step, his brow furrowed in concentration that looked more excited than anything else. When the door appeared after the third pass, Alphard didn't hesitate. He threw it open.

The smell of broomstick polish and leather hit Harry instantly.

It was a Quidditch shop — but not just any shop. The space stretched impossibly wide, the ceiling high enough for practice hoops to hang near the rafters like golden rings. Shelves lined the walls, packed with equipment: Quaffles arranged by year and make, Bludgers in reinforced cases, entire sections dedicated to different styles of gloves and protective gear.

But the centrepiece was the brooms.

Dozens of them, displayed like works of art. The latest racing models gleamed on the nearest rack — Comets, Silver Arrows, even what looked like a prototype Cleansweep. Further back, vintage brooms hung in careful arrangements, their wood polished to a high shine despite their age.

"Oh, this is beautiful," Alphard breathed. He was already moving toward the nearest rack, running his hands over the broom handles with something close to reverence. "Look at these. Just look."

Despite everything — the ruined plan, the failed escape, Tertius's paranoid surveillance — Harry found himself drawn forward. The Quidditch shop was magnificent, he had to admit. His fingers itched to touch the brooms, to test their weight and balance.

Why hadn't he ever thought of this himself?

"This one's perfect," Alphard announced, pulling down a sleek racing broom with a dark mahogany handle. He grabbed a second — slightly older model but well-maintained — and tossed it to Harry in one fluid motion. "Catch."

Harry's hand shot out on instinct. The broom handle settled into his grip with familiar weight.

"Absolutely not," Tertius said from the doorway. His voice was ice cold. "Put those back. Now."

"Oh, come on," Alphard said, already mounting his broom. "We're supposed to be testing the room's capabilities, aren't we? How better to test than to actually use—"

"Alphard. Get off that broom."

"But Tertius—"

"Now."

Alphard kicked off anyway.

The ceiling was high enough for proper flight, and Alphard took immediate advantage, spiralling upward with a whoop. He banked around a display of vintage Quaffles, his robes whipping behind him.

"This is brilliant! Harry, get up here!"

Harry hesitated for exactly half a second — just long enough to catch Tertius's expression turning murderous — before the lure of flying proved too strong. He kicked off, rising smoothly into the air.

"GET DOWN HERE!" Tertius's voice echoed through the shop. "BOTH OF YOU! THIS INSTANT!"

Black zigzagged between the shelves, and Harry kept up with him without any trouble. It was madness. Absolute madness.

And exactly what Harry needed — apart from the Room of Hidden Things. Just for a moment.

Then a spell whistled past Alphard's head.

"I SAID GET DOWN!"

Another spell — this one didn't miss. It struck Alphard's broom with a crack and a shower of sparks. Half the bristles in the tail burst into flame before guttering out, leaving charred, useless twigs.

Alphard's broom lurched violently. He managed to stay on — barely — and descended in a wobbly spiral that ended with an ungraceful thump on the floor.

"You could have killed me!" Alphard shouted, examining his smoking broom with what looked like genuine dismay.

"I could have done considerably worse," Tertius shot back. His wand was still raised, his face flushed with anger. "The room is for preparation, not recreation," Tertius snapped. "We have a mission—"

"Believe it or not, I hadn't forgotten about it. I was just testing the room's capabilities," Alphard said, brushing soot from his robes. He held up the ruined broom. "See? It created fully functional brooms. Flies perfectly. Well — flew perfectly."

Harry landed beside them, biting back a grin. The sight of Tertius literally shaking with fury while Alphard stood there with a burnt broom and an unrepentant expression, was too much.

"You think this is funny?" Tertius turned on him.

"Bit funny," Harry admitted.

"This is exactly why Tom gave explicit instructions. You're both completely—" Tertius cut himself off, visibly fighting for composure. "We have three days until the actual mission. Three days to prepare for something that could land us all in serious trouble if it goes wrong. And you're treating it like a game."

"We were testing," Alphard repeated, but the smirk had faded.

"Testing involves systematic evaluation, not—" Tertius gestured sharply at the brooms, "—whatever that was."

Harry saw his opening. Now or never.

"Right, well, you've both tested," Harry said, keeping his tone casual. "Tertius got his bedroom. Alphard got his Quidditch shop. My turn."

Tertius went very still.

He turned slowly. "Absolutely not."

"What? Why not?" Harry kept his expression innocent. Curious. "We're all testing. I should get a chance to—"

"No." Tertius's voice dropped — quiet and controlled in that way that meant danger. "Your brother's orders were explicit. You don't activate the room. Under any circumstances."

"That's ridiculous. I'm the one who told you about it in the first place—"

"And Tom's the one who gave clear instructions about how we're permitted to use it." Tertius took a step closer. "Instructions that you will follow. Do you understand me?"

Harry's grip on the broom tightened. "I just want to—"

"I don't care what you want." Tertius's words came out precise. Clipped. "Tom said you're not to activate the room. That's final. If I catch you so much as approaching that wall with intent, you will regret it. Are we clear?"

"Perfectly clear," Harry said between clenched teeth.

"Good." Tertius lowered his wand but stayed tense. "We'll continue testing tomorrow. With proper supervision and actual preparation for the mission. Not—" he shot Alphard a look, "—recreational flying."

"Spoilsport," Alphard muttered, but he was already heading for the door.

o.O.o

The second week of exams had begun with a Potions theory exam, which, ironically, Harry felt he'd done much better on than in his own time. At least, that had been his feeling as he'd left the Great Hall on Monday morning.

Perhaps it was because he hadn't cared. Perhaps that was the trick all along—stop trying so hard and your mind suddenly cleared. Or perhaps it was just that after three months under Tom Riddle's thumb, facing down pre-Death Eaters and surviving Abraxas Malfoy's revenge, a written potions exam might have felt trivial.

Either way, Harry had been focused despite his better judgement. The questions had provided a welcome distraction from the nerves every time he thought about the afternoon ahead. At that point, he'd still believed activating the Room of Requirement would be possible. Still believed his self-appointed bodyguards wouldn't mind if he took his turn. Still believed that by evening, everything would change. So he had bent over his examination parchment and let the familiar rhythm of answering questions make time pass faster.

Reality, as it turned out, had proved far less cooperative. But that disappointment still lay hours ahead.

The practical in the afternoon had demanded sharper focus. Harry stood at his cauldron preparing an Anti-Paralysis Potion, and when he reached the stage where the powdered mud fungus needed to be added, he hesitated. A memory surfaced unbidden: Sebastian Selwyn leaning over his shoulder in Secundus's studio, dark curls dishevelled, sharp cologne filling Harry's nose.

Add the juice of smoky garlic first. My grandfather’s trick. Works every time

He had reached for the garlic instead.

The effect had been immediate. And exactly the same as in Secundus Lestrange's laboratory.

The triumph had tasted bitter, though. Selwyn's tip had been offered in different circumstances — back when the older Slytherin had treated Harry with casual, careless friendliness, as though Harry was a slightly amusing younger cousin at a family gathering. Of all Riddle's followers, only Alphard had been more approachable. Until, of course, Harry had nearly bled Selwyn's best friend to death with a curse he hadn't tried before. Hard to hold that against someone, really.

He had bottled the finished potion — flawless, he was fairly certain — and handed it to the examiner.

Evening came, and Harry felt fate throwing obstacles in his path with cheerful determination.

And then evening came, and Harry once again had the feeling that fate was throwing obstacles in his path with cheerful malice.

During Tuesday's Defence Against the Dark Arts exam, Harry's hand moved across the parchment with steady confidence. His mood was slightly worse than the day before, but he refused to let that extinguish hope. There had to be a way. There was always a way.

Besides, he would have Wednesday afternoon, when Tertius would be sitting his Ancient Runes exam and Alphard would be easier to manoeuvre. There was still a chance.

This fragile hope carried him into the Defence practical with something approaching enthusiasm. The exam felt almost insultingly easy; Harry demonstrated Shield Charms and Stunning Spells with precision born from actual combat — from the Department of Mysteries, from the graveyard, from three months of duelling Tom Riddle. His Reductor Curse left a perfectly clean hole through the centre of the practice target.

"Remarkable control," one examiner murmured. "Your Transfiguration examiners mentioned your wandwork was exceptional, but this is..."

"You don't happen to have an older brother, do you?" the other asked.

"Yes, sir. Tom Riddle."

"Ah, of course. I remember Mr. Riddle. Examined him two years ago."

Across the room, Potts watched with undisguised venom. Ever since Morrison had joked about Harry replacing him on the team, the Slytherin Seeker had treated Harry with icy hostility.

Harry found he didn't particularly care. At least Potts's hatred was honest, uncomplicated by false friendship or strategic manipulation. There was something almost refreshing about being straightforwardly hated.

That evening brought more preparation for Friday's break-in. Tertius drilled Harry for hours on the attention-diverting charm for the portraits in Dippet's office. The Room of Requirement obliged with a practice space—though only after Tertius rejected the first two configurations as inadequate. When Alphard arrived halfway through, cheerfully announcing he'd stuffed his dormitory with portraits for testing, Tertius immediately herded them out and reactivated the Room as a replica of Alphard's dormitory.

The test was simple but crucial: if the Room's copied portraits behaved independently of their originals, they needed to know.

Wednesday morning brought confirmation — the portraits in Alphard's actual dormitory had noticed nothing. The Room's copies were perfect, isolated, unconnected to Hogwarts's broader portrait network. Tertius looked satisfied. Harry didn't care.

The Herbology theory paper was the last hurdle before the afternoon that mattered. Harry read through questions about Venomous Tentacula and Snargaluff pods and felt a perverse urge to fail on purpose, just to spite Brandon Avery. Of all Riddle's followers, the trainee healer was the one who made the least effort to disguise his contempt. He looked after Harry because he had to, healed him because he had to, and resented every second of it. The idea of deliberately wasting Avery's tutoring had a petty, satisfying appeal.

But the clock showed two hours remaining, and the afternoon — his last real chance at the Room of the Requirement — was tantalisingly close. He needed the time to pass. Boredom was worse than Avery's memory. He picked up his quill.

The answers came easily. Harry finished with half an hour to spare and put down his quill with the irritating suspicion that he'd done quite well again. The pattern was becoming hard to ignore: the less he cared about the exams, the better he performed. Or perhaps Riddle's tutors were simply better than Hogwarts professors at hammering knowledge into unwilling skulls.

Avery would be insufferable if he ever found out.

Finally, Wednesday afternoon arrived. After lunch, Tertius left Harry in Alphard's care with very clear instructions.

"I expect productive use of this time," Tertius had said, his tone carrying that familiar Lestrange edge — polite on the surface, sharp underneath. "The distraction charm needs to be flawless by tomorrow. Absolutely flawless. We'll be conducting the final rehearsal in a replica of Dippet's office." He'd paused, his gaze settling on Alphard with deliberate weight. "And naturally, I trust you'll ensure Harry remains... appropriately supervised. We wouldn't want any unfortunate distractions from the mission at hand."

The unspoken meaning hung in the air: don't let him out of your sight.

Harry hated when they talked about him like he wasn't there. But this time, he didn't protest. Let Tertius think he was resigned, compliant, focused only on Friday's theft.

"Relax," Alphard had said with an easy grin. "I'll keep him busy. We'll have that charm perfected before you're done writing your final rune."

They went up to the seventh floor. Harry practised the distracting spell over and over again until all the figures in the portraits fell asleep at the same time. Alphard sprawled out on the conjured sofa, occasionally correcting Harry, but mostly looking bored.

After nearly an hour, Harry decided he had waited long enough.

"You know," he said finally, as casually as he could manage, "one of my guardians, Remus, once told me something interesting about this room."

Alphard's eyes slid toward him. "Yeah?"

"He said there's a version of it — a storage space, I think — filled with things people have hidden here over the years. Centuries worth of stuff just... piled up."

"A storage room." Alphard sat up slightly. "Inside the Room of Requirement?"

"More like a graveyard for lost things." Harry shrugged, examining his wand with studied disinterest. "He spent an entire afternoon exploring it once. Said he found all sorts of mad objects. Cursed jewellery, ancient books, probably half the missing homework assignments in Hogwarts history—"

"And you want to see it."

Harry looked up. Alphard was watching him with that particular Slytherin expression — interested but wary.

"Well, yeah," Harry said. "Wouldn't you? I mean, if someone told you there was a room full of potentially valuable magical artefacts just sitting there—"

"Tom said you weren't to activate the Room."

"I know."

"And Tertius would skin us both if we deviated from his very specific instructions."

"I know that too."

Alphard studied him for a long moment. "So what exactly are you suggesting?"

"I'm not suggesting anything." Harry kept his voice light. "I just think it's a shame I'll never get to see if Remus was telling the truth or just winding me up. You know what he was like — half the stories he told could've been complete rubbish."

"Hmm." Alphard tapped his fingers against the arm of the sofa. "What kind of artefacts did he mention? Specifically."

Harry's pulse quickened.

"He never got too detailed — said some of it looked dangerous, some just old. And there were so many of these things that they formed corridors you could wander for hours. Like a maze." Harry paused, then added with perfect casualness, "Could've all been nonsense, obviously. But it'd be interesting to know."

"Interesting," Alphard repeated slowly. Then his mouth curved into that reckless grin. "You know, technically Tom's order was that you weren't to activate the Room. He didn't say anything about me."

"I suppose that's true."

"And we are meant to understand the Room's full capabilities for the mission. Strategic reconnaissance and all that."

"Very strategic," Harry agreed, fighting to keep his expression neutral.

"Right then." Alphard stood, stretching. "But we're clear — this is just to see if your guardian was having you on, yeah? Quick look, confirm the space exists or doesn't, then back to actual work. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Harry said immediately.

Alphard's eyes narrowed slightly. "You're not planning anything stupid?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

"Alphard." Harry met his gaze squarely. "I just want to see if it's real. That's all."

The lie tasted like copper, but Harry kept his face open, guileless.

After a moment, Alphard nodded. "Fine. Let's try it."

They stepped back into the corridor.

"Right, so what should I wish for?" asked Alphard.

"Remus said you just have to want a room where you can hide things."

"That's it?"

Harry nodded, trying not to look too eager.

Alphard paced three times, the door appeared, and they stepped into chaos incarnate.

"Merlin's beard," Alphard breathed. "This is..."

"Incredible," Harry finished, but his mind was already racing. The wardrobe was here. Somewhere in this vast maze of forgotten objects, the wardrobe that had brought him to 1947 was waiting. He just had to find it.

They started walking. Alphard exclaimed over particularly interesting finds, but Harry barely heard him. His eyes scanned desperately for anything familiar.

But nothing looked familiar. Nothing.

He'd been here before. Twice. The layout should be familiar, but it was like trying to remember a dream—everything looked right and wrong at the same time.

Irritation started creeping in. Then panic.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Alphard asked, his tone shifting as they'd been walking for nearly half an hour.

"Just exploring," Harry said, hearing the tension creep into his voice. "Seeing what's here."

"Right. Exploring." Alphard stopped walking. "Funny thing — you're not actually looking at any of this. You're scanning. Searching."

Harry's stomach dropped. "I'm just—"

"You're looking for something specific." Alphard's voice had gone quieter. More dangerous. "Something from your guardians, maybe? Something they told you about?"

"No, I just wanted to see if—"

"Harry." Alphard stepped into his path, forcing him to stop. "You're practically shaking. What's going on?"

Harry's carefully maintained composure slipped. Just for a second, but it was enough. Desperation bled through, and he watched Alphard's expression shift — suspicion sharpening into certainty.

"I'm fine," Harry managed. "It's just—there's a lot here. It's overwhelming—"

Alphard studied him, clearly unconvinced. Then he glanced at his watch and swore. "Damn. Tertius will be finishing soon. We need to get back."

"We could stay a bit longer—"

"No. I'm not explaining to Tertius why we were in here instead of practicing." He started toward the entrance. "Come on."

"Just five more minutes—"

"Harry." Alphard looked back at him. "Whatever you're looking for, you won't find it in five minutes. If Tertius notices we're missing, he'll cut off both our heads. Not to mention your brother, because he'll probably report it to him too."

Harry wanted to argue. Wanted to insist, to beg for more time. But Alphard was already walking toward the door, and Harry had no choice but to follow.

They left. The wardrobe remained unfound somewhere in that vast maze.

Something cracked inside Harry's chest.

So close. He'd been so close.

Now he was out of chances. Out of time. Out of ideas.

That night, Harry lay in bed, staring at the stone ceiling and trying to control the fear that threatened to swallow him whole. Around him, the other boys slept peacefully — Tertius's breathing deep and even, someone snoring softly in the corner.

He couldn't understand it — the Room of Hidden Things had looked exactly as it had in his own time. Just like the week before. And yet the wardrobe had been nowhere to be found — they'd walked and walked through that maze of old junk, and it simply wasn't there. But on his previous visits, he had stumbled upon it almost immediately.

The conclusion was obvious: he wasn't going home.

Not with an uncooperative Room, two shadows on his heels, and a Dumbledore who, whenever he saw Harry in the Hogwarts corridors, looked at him with a gaze that made Harry's skin crawl: as if Harry were someone to be pitied, perhaps, but already marked as a lost cause.

That last one hurt the most.

Harry forced himself to breathe. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth.

Slowly, the panic receded to something manageable. A beast caged rather than loose. He could think again, though the thoughts offered no comfort. There was no plan that could be devised and executed in two days.

Harry opened his eyes.

He couldn't unsend the letters. Those stupidly provocative messages that had earned him Riddle's cold promise of "considerable creativity" in punishment.

He couldn't undo the escape attempt. Couldn't take back the moment he'd insisted on bearing the consequences meant for Tertius and Alphard. Riddle would make sure Harry suffered every ounce of that self-imposed responsibility.

And he couldn't unknow what Horcruxes were.

That was the real catastrophe. Riddle's one absolute command: never seek information about Horcruxes. Never investigate. Never ask. And Harry understood why now — soul fragments, anchors to immortality through murder. Riddle's deepest secret.

And Harry had translated the diary anyway.

When Riddle discovered it — if he discovered it — the fury would be beyond anything Harry had faced. The Oath prevented the future Dark Lord from killing him, but it gave him other options. Terrible options. The right to strip Harry's magic for grievous disobedience.

And deliberately defying Riddle's most explicit command would absolutely qualify.

The thought made Harry's chest constrict. Trapped in 1947, without magic, completely at Tom Riddle's mercy — that was a fate worse than any curse. To lose his magic would be to lose himself entirely.

No. Riddle couldn't discover this. Of all Harry's secrets, this one had to stay buried.

No matter what.

So… Two days. The sword. Then Riddle.

And the only thing he could do was steal the Sword of Gryffindor and deliver it. Not because he wanted to serve Riddle. But because the sword was his only bargaining chip, and with it came the slim hope of appeasing Riddle's fury — and perhaps, just perhaps, the chance that the punishment awaiting him wouldn't be as bad as he feared.

And Riddle, pleased to have obtained the long-desired object, would not be too inquisitive.

o.O.o

The crystal ball sat between Harry and the two O.W.L. examiners like an accusation.

Harry stared into it. The examiners stared at him. The mist inside the ball swirled with what Harry suspected was deliberate unhelpfulness.

Come on, he thought. Anything. A shape. A shadow. A vaguely threatening cloud formation. Give me something to work with.

Nothing.

The mist continued its lazy, meaningless dance, as indifferent to Harry's desperation as everything else in 1947.

He'd tried. He genuinely had. For a solid two minutes — which felt like twenty — he'd focused, cleared his mind, and attempted every technique Everett Rosier had drilled into him during those excruciating afternoons at the Rosier estate. Creative interpretation. Pattern recognition. The art of seeing what you needed to see rather than what was actually there.

But today, Harry's mind was blank. And stubbornly uncreative.

Because instead of imagining an undefined future, Harry's thoughts kept returning to breakfast. To the owl that had dropped a letter only at Tertius's plate.

To the nauseating twist in his stomach when he realised that Riddle had been silently ignoring him since Monday, choosing instead to communicate solely through his bodyguards.

Until today, it hadn't bothered him. He'd been glad, even — no more forced correspondence with his tormentor, no more weighing every word for hidden threats.

But today, sitting at that breakfast table watching Tertius unfold the letter he finally felt what Tertius must have felt last week. Uncertainty. Fear of the unknown.

And he did not like those feelings at all.

"Mr. Riddle? Whenever you're ready."

Right. The crystal ball.

The mist swirled. Harry saw nothing.

Sod it.

"I'm afraid I don't see anything," Harry said flatly.

The younger examiner — a witch with enormous spectacles that magnified her eyes to an almost comical degree — leaned forward. "Nothing at all? Perhaps if you—"

"Nothing," Harry repeated. "I have absolutely no idea what the future holds."

The older examiner — a gaunt wizard with a wispy grey beard — exchanged a look with his partner. Harry waited for the disappointed murmur, the polite suggestion to try again, the gentle failure.

Instead, the wizard sat up straighter. "Go on."

Harry blinked. "Sorry?"

"You said you don't know what the future holds. Elaborate."

The word sounded almost encouraging. As if Harry had stumbled onto the right answer by giving up.

Seriously?

"It's uncertain," he said, his voice rougher than he intended. "Not unclear — uncertain. As if the future itself hasn't decided what it wants to be." The bitterness crept in before he could stop it. Rosier's words, repurposed. "One moment it seems like it could go one way, and then — nothing. It shifts. Refuses to commit."

Rather like my chances of surviving next week.

Silence.

Harry looked up, uncertain. Had he misread the bearded wizard's encouragement?

Both examiners were staring at him with expressions he'd never seen directed at him in any Divination context: genuine interest.

"Remarkable," the older wizard breathed. He turned to his colleague. "Did you hear that? The future itself hasn't decided. That's precisely what Cassandra argued during our last meeting — temporal flux theory. The idea that concentrated magical disruption can destabilise prophetic readings across an entire region."

The witch was scribbling furiously. "And he sensed it intuitively! No training in advanced theory, just pure—"

"Raw perception," the wizard finished, looking at Harry as though he'd just produced a Patronus. "Truly outstanding."

Harry left the examination room in a daze, not entirely sure what had just happened. He'd probably just earned an Outstanding in Divination.

The universe, it seemed, had a truly vicious sense of humour.

And as he climbed down the ladder (he'd always thought it was Trelawney's idea, but apparently it wasn't), only one thought ran through his mind: at least Potts hadn't been there to witness this. The Slytherin Seeker would probably have turned green with envy.

o.O.o

During the Divination exam, Harry had no audience. Now he had too much of one.

He took a breath.

"Let the rightful Heir of Slytherin enter," he hissed in Parseltongue.

A bit melodramatic, but it was exactly what Riddle had instructed him to say.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Harry's heart kicked against his ribs. His palms went damp. What if it didn't work?

What if—

The gargoyle shuddered. Stone scraped against stone as it began to move, revealing a spiral staircase that wound upward into darkness.

Harry stared at the opening, adrenaline flooding his system so fast he felt lightheaded.

It worked. It actually worked.

"Well," Alphard said quietly. "The Slytherin common room is one thing, but this..." He trailed off, shaking his head.

From Wednesday afternoon onwards, Alphard approached him with reserve, which he did not show so openly when Lestrange was with them. But Harry sensed it anyway.

(And he tried with all his might to ignore the pangs of regret — like with Selwyn.)

Tertius said nothing, but his hand moved to the small of Harry's back — not quite a push, more a firm reminder. Move.

Harry stepped onto the first stair. The stone felt solid beneath his feet — real, not conjured. He climbed slowly, conscious of Tertius and Alphard following like shadows. The spiral seemed to stretch forever, each step carrying him higher, closer to tomorrow.

Even knowing this was only a rehearsal, a replica created by the Room, Harry's heart hammered in his chest. The walls were too close. The stairs too narrow. The silence too complete except for their footsteps echoing in the confined space.

Replica or not, Harry thought, this makes it too real.

It reminded him — viciously, unavoidably — of what waited for him tomorrow. The actual break-in. The actual theft. The actual consequences if anything went wrong.

They reached the top. A door stood before them, heavy and imposing, identical to the one Harry remembered from his own time.

"The easy part's done. Now walk me through the sequence." Tertius's voice cut through the silence, businesslike and precise—the tone Secundus Lestrange had used when demanding potion recipes before allowing Harry near a cauldron.

"Silencing Charm on the door first," Harry recited, keeping his voice flat, mechanical. "Open it slowly — no more than six inches. I need line of sight to the nearest portraits, but I can't give them line of sight to me. The charm hits the room as a wave, not a targeted spell. If I aim at individual portraits, I'll never get them all before one raises the alarm."

Tertius nodded. "Proceed."

Harry raised his wand and cast the Silencing Charm on the door. The spell settled over the wood like an invisible blanket, muffling any sound that might escape when they opened it.

He pushed the door open — just a crack, just enough.

Through the gap, he could see portraits lining the walls. Headmasters and headmistresses in ornate frames, some sleeping, others chatting quietly amongst themselves, one reading what appeared to be a tiny book.

Harry took aim. Breathed out slowly. Focused.

"Somnium Totalus," he whispered.

The magic rippled outward in a silent wave. Harry held his breath.

"Open it," Tertius ordered.

They stepped inside. Alphard's eyes went wide immediately — drinking in the circular office, the enormous desk, the shelves crammed with books and artefacts. His mouth formed a silent wow as his gaze travelled upward to the high ceiling and the portraits lining every available inch of wall space.

With reflexes that would make many a Seeker jealous, Tertius instantly neutralized the portraits Harry had missed.

"Five," he said flatly. "One is all it takes to get you caught. Again."

They reset. Harry cast the Silencing Charm again, opened the door, aimed—

This time, two portraits escaped. One was already opening its painted mouth to shout before Tertius silenced it.

"Again," the youngest Lestrange ordered.

And again.

And again.

By the fourth attempt, Alphard couldn't take it anymore. "Tertius, ease up. It's just two portraits. He almost had it. And tomorrow he'll have Felix Felicis — the potion will handle the rest."

"We'll stop when he casts that spell flawlessly three times in a row," Tertius said, his tone brooking no argument. "Felix Felicis or not, he needs to perfect this. Primus would skin me alive if he had to cover up a failure like this."

And Riddle would do worse to me, Harry thought bitterly as he stepped back out into the corridor.

Focus. He needed to focus.

"Somnium Totalus."

The spell spread like a wave. Harry watched with held breath as it washed over every portrait, every frame, every painted face. One by one, they slumped into enchanted sleep.

Every. Single. One.

"Finally," Tertius murmured, already standing in the middle of the headmaster's office and beginning his systematic check. He completed his circuit of the room before speaking again. "Now cast it correctly twice more in a row and I'll consider you ready."

Harry repeated the sequence. Door. Gap. Aim. Cast. Check. And again. The movements becoming automatic, muscle memory taking over. Both attempts successful.

"Good." The word dropped from Tertius's lips like a rare coin. "That's three consecutive successes. That's our threshold."

They stood in the office for the last time. Tertius crossed his arms, surveying the neutralized portraits with visible satisfaction. Alphard had wandered over to examine a complicated orrery, his fingers hovering over the spinning spheres without quite touching.

"That's all for our part. The rest is up to you. Do you know what to look for and where to look for it?"

"Yes," Harry said. He tried very, very hard not to look at the Sorting Hut, who was sleeping on the shelf, snoring quietly, also under the charm.

But he didn't quite succeed, because when he looked back at the boys, they were deathly pale.

The silence stretched.

Alphard's throat moved in a visible swallow. Tertius's jaw had locked so tight that the muscles in his cheeks stood out like cords.

"Do you—" Tertius cleared his throat, his voice rougher than usual. "Do you need another practice run?"

The question was carefully neutral, but Harry heard the subtext: Please tell me you're not really going to steal what I think you're going to steal.

"No," Harry said, forcing his voice to stay level. "I feel perfectly prepared."

o.O.o

Harry didn't feel prepared. Not at all.

And even the Felix Felicis coursing through his veins could not change that feeling.

Yes, everything was going according to plan — but a week ago, everything had also been going according to plan up to a certain point. Yes, Tertius and Alphard stood guard in the corridor — though at this hour, the middle of the night, they were hardly necessary. Yes, the real gargoyle had admitted him just as easily as the one in the Room of Requirement. Yes, the sleeping spell had worked flawlessly, every portrait slumping into enchanted slumber. And yes, Harry now stood in the headmaster's actual office, hidden beneath the Invisibility Cloak with a Silencing Charm muffling even his breathing.

But none of that mattered.

Because no one had practiced the most difficult part with him. No one had told him how to actually get the sword from the Sorting Hat.

Not even Riddle.

Riddle, who apparently assumed that since the Hat had given Harry the sword once before, it would simply do so again. Just like that. Without any problem.

As if presenting the sword to a twelve-year-old defending the school from a basilisk was exactly the same as handing it over to a thief in the night.

Harry's heart hammered so hard he was certain the sound alone would wake the portraits, spell or no spell. Yet the headmasters and headmistresses around him slumbered in their frames exactly as they had in rehearsal. The spell had worked perfectly. Everything had worked perfectly.

(It was incredibly infuriating that when it came to Riddle's plans, the universe seemed to favour him.)

Now came the part where Harry had absolutely no idea what to do.

Harry felt the need to move, so he did, trying to trust the magic of the luck potion. The invisibility cloak glided gently across the floor as he approached the shelf where the Sorting Hat lay, illuminating the room with the weak light from his wand.

The Sorting Hat sat on its shelf — shabby, patched, harmless-looking.

In first year, when it had whispered Slytherin in his ear, Harry had gone rigid with panic. He'd bargained with it, argued, begged silently for Gryffindor while the Sorting Hat took its time deciding. Later, in the Chamber, with basilisk venom spreading through his veins and his vision going dark, the Sorting Hat had given him the sword. Then, it had been salvation.

Now it was just an obstacle between him and survival.

Harry reached up with trembling hands and lifted the Sorting Hat from its shelf. The worn fabric was soft against his fingers, lighter than he remembered.

His heart was pounding wildly in his chest.

Get on with it.

He pulled the Sorting Hat down over his head and the fabric settled around his ears. It was awkward trying to position it properly while still under the Invisibility Cloak — with his hands shaking and his mind screaming that this was insane and that someone would discover him any second, and—

"Finite Incantatem," he whispered, targeting only the Sorting Hat.

For a long (too long) moment, nothing happened.

Then:

"Well, well, well. Harry Potter. Again. Or should I greet you as Harry Riddle? Either way, you're perhaps a bit too early. About... forty-four years, I'd say?"

The voice was exactly as he remembered — dry, ancient, faintly amused. But there was something else underneath. Something sharp.

Harry’s throat went dry. He opened his mouth to speak — carefully, bracing for the Thought Wardening Curse that kept his secrets locked behind his teeth, when—

"Oh, don't bother with that nonsense," the Sorting Hat said, almost irritably. "The curse may bind your tongue to ordinary minds, but I am no ordinary mind, child. I was crafted by the Founders themselves. Tom Riddle's little spell is nothing to me."

Harry froze.

Could he truly speak freely?

"Yes, you may," the Sorting Hat said, its tone dry, answering for the unasked question. "And I suggest starting with the most important thing: why you thought breaking into the headmaster's office in the middle of the night to steal Gryffindor's Sword was a good idea."

The words should have stung. Should have made Harry defensive, angry, ready with excuses.

Instead, the sheer relief of being able to speak — of finally, finally being heard — hit him like a physical blow.

His knees buckled.

He sank to the floor, leaning his back against Dippet’s oak desk, and let out a shuddering breath. He lowered his wand, placing it on the floor.

He opened and closed his mouth several times before finally finding the strength to articulate what he had been unable to say for the past four months.

"I don't want to steal it," Harry whispered, and his voice cracked on the words. "I don't—I don't want any of this. I just want to go home. Back to my time. That's all I've wanted since I got here, and it won't—it won't work."

He closed his eyes as tears burned behind his eyelids.

"Now, now, now. Don't get all emotional here, or I'll start thinking I made a mistake putting you in Gryffindor."

"I'm so tired," Harry continued, wiping angrily at his cheek with the sleeve of his robe. "I'm tired of trying. I'm tired of coming up with ways to get back, only to fail. I'm tired of the failures. I'm tired of lying and fearing him, of pretending and watching everyone think I'm his brother. I'm tired of being alone. Of knowing that even Dumbledore looks at me like I'm already lost. I just—" His throat closed. "I just want it to stop."

Silence.

"And you think," the Sorting Hat said quietly, "that stealing Gryffindor's Sword for Tom Riddle will make it stop?"

Harry almost laughed. Of course he didn't believe that. Not for a minute.

"I think it's the only way I survive the next week," Harry said hoarsely. "If I don't bring him the sword — if I fail — he'll..." He couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate the full scope of what waited for him.

He wiped his cheek with his sleeve again.

"I really tried everything." His fingers dug into his knees. "I found the Room. I got back inside twice. I looked for the wardrobe — the one that brought me here — and it wasn't there. It’s gone, or the Room is hiding it, or the world just wants me to stay here and rot. And Dumbledore..." He let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "He looks at me and sees Riddle’s brother and he’s already written me off. He won't help me. He won't even speak to me."

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"I have a Life Debt to a murderer," he whispered. "I owe my life to the man who killed my parents, and he's using that debt to make me a thief. I don't want to give it to him. I know how important this sword is. I'm afraid that if it falls into his hands, I 'll irrevocably change the future. But what choice do I have now?"

The Hat remained silent, but Harry felt the weight of its presence, vast and neutral, absorbing every word. It didn't judge. It just listened until Harry had said it all, until his breathing slowed.

It helped. A little.

"You have carried a heavy burden, Harry Potter," the Hat finally said, its voice echoing with a resonance that felt like a tolling bell. "More than any child should. The choice you face is equally extraordinary."

Harry didn't even have the strength to protest that he wasn't a child. Then again, to a thousand-year-old hat, everyone probably was.

"Maybe... you could help me somehow?" The words slipped out before he could stop them. "Tell someone? Maybe you could talk to Dumbledore and give him—"

"I cannot," the Sorting Hat said gently. "My magic prevents it. What I learn from a wizard wearing me stays between us alone. No exceptions. Not even for time travellers with destinies that shake worlds. I'm sorry, my boy."

Another door slammed shut. Another dead end.

And though it was the answer he'd expected — Riddle had told him how the Sorting Hat's magic worked — the refusal still hurt.

Harry rested his head against the desk, letting despair wash over him. He knew this was the worst possible moment for a breakdown, but he had no strength left.

For a moment, he just sat there, with the Sorting Hat on his head, humming softly to itself.

"What now?" he finally asked quietly. "What about the sword?"

The silence dragged on, and Harry had the impression that the Sorting Hat was really thinking about it, weighing the options.

He didn't know which answer he wanted to hear himself.

"I will give you what you seek," the Sorting Hat murmured finally. "I will give you the sword. Not for Tom Riddle. Not even for your survival, though that matters. I'll give it to you because the crossroads of this reality are shifting, and a sword in the hand of a desperate lion is a better gamble than a lion with no claws at all."

Harry's breath caught.

"But there is a condition."

"What condition?"

"That you remember who you are. Not Harry Riddle, not his captive, but Harry Potter. Gryffindor. The boy who would destroy a basilisk to save a friend. The boy who would die before letting evil win." The Hat's voice turned fierce. "Stay that boy, Harry Potter. No matter how long you're trapped here. No matter what he does to you. Promise me you won't forget."

"I promise," Harry whispered, his throat tight.

"Then take the sword. Survive. And when the moment comes — and it will come — choose bravely."

And that was all. Then, suddenly, the Sorting Hat became impossibly heavy.

Something hard and metallic slammed into the crown of Harry's skull with a resounding crack. He yelped, yanking the Hat off.

The sword. Tucked inside the Sorting Hat's lining, gleaming silver and rubies.

Harry shoved himself up from the floor, legs unsteady. He fumbled for the enchanted pouch Riddle had given him and slid the sword inside. The pouch swallowed it completely.

I'm Harry Potter, he thought fiercely, placing the Sorting Hat back on its shelf. Whatever happens next — I'm still Harry Potter. And I won't let Riddle to change that.

Then he turned toward the door.

Time to face the consequences of his success.

o.O.o

"Well, Harry," Slughorn said warmly, holding his purple umbrella as the drizzle misted down around them. "I trust you're satisfied with how your examinations went?"

Harry blinked, pulled back from wherever his mind had wandered. The grey morning, the damp grass, Slughorn's expectant face — it all took a moment to register.

"Yes, sir," Harry said. "I think they went well enough."

"Well enough?" Slughorn laughed, the sound rich and pleased. "From what I've heard, you did considerably better than that! But then, talent does run in families, doesn't it?"

Harry managed something that might have passed for a smile.

"The results should arrive by the end of July," Tertius added smoothly. Like Harry, he didn't have an umbrella either, but he seemed unfazed by the light drizzle falling on their heads. "Assuming the examiners maintain their usual schedule."

Harry barely heard him. His mind kept returning to last night.

The break-in had gone unnoticed. For Harry, the whole thing still felt surreal — like something that had happened to someone else. He'd really done it. Broken into the headmaster's office. Stolen Gryffindor's sword.

Completed Riddle's mission.

Voluntarily.

When he'd stepped back into the corridor, Tertius and Alphard had been waiting exactly where he'd left them.

"What took so long?" Tertius asked immediately, his voice low. "Did something go wrong?"

"Everything went fine," Harry said. "Just took longer to search than I thought."

There was a pause. Then Alphard spoke, his tone careful: "So it wasn't the Sorting Hut?"

Harry blinked, affecting surprise. "Why would Tom need that old hat?"

Tertius's shoulders dropped fractionally — relief or reassurance, Harry couldn't tell. "Come on. Let's not stand here."

They'd made their way back to the common room in silence. No one saw them slip through the entrance. No one asked questions.

And after that, none of them mentioned it again. As if nothing had happened at all.

Harry had hidden the sword in the false compartment Riddle had shown him weeks ago — a space in the trunk's lid that revealed itself only to Parseltongue commands. By the time the other boys started stirring for breakfast, Harry had been lying in bed with his eyes closed, pretending exhaustion he didn't need to fake.

The morning had passed in a blur of farewells that felt surreal. Morrison had caught him in the common room, slinging an arm around his shoulders with a familiarity that was quite strange for a Slytherin.

"You should seriously think about professional Quidditch," he had said with a grin. "Waste of talent otherwise."

"I'll keep that in mind," Harry had replied.

Alphard had been heading out to the pitch with his team, broom over his shoulder. He'd caught Harry's eye and nodded once — a gesture that acknowledged everything and nothing. They'd see each other soon enough anyway. The summer stretched ahead with its own complications.

Like damaged trust.

Tertius had levitated Harry's trunk with practiced efficiency, and they had left the Slytherin common room to meet Slughorn, who had been waiting for them in the entrance hall, purple umbrella in hand.

Now they stood just inside the boundary, waiting. The drizzle continued its halfhearted attempt at rain, not quite committed enough to be properly miserable but persistent enough to dampen hair and shoulders. Harry could feel moisture collecting on his skin, cool and clinging.

"Oh!" Slughorn's face brightened. "Here he comes!"

Harry's stomach dropped.

Tom Riddle approached the gates with his usual measured stride, dark robes impeccable despite the weather. He reached them with an easy smile on his handsome face, and Harry's hands curled into fists in his pockets.

"Professor Slughorn." Tom's greeting was warm, apologetic. He slowly lowered his umbrella, folding it neatly. "I'm sorry I'm late. Saturday mornings at the shop have been particularly demanding lately."

"No trouble at all, dear boy." Slughorn waved it off. "We just got here ourselves."

"Lestrange." Riddle nodded to Tertius. "Thank you for keeping an eye on him."

"It was my pleasure," Tertius said, his tone perfectly formal. "Harry proved to be an... exemplary guest."

The pause before 'exemplary' was so slight only Harry caught it.

Then Riddle's attention settled on Harry, and his whole demeanour shifted — became warmer, more open. He stepped forward and clasped Harry's shoulder with both hands, the gesture unmistakably affectionate.

"Harry." His voice carried genuine warmth, the kind that would convince anyone watching that he truly cared. "It's good to see you again." His hands squeezed gently before releasing. "How were the examinations? Not too taxing, I hope?"

Harry's throat went tight. This wasn't — it wasn't supposed to be like this. Two weeks ago, when he'd left London, he'd been so certain. The wardrobe would work. He'd find his way home. He'd never have to see Tom Riddle again.

But here they were.

"Fine," Harry forced himself to say. "They were fine."

"Just fine?" Riddle's eyebrows rose, teasing. "That's all I get?"

"Oh, far better than fine!" Slughorn interjected enthusiastically. "Tom, you should have heard what the examiners were saying. His Transfiguration practical was particularly remarked upon — apparently his Shrinking and Enlargement Charms were absolutely flawless. But that was nothing compared to the impression he made on the Divination examiners. They were absolutely astounded."

"Divination?" Riddle's tone carried perfect disbelief, edged with amusement. "What did you impress them with, Harry?"

"Apparently with my insight," Harry replied reluctantly, not wanting to think about it. Shivers still ran down his spine at the memory.

As if the future itself couldn't decide what it would be.

He hoped with all his heart that it wasn't because of him, but the Sorting Hat's parting words offered no comfort. Was he irrevocably destroying his own future?

"Modest as always! That's the kind of student we need! Talented but humble enough to still want to learn!" Slughorn patted Harry encouragingly on the back with his free hand. "I want you to know, my dear boy — if you ever change your mind about your schooling arrangements, Hogwarts' doors are always open. We'd be delighted to have you back."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said quietly. "That's... very kind. Who knows? Maybe I'll come back in two years to sit my NEWTs."

Riddle's hand settled on Harry's shoulder. The gesture looked brotherly — affectionate, even. His fingers pressed down just slightly too hard.

"We'll see," said the future Dark Lord lightly. "Professor, Lestrange, thank you once again for everything you've done for my brother." His smile remained perfectly pleasant. Then he turned towards Harry, who felt as though a heavy, icy stone had dropped into his stomach. "Come along, brother. Time to go home."