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Don’t worry, it’s just your death

I was lying in the darkness, both victorious and defeated. The echoes of my confrontation with Voldemort still rang through Hogwarts. The Great Hall, once the stage of our battle, now lay in ruins, the remains of a struggle I had won but that had cost me my life.

I had died there. And yet I was far from it now, stretched out on a solitary bench in King’s Cross station. Light flooded the place with immaculate purity, bathing this dreamlike London in an ethereal whiteness.

My mouth parted.

“I’m dead, aren’t I?”

My limbs refused to move, and only silence answered me. After an endless moment of dread, a voice emerged from the darkness, resonating not in the air but in the depths of my mind.

“No. You are not dead, young master,” the voice murmured, sending a throbbing migraine through my skull.

In a haze of half-consciousness, I tried to ask who—or what—it was.

“If I’m not dead, then where am I, and who are you? How are you speaking to me? I can’t see you, and I can’t move,” I stammered.

The voice sounded again, gentle.

“It is only natural that you cannot see me, young master. I have no existence. I have neither form nor body. Soon you will have fully absorbed me, and I will no longer be able to speak to you at all. You must not struggle needlessly. It will soon be over. You are going to return to life. Do you have a wish for your return to the world of the living?”

Lost, I could not grasp the meaning of those words. Pain engulfed me; my body felt as though it were burning. My motionless limbs burned, and panic took hold of me. The voice persisted, trying to soothe my torment.

“I am sorry that this is so unpleasant, young master. You do not seem in any state to make a choice regarding your resurrection. In that case, I will preserve your body and your memories as they are. However, you will only be able to reappear near one of the Hallows before you become its master. I can preserve your current age; it will make things easier for you. You will certainly no longer be able to grow older once you return, so I cannot allow you to become a child again. Do you have a precise memory of a place in the past where one of my Hallows was present?”

I struggled to gather my thoughts. I could barely focus. Images of my duel with Voldemort and of my death kept rising and fading in my mind.

“Do not worry. I will search for you. As soon as I find a compatible memory, you will return to life, and I will disappear. The Hallows will vanish as well. Their powers are yours. You are the sole Master of Death. Be patient a little longer. I will find one.”

An intrusive presence rifled through my memory, tearing at my mind like a wild beast. Memories whirled in chaotic torrents, until suddenly one image crystallized, sharpening into focus: Albus Dumbledore speaking with me at Hogwarts, some time before the headmaster hastened his own end.

“I was only able to collect a few memories of Riddle at Hogwarts,” Dumbledore said softly, resting his skeletal hand on the Pensieve.

“Among those who knew him, few are willing to speak of his past. Fear holds them back. What I know, I learned after he left the school. Those I managed to persuade to share information told me that Riddle was obsessed with his origins. It was understandable—he had grown up alone in an orphanage and wished to discover how he had come to be there. It seems he examined the coats of arms in the Trophy Room, searched the archived lists of prefects, and even consulted books of magical history in search of clues about Tom Riddle Senior. In the end, he had to admit that his father had never attended Hogwarts. That was when he definitively abandoned that name and took the one we now know: Lord Voldemort.”

“Afterward, he turned to his mother’s family, whom he had despised until then—the woman he had believed incapable of being a witch because of her death. All he had as a lead was the name Marvolo, the first name of his mother’s father, which the people at the orphanage had told him. After long research in old books on wizarding families, he discovered the Gaunt line, survivors of Slytherin. In the summer of his sixteenth year, he left the orphanage where he stayed during the holidays to search for the members of the Gaunt family. Now, Harry, if you would be so kind as to stand…”

Dumbledore rose from his chair, once again holding a small crystal phial filled with a pearly memory swirling inside.

“I was very fortunate to obtain this one,” he said, pouring the shining substance into the Pensieve.

“As you will understand once we have seen it. Shall we?”

I stepped toward the stone basin and obediently lowered my head until my face touched the shifting surface of the memory.

I felt the familiar sensation of falling into emptiness, then landed on a filthy stone floor in almost total darkness. It took the few moments Dumbledore needed to join me for me to recognize the place.

The Gaunt shack was in a state of squalor beyond anything I had ever seen. The ceiling was hidden beneath thick cobwebs, the floor carpeted with filth. Moldy food rotted on the table amid a heap of crust-encrusted pots.

The only light came from a flickering candle placed at the feet of a man whose hair and beard had grown so long that I could not distinguish either his eyes or his mouth. He was slumped in an armchair by the fireplace, and for a moment I wondered whether he was dead. But then someone pounded loudly on the door, and the man jerked awake, brandishing a wand in his right hand and a knife in the other. The door creaked open.

On the threshold, an old lamp in hand, stood a boy I recognized at once: tall, pale, dark-haired, with a handsome face—Voldemort as a teenager. His gaze slowly swept over the interior of the hovel before settling on the man in the chair. They watched each other for a few seconds, then the man staggered to his feet, the many empty bottles at his feet clinking together on the floor.

“YOU!” he shouted. “YOU!”

Then he lunged at Riddle with a drunkard’s gait, knife and wand raised.

§ Stop. §

Riddle had spoken in Parseltongue.

The man slipped on the floor and crashed into the table, sending mold-covered pots clattering to the ground. He stared at Riddle, and a long silence settled as they faced each other.

The man broke it first.

“You speak it?”

“Yes, I speak it,” Riddle replied.

He stepped into the room, and the door closed behind him. I could not help feeling a certain admiration mixed with hostility at Voldemort’s complete lack of fear. His face showed only disgust—and perhaps disappointment.

“Where is Marvolo?” he asked.

“Dead,” the other replied.

Riddle frowned.

“Then who are you?”

“I’m Morfin.”

“His son?”

“Course I am…”

Morfin pushed the hair from his filthy face to look at Riddle more closely, and I noticed the Gaunt ring on his right hand, set with its black stone. The Hallow. My Hallow.

“I thought you were that Muggle—you look just like him,” Morfin muttered.

“What Muggle?” Riddle asked sharply.

“The Muggle my sister fancied, the one who lives in the big house across the road,” Morfin replied, suddenly spitting on the floor between them.

“You’ve got the same face as him. Riddle, that’s his name. But he’s older than that, isn’t he? Older than you, now that I think about it…”

Morfin seemed slightly dazed and swayed on his feet, clutching the table for support.

“He’s come back,” he added stupidly.

Voldemort watched Morfin as though assessing his options. Then he stepped closer.

“Riddle has come back?”

“Bah, he left her, served her right for marrying that filth!” Morfin exclaimed, spitting again.

“And she robbed us before she ran off! Where’s the locket, eh?”

Voldemort did not reply. Morfin, enraged, brandished his knife and shouted,

“She dishonored us, the little slut! And who are you, anyway, coming in here and asking questions about all this? It’s over, isn’t it? It’s over…”

Darkness spread through the room, swallowing the glow of Voldemort’s lamp and the flicker of Morfin’s candle, plunging everything into nothingness…

Suddenly, a powerful voice seemed to pierce my mind.

“I have found a breach, young master. It is at the moment when Tom Riddle confronts Morfin Gaunt to seize the ring. I can restore you to life at that precise instant, using the power contained within the ring before it disappears. Prepare yourself, for rebirth will be painful—but once it is complete, you will never know death again.”

My body seemed to tear into a thousand fragments, as fragile as porcelain, and my screams tore through the air.

The pieces reassembled with such violence that howling and tears were inevitable. My limbs slowly regained their mobility, and I waited desperately for the agony to cease. Through my heavy eyelids, I saw the filthy stone floor, just like in the Pensieve memory, tangible beneath my fingers. Morfin Gaunt’s shattered ring rested on my knees. My body trembled uncontrollably.

By reflex, I raised my head and saw the face of Tom Riddle—the adolescent who would become the monstrous Voldemort of my nightmares. He stared at me, incredulous, his face lit by a kerosene lamp. My vision was blurred; the lenses of my glasses were cracked. My clothes were those of the Battle of Hogwarts, in a pitiful state. My wand was gone, and I was far too weak to fight anyone.

Even breathing caused unbearable pain. Suddenly, a mad laugh rang out behind me. Morfin Gaunt was close by, screaming as he hurled himself at me, knife in hand.

“YOU, you filthy dog! You took it!”

In my condition, I could only try weakly to dodge. The blade sank into my thigh, tearing a groan from me as I tried to push him away. Morfin raised his knife again, but he was abruptly stopped by a punch that sent him crashing to the floor, his jaw breaking with a sickening rattle.

I stared in shock at Riddle, who had not used magic but his fists to save me. He was only a sixteen-year-old who had just finished his fifth year at Hogwarts, and using magic without authorization would have had serious consequences for his future at the school. Still, I had never imagined him willing to dirty his hands in such a… Muggle way.

Riddle gave Morfin one or two additional kicks, then turned to me and hissed in sharp Parseltongue:

§ Who are you? §

Suddenly my vision blurred further, and I could manage only a faint hiss in reply before losing consciousness.

§ I am… §

Don’t worry, it’s just your life

I opened my eyes with a start, sitting upright as the sensation of the knife in my thigh repeated itself again and again. For good reason: I was lying in a bed with clean white sheets in a tiny room, and Riddle was gripping my thigh firmly, a needle in his other hand. He was stitching my wound.

He hissed, his eyes shifting between brown and red, focused on his work.

§ Don’t move. §

He was stitching me up without anesthesia and expected me to stay still? I barely held back a scream, biting my lip.

The pain made me dizzy. Was this real? Yes—I had died in the Battle of Hogwarts, I was certain of it. Then I had landed in limbo, and something had brought me back to life, into the past, to the time when Tom Riddle killed members of his family and began tearing his soul apart to make Horcruxes.

The same Tom Riddle who was now stitching me up after his mad uncle had tried to stab me. The reality of it seemed even more insane than the idea of having escaped death and traveled back in time.

Riddle pulled the thread tight, his hands covered in blood, tied a knot, cut it, and set my leg back onto the towels already stained scarlet, which he had probably placed on the bed to keep from soiling the sheets.

I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw cracked. I stared at the twenty or so stitches in my thigh as though they were responsible for this entire situation.

Riddle straightened, wiped his hands on a piece of cloth, then fixed his eyes on me. The bed stood against one wall of the small attic room; I used it for support, doubling over in pain when I clumsily put weight on my leg.

Riddle watched me without a word, then sat back down and suddenly hissed:

§ Your body is covered in scars. I don’t think this is the first time you’ve ended up like this. §

Covered in scars? I supposed that wasn’t entirely false. If the scar on my forehead had been the first, I had gained many others during my years at Hogwarts and the war. But the thought that Riddle had examined my body so closely while I was unconscious sent a shiver of dread through me.

Riddle interpreted that shiver differently. His hand moved toward my forehead, and I jerked back, hitting the back of my head against the wall.

Voldemort narrowed his eyes, as if deciding I was an idiot. He insisted, and with nowhere left to retreat, I let him press his hand to my forehead. He hissed.

§ As I thought—you’re burning up. §

His eyes met mine. The details of his face were blurred without my glasses, but he was far too close for my liking. I grabbed his wrist to pull his hand away, but mine was trembling; I didn’t have the strength. He stared at me without moving, and I felt compelled to hiss as fiercely as I could.

§ Get away from me. §

His brown eyes flared, and he smiled as he withdrew his hand.

§ You speak Parseltongue. Then we are indeed of the same family. §

Was that why he was trying to heal me instead of killing me? No—Voldemort had murdered members of his own family. Why would he spare me if he thought I was a Gaunt?

It made no sense. Unless…

§ Did you kill him? §

Riddle slowly withdrew his hand from my forehead, then answered:

§ Morfin? No. He was still alive when I pulled you out of there. Is he your father? I am the son of Merope Gaunt. If you are his son, then we are cousins. §

I said nothing, stunned. He hadn’t killed Morfin—and certainly hadn’t used him to kill Tom Riddle Senior either. Instead, he had brought me here, though I had no idea where here was, and was trying to heal me. None of this made sense.

Riddle kept staring at me with his glowing eyes, unblinking. Suddenly he pointed to my forehead, then to my forearm, where I bore the scar Peter Pettigrew had given me during the Triwizard Tournament.

“Did your father do that to you? Why did you suddenly appear to destroy that ring? Was he using it to keep you against your will?”

Stunned by his theory, I said nothing, which he apparently took as confirmation. He seemed convinced I was his cousin and that his uncle had been some sort of abusive relative from whom he had just rescued me.

He moved away, returned with a glass of water, then asked,

“How old are you? Why aren’t you enrolled at Hogwarts?”

My head throbbed, almost as much as my thigh. Black spots danced before my exhausted eyes, and Riddle’s behavior seemed incomprehensible.

To survive, I decided to go along with him. He seemed to think we were of the same blood, and for some reason I didn’t understand, that idea appeared to satisfy him. I answered cautiously:

“I just turned seventeen.”

He looked surprised.

“You’re a year older than I am. I was sure you were younger—don’t take it badly, but you’re rather small.”

Oh, brilliant. The Dark Lord was mocking my height now. My fever must have dulled my survival instincts, because I muttered back, on the edge of unconsciousness:

“If you’d been made to sleep in a cupboard and deprived of food, you’d be small too.”

Everything went black around me, and I lost consciousness for the second time.

When I came to, I was still in that tiny bed, covered by white blankets. The room’s only window, a small skylight, stood open, and sunlight hurt my eyes with its warmth and intensity.

It was warm. My body felt less painful, except for my right leg—the one Morfin Gaunt had stabbed and Voldemort had carefully stitched.

The name Voldemort was enough to wake me completely, and I sat up in bed, careful not to put weight on my injured leg. No Dark Lord in sight. The room was empty, containing only a metal bed, a wooden chair, and a small desk on which a suitcase bearing the initials T.R. lay open.

Using the bedframe for support, I managed to stand. The pain in my leg was terrible, and once upright, I stared at the stitches in disbelief. The wound looked awful. I knew no healing spells, so I merely grimaced, relieved that it wasn’t worse.

Ugly as it was, it didn’t look fatal. For a moment I searched for my belongings before remembering the state in which I had arrived. Riddle had probably thrown my clothes away.

Unsure whether it was wise, I decided to try taking a few steps. On the second, my leg gave way, and I crashed down, causing monumental chaos—the small desk collapsed on top of me as I lay on the floor groaning in pain. Then I heard the bedroom door open, and someone came to my aid, lifting the weight of the furniture off me.

Riddle quickly helped me into a sitting position, muttering irritably.

“I leave your bedside for a few minutes, and that’s when you decide to get up and walk?”

He was wearing a shirt too short for him and patched trousers. His face was painfully handsome. He glanced at my leg and grimaced, then checked my back. It was obvious that bruises were already forming from the violence of my fall.

His closeness made me nervous, so I moved away, repeating what I had already told him.

“Stay away.”

He looked at me for a moment, then finally stepped back to a more reasonable distance amid the chaos my fall had created in the room. He sighed, almost as if confessing something.

“I don’t like being touched either.”

I nodded. He looked around us, then asked,

“How do you feel? Has your fever gone down? I went out to try to find some potions or, failing that, Muggle medicine, but it’s difficult without money and without being able to use magic.”

Sitting on the floor and unable to stand without risking reopening my wound, I answered,

“I’m all right. I feel better.”

Then, before I even realized it, I added,

“Thank you.”

I had kept my manners, even with Voldemort. It was ridiculous.

At that moment, Riddle did something I would never have imagined possible. He smiled at me. It wasn’t a bright smile, just the faintest curve of his lips, but it gave me the impression that he was human. Human—and pleased.

Then he introduced himself.

“I’m Tom Riddle. I didn’t think to give you my name yesterday. And you?”

“Harry,” I replied, making an effort.

He narrowed his eyes.

“Harry Gaunt? That’s not a wizarding name.”

I swallowed with difficulty, then said at last,

“My mother was Muggle-born. She chose my name.”

Riddle accepted the explanation. He even added,

“We have a lot in common.”

I didn’t answer. He moved closer again and asked,

“Do you need help getting back into bed?”

I shook my head. I tried to stand, nearly fell, then, in a reflex that felt like instinctive magic, managed to levitate myself onto the mattress.

When I lifted my head to look at him, Riddle was staring at me as if it were Christmas and I had just handed him the latest Nimbus broom.

“You can use magic without a wand!” he exclaimed.

I immediately denied it.

“No, not at all. It just… happened. I don’t know how I did it.”

Riddle paid no attention to my answer but instead asked,

“What spell did you use to destroy Morfin’s ring? It was impressive—who taught you to use it?”

I didn’t know what he thought he had seen when I appeared, but I wasn’t responsible for destroying the ring. It was the ring that had… drawn me to it before shattering.

With him, telling the truth was impossible. After all, he was my sworn enemy, and in his future we had killed each other before I was mysteriously brought here, without knowing how or why.

I had only vague memories of my time in limbo. Something had spoken to me before dragging me into the past, but I couldn’t remember what it had said. That thing and the Gaunt ring had to be connected. I would have to find out how.

It didn’t take me long to choose my new identity: Harry Gaunt, son of Morfin Gaunt. A neglected boy, raised by his father. Harmless to Voldemort.

If that would let me survive until I understood how I had come back to life and regained enough strength to fight the Dark Lord on equal terms, I would do it. I would become someone else. It was my best chance of survival.

The hardest part would be keeping Riddle from discovering that I was manipulating him. That meant avoiding Legilimency and preventing him from growing suspicious of my identity. In other words, lying to him—and using Occlumency to make those lies feel real, hoping he wouldn’t suddenly change his mind about me.

With that in mind, I answered,

“I don’t really know how to use magic. My father didn’t want to teach me. He didn’t consider me a wizard because I’m half-blood. Sometimes I use it… instinctively, but that’s all.”

I lowered my head, afraid he might see the lie reflected in my eyes. It was unnecessary. He spoke again.

“The fact that you can use it without training proves you’re an excellent wizard. I’m half-blood too. I can teach you. I’m a student at Hogwarts—the term starts in a few weeks…”

He fell silent for a moment, then added when I glanced at him,

“I think if I send a letter to my Head of House, he can arrange for you to come study at Hogwarts. Normally you would already have finished your schooling there, but I imagine that if Headmaster Dippet learns that an English wizard received no magical education because of the Gaunt family’s prejudices, he’ll enroll you. I suppose I could ask him to place you in the same year as me. After all, you’re family—he won’t refuse me.”

For a moment, I wondered why Voldemort was so eager to help me, even to the point of writing to Horace Slughorn… then I decided it was for the best. Going to Hogwarts was my best option. There, I would probably be sorted into Gryffindor, I would have a familiar environment and a library to research what had happened to me.

Still, I tempered my enthusiasm by pointing out,

“I don’t think that’s possible… I don’t have a wand. Or any money.”

Riddle seemed determined.

“Don’t worry about that. Since you’re of age, you can use my wand without risking detection by the Ministry until you get your own. As for money, there’s a fund for students who can’t afford school. You’ll receive the money along with your supply list. There are only two weeks left before term begins—I have enough savings for us to stay in this room until then. I’ll manage the food. In any case, you need to rest so your wound can heal.”

I couldn’t help asking suspiciously,

“Why would you do all that for me? We don’t even know each other.”

It was true. He had no reason to be kind to me, and the kinder he was, the more I mistrusted him.

My question didn’t seem to bother him. He took a moment before answering, then began. He looked so sincere that it made me uncomfortable.

“I’m an orphan. Or at least, I thought I was. I didn’t know my father was still alive. I learned the name of my mother’s father, Marvolo Gaunt, at the orphanage where I grew up. That’s how I traced my way to Little Hangleton. I took the money I had saved since my first year at Hogwarts and came here. I rented this room at the inn on the wizarding side of the village and… I waited. I wanted to know where I came from. I quickly heard rumors about the Gaunts, at the inn and elsewhere in the village, and the longer I waited, the more I feared the meeting would be horrible.”

He paused, grimaced at the memory, then continued.

“Part of me was angry at myself for wanting a family so badly. I’m not a child anymore. I haven’t needed parents for a long time. But I still had hope. I waited until nightfall to be sure the house wouldn’t be empty, and I went… Morfin was far from what I had imagined. And he told me my father was alive, that he had left my mother… and therefore had never cared about me. I was beyond despair. And then you appeared.”

His eyes took on an incandescent red tint as he looked at me and said,

“When I saw you, I knew at once that we were alike. I know we’re strangers to each other, and I can see that you don’t trust me, but… I’m glad you exist.”

His voice faded to a whisper. He repeated in Parseltongue, his eyes never leaving mine:

§ I’m truly glad you exist. §

He was mad. Tom Riddle was mad. That was nothing new. Mad—but sincere. Albus Dumbledore had never spoken to me about the Dark Lord’s desperate longing for a family. He had told me about his obsession with his origins, but that wasn’t quite the same thing.

I understood a little better how the hatred and rejection of Morfin Gaunt and then Tom Riddle Senior had driven him to madness, and it seemed that my mere existence—and his certainty that I was the son of his mother’s brother—was enough to soothe him.

He wasn’t alone. He had at least one family member who did not hate him. I didn’t know what to answer. So I told him so.

§ I… I don’t know what to say. §

He didn’t seem bothered that I didn’t return his declaration of familial affection. He simply said,

“We can start by getting to know each other. But first, your health needs to improve. You’ve lost a lot of blood, and you don’t look as though you’ve eaten properly in a long time. You need to rest. I’ll go and find something to eat in the meantime.”

Suspicious, I asked,

“You mean you’re going to steal food while I sleep?”

He gave me that faint smile, nodded, and said,

“I won’t get caught. Don’t worry. I’m rather good at it.”

I grimaced. My conscience wanted to stop him, but my stomach growled in protest. Riddle seemed to suppress a laugh as, mortified, I pulled the blanket up to my forehead.

I heard him hiss as he closed the door.

§ Don’t try to get up while I’m gone. §

I must have dozed off, because when I woke, Riddle had returned, a paper bag full of provisions in his hands. He was sliding his Hogwarts trunk under the bed when I opened my eyes. Seeing me awake, he began unpacking the contents of the bag onto the small desk.

“I woke you. How do you feel? I think we should disinfect your wound, so I brought alcohol as well.”

He took out a bottle of vodka, two bottles of milk, and one of water. Then bread, cheese, dried meat, and finally jars of fruit. I had no idea how or from whom he had stolen all that, but my stomach prevented me from resenting him.

He uncorked the vodka first, soaked a cloth, and turned toward me. I wanted to run; instead, I grimaced and said,

“I’m not sure alcohol really disinfects wounds. I’ve tried it before, and apart from burning, it didn’t seem to help.”

He shrugged.

“It’s better than nothing. It’s all we have. If it gets infected, it could be dangerous. Once we’re at Hogwarts, we can have the nurse examine you, and I’ll be able to brew potions. There must be some to speed healing—and others to reduce the marks the stitches will leave.”

I braced myself against the wall and sat on the edge of the bed, asking as he came dangerously close,

“Do you think my scars are that ugly?”

The fact that he seemed fixated on them bothered me. I didn’t feel as marked as his words suggested. Yes, the one on my forehead was noticeable, and I had a few on my arms, back, and stomach, not to mention the one I had just gained on my thigh and the one Dolores Umbridge had left on my hand, but… most of them weren’t… that ugly, were they?

The idea that they might be repulsive was beginning to make me anxious. No one had ever commented on them before. Then again, no one had seen so much of my… skin. Except perhaps the Quidditch players, but they weren’t the sort to stare at me while I changed.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he began carefully cleaning my wound. I wanted to ask him to let me handle it myself, but the pain was so intense that I felt more like hitting him. I ground my teeth, restraining the urge to shout at him to stop at once if he didn’t want my fist in his face, and when he finally released my thigh, I let out a sigh of relief.

That was the moment he chose to answer.

“They aren’t ugly. They suit you. They just irritate me.”

His reply distracted me from the pain.

“They irritate you?” I asked, confused.

He nodded, poured a glass of milk, handed it to me, and added,

“I think it’s because they remind me that, in the end, the orphanage wasn’t the worst place in the world for me.”

I nearly choked on the mouthful I had just taken. I coughed uncontrollably. Riddle gave me an ambiguous look about what he thought of my inability to drink without risking my life, then said very seriously,

“Don’t eat or drink too quickly. You’ll make yourself sick.”

Was he trying to act like some sort of older brother? I was the older one. Even if he was taller. Then again, Voldemort was nearly six foot three—no wonder his teenage self was tall.

Riddle was handsome, tall, powerful—and also the most murderous Dark Lord the wizarding world had ever known. Proof that you couldn’t have everything in life.

The Dark Lord in question bit into a piece of bread, then a piece of cheese. He looked just as hungry as I was, if not more so.

I resisted the urge to tell him he shouldn’t eat so quickly if he didn’t want a stomachache. Instead, I finally followed his example when he handed me some food. It was my first real meal since the Battle of Hogwarts, and I had to share it with Lord Voldemort. Sometimes life had a cruel sense of irony.

I spent the rest of the day resting, exhausted, while Riddle read a book sitting on the chair beside me. Whenever he saw that I was awake, he asked how I felt, whether I was thirsty, and frequently checked my temperature, which kept fluctuating. I had bouts of fever, and my mind drifted between consciousness and half-consciousness.

I wanted to ask whether he intended to visit his father now that he knew he was alive, but I found neither the strength nor the right moment. He promised that, once I felt better, he would teach me a few simple spells. The idea that the Dark Lord was eager to teach me Lumos, Wingardium Leviosa, or Alohomora made me nervous. And yet I was sure he would be a good teacher.

He seemed genuinely passionate about magic. I kept thinking how foolish it was that he had gone so wrong, because he might have lived a far more peaceful life if he had settled down, abandoned his dreams of conquering the wizarding world and his obsession with blood purity, and truly become a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts.

But Albus Dumbledore’s voice haunted my mind, repeating that from their very first meeting, he had known Tom Riddle would turn out badly. For him, it had been written. And who was I to question Dumbledore’s word?

I had to accept it. Riddle was a lost cause, and I needed to focus on my own recovery and my future.

Difficult to hold on to that resolve.

It took me three days to shake off the fever and regain my strength. During that time, Tom Riddle stayed at my bedside, helping me to my feet and accompanying me to the inn’s bathroom and toilets. Lacking the money to rent another room, the Dark Lord slept on the floor. The bed was too small for a boy as tall as he was to share with someone injured like me without crushing me in the night.

I had offered to switch or at least alternate nights, but he refused, arguing that I was wounded and needed the bed more than he did. In the end, he accepted that I give him a pillow and a blanket so he could settle as comfortably as possible on the floor, and we carried on like that.

After those three days, I felt better, and we spent all our days together.

It was warm—the last weeks of August—and I had ended up putting on one of Riddle’s shirts. I still couldn’t wear trousers; my wound hurt far too much, but with Voldemort’s help I could move around reasonably well. The pain was bearable.

He talked to me about Hogwarts, about magic, about his favorite classes, the professors he liked and those he disliked. He spoke of his classmates, with whom he didn’t seem to get along very well. Apparently he was admired but also feared; some envied him for his exceptional results and his appearance. Many approached him out of greed. He seemed far lonelier than I had imagined.

I had thought Voldemort recruited his first followers at Hogwarts. Dumbledore had implied that he led a group of students who committed terrible acts in secret. Nothing in Riddle’s words suggested such relationships with his classmates. His tone was hostile whenever he mentioned them.

He soon expressed his attraction to the Dark Arts, revealing an obsession with blood purity, an inferiority complex, and a desire to prove he was more than a half-blood. He told me he was a Slytherin prefect, described the Hogwarts houses according to his own view, and expressed his desire to become Head Boy that year. He was eagerly awaiting the letter from Hogwarts that would tell him.

He quickly noticed my poor eyesight, returned my cracked glasses, and taught me my first spell to repair them. As I had expected, he was a good teacher.

His way of approaching and using magic differed greatly from mine. He set aside incantations and wand movements, preferring that I imagine the result of the spell, desire it fiercely so that magic would obey. Gestures and words were, in his opinion, merely aids that any wizard could dispense with through a little willpower.

He did not seem to realize how unusual his vision of magic was.

He was not a good person. Despite my efforts to downplay Dumbledore’s descriptions of his school years, I could not ignore his violent contempt for the rest of humanity and the complete absence of guilt in his words and actions.

Sometimes we went down to the inn’s common room. He did his homework while I pretended to learn the basics of magic.

In society, his duality was obvious. The first facet of his personality required effort; he made himself charming in order to manipulate others like puppets. He was always one step ahead, treating people like marionettes in a play. Yet that façade could crack, revealing a terrifying being—impatient, irritable, hostile. In those moments, even strangers understood that it was best to keep their distance.

Curiously, I seemed to escape his mood swings. He did not try to manipulate me by being charming or frightening, nor did he take advantage of the vulnerability caused by my injury. He was strangely friendly—but with time, I realized that his friendship was excessive and unhealthy.

He had grown attached to me in an alarming way, afraid that I might change my mind, that I might want to go far away from him, refuse to go to Hogwarts, leave him alone again. The terror of solitude showed through, and he constantly sought reassurance that I had no reason to leave him.

The idea had probably come to him after learning that Morfin Gaunt had left his house, wandering through the streets like a madman, searching for someone or something. I assumed he had drunk so much the night we were there that he remembered nothing and was now looking for his father’s ring. But all that remained of it was dust and fragments of metal.

Tom, for his part, thought Morfin Gaunt was looking for me and wanted me to come home. That was why he frequently repeated that I was better off here, with him, than with my father. He had not understood that Gaunt wanted the ring. The Hallow.

My return to life was connected to that ring—I was certain of it. I knew it was one of the Deathly Hallows, and that its power was meant to bring back the dead. I would direct my research toward it as soon as I could.

True to his promise, Riddle took care of the food, searching the pantries, cellars, and kitchens of Little Hangleton. He often stole bottles of milk at dawn, bringing back everything we needed to live as comfortably as possible. When rumors of a thief spread through the village, he began going more often to Great Hangleton, the neighboring town, thus avoiding suspicion.

We lived as discreetly as possible while waiting for the start of term. It reminded me of the Dursleys, whom I now saw in nightmares. Since my recent fever, my nights had been haunted by bad dreams. I was certainly unsettled by the situation—and with good reason.

I dreamed of the war, of my childhood, of my friends, of the deaths of Cedric and Sirius, or of Dumbledore and Snape. My sleep was a succession of terrible nightmares that made me wake screaming.

Riddle had not questioned me about my nightmares, and I understood why when, one night, it was not my cries that woke us, but his. He explained that he had dreamed of the Second World War currently raging in London, speaking of bombings, the Blitz, warplanes, famine, and poverty as additional reasons for leaving his orphanage.

Our nights were often sleepless, and our days were spent over spellbooks and in discussions about the world as it was. I learned more about the history of magic in a few days than I had in my entire life. Gellert Grindelwald and the Muggle war were recurring subjects.

Riddle did not seem to approve of his predecessor. The future Dark Lord regarded Gellert Grindelwald as a disturber who understood nothing of the true problems of the magical world.

Often I did not even need to contradict him for him to understand whether I agreed or not. I let him lead the conversations and make the decisions; as long as he did not directly contradict my principles, I saw no reason to oppose him.

That was why, when Riddle announced that he would go to see his father the next day, since our stay in Little Hangleton was coming to an end, I wanted to accompany him.

In the original timeline, Voldemort visits his father and grandparents, kills them, manipulates Morfin Gaunt’s mind to make him believe himself guilty of the murders, retrieves the ring, and later turns it into one of his Horcruxes.

I did not know whether Riddle had already created a Horcrux, although he had discovered the Chamber of Secrets and the Basilisk had killed Myrtle. Albus Dumbledore had never been certain of the exact date of the Horcruxes’ creation, but Riddle seemed to take an interest in them during his sixth year at Hogwarts—a sixth year he had not yet lived. It was therefore possible that he had not yet created any Horcruxes. Perhaps he even intended to wait until after graduation to commit his crimes and imprison fragments of his soul in other objects.

Like Slytherin’s locket, whose existence he had recently learned of. The ring could no longer become his Horcrux, since I had destroyed it.

One fewer. One fewer that I would have to destroy, if the idea ever came to him despite my presence in this time.

We were in our room, I lying on the bed and he on the floor, when he explained the situation.

“Now that Dippet has confirmed your enrollment, the grant and supply lists shouldn’t be long in coming. I’ll take you to Diagon Alley soon. We can buy what we need and wait for September first. Before that, I think I need to meet my father. You must have already seen him, since you’ve lived here all your life… do you think there’s any chance that—”

I did not let him finish. I did not want to be cruel, but the greater his hopes, the more devastating his disappointment would be when he faced the truth.

“No. No chance. Tom Riddle Senior, your father… you resemble him physically, but even if he recognizes you and understands that you are his son, I don’t think he’ll want to speak to you. He hates our family. He hated your mother.”

I heard rather than saw him tense. After a moment of silence, he whispered,

“Why? Why did he hate her? And why did she want so badly to be with him if he didn’t love her?”

His distress was palpable. I felt as though his mental stability rested in my hands, and the pressure made me tremble with apprehension.

“I don’t know. Riddle Senior was noble and wealthy. Our family may be noble, but it’s ruined. Maybe that’s why he despises us. As for Merope, I never knew her… but I know she loved your father and left with him one day. Then he came back alone, claiming he had been bewitched by her. We learned she had died… I didn’t even know she had a son.”

Silence. Rapid breathing, then slower.

“Perhaps my father doesn’t know either. That I was born. That my mother was pregnant. Perhaps he left her because he was angry about the love potion, but didn’t know she was expecting. He would have taken responsibility if he had known. He would have stayed with her. He would have kept me.”

His voice was growing more and more fragile. I feared he might begin to cry, and I had no idea how I would react if Lord Voldemort broke down in tears before my eyes. Should I comfort him? And if so, how? I could not lie to him about his father.

Tomorrow he would go to see him, and Tom Riddle Senior would reject him violently. His grandparents themselves would call him an illegitimate child and drive him away. That would drive Voldemort to kill them in a fit of madness.

I managed to lean over to look at him. He was not crying, but his face was drawn, and he seemed to have grown several years younger. His darkened eyes shone with unshed tears. My heart skipped a beat. I would no longer have the courage to kill him if he began to cry tonight. I was certain of it.

I knew he leaned on me like a psychological crutch. That my existence, my presence at his side, was keeping him from completely losing himself and becoming the emotionless monster he truly was.

Part of me felt guilty. I was taking advantage of his fragility to ensure my own survival. But I also knew that, right now, Tom Riddle did not need Harry Potter, his sworn enemy ready to stop him at any cost, but Harry Gaunt—his cousin, who had lived a very similar life, who understood him, who could help him.

Perhaps I was no longer playing a role solely to survive. Perhaps some overly sentimental part of me felt pity for him. Compassion. Because in many ways, my life had not been so different from the fictional life of Harry Gaunt—except that I had been the hero of a war whose architect now stood beside me, tearful and broken.

“Let me come with you tomorrow morning. We’ll face this together. You can tell him everything that’s on your mind… and if it goes badly… I’ll be there.”

His eyes widened suddenly, piercing me with that penetrating gaze. Slowly, the darkness in his eyes gave way to a familiar crimson glow. After a moment of silence, he whispered in Parseltongue:

§ It’s true. Even if he doesn’t accept me, I still have you. §

One day, he would discover that I had lied about our family bond. One day, he would learn who I really was. Inevitably, I would have to tell him the truth: I was not his cousin, and he could not think of me as a brother. That day, I would have to be ready, because I was convinced he would kill me when he learned the truth.

But the truth could wait. At least tonight. Until I could bear the idea of making him cry.

§ Get some rest. Tomorrow morning we’ll go and see your father. §

The next day, I walked with difficulty through the narrow, winding streets of Little Hangleton, limping in spite of myself. Tom Riddle had offered to let me lean on him, but had not insisted after I refused. He seemed to think I hated being touched, and he respected that. I did not particularly dislike human contact—I simply did not want to depend on him.

I had to be able to manage on my own, and Riddle had far more on his mind at that moment. The closer we came to the manor, the more he seemed to withdraw into himself, defensive. His face closed, he walked at a steady pace, shoulders and body rigid, like an enchanted marble statue advancing resolutely toward certain death.

The Riddle manor stood on the hill overlooking the village of Little Hangleton. It was a large stone house, surrounded by a green park and a wrought-iron gate. It had belonged to the Riddle family for generations, a testament to their wealth and prestige. It was exactly the kind of house I hated—too large, beautiful on the outside but empty of life within, full of dead rooms where dust gathered. Only the garden seemed welcoming.

I far preferred the tiny inn room where we had stayed until now. It might have been less than ten square meters, but it felt far warmer than any manor.

When we reached the gates, Riddle froze. He stood motionless, scarcely breathing, without blinking. His magic seemed to manifest around him in an almost physical way, so much so that I felt compelled to say,

“You taught me a spell to unlock doors. Do you want me to use it on the gate?”

He seemed to remember my presence. Losing some of his murderous aura, he nodded.

“Please.”

Better that I open the gate. I simply dropped the padlock and opened it for him. He slipped inside, staring at the house of his ancestors with an empty gaze. After a moment, he murmured in clear Parseltongue:

§ They’re rich. Much richer than I thought. §

I didn’t know what he was thinking. Was he realizing that he had lived his whole life in poverty while his father lived in this enormous house? Was he remembering stealing food in the village because he could not afford to buy any?

I don’t know whether it helped or not, but I replied without thinking:

§ I don’t like this house. Our room at the inn is much warmer. §

He turned to look at me, studied me for a moment, and his expression softened slightly. His posture eased, just a little, and we crossed the garden together.

Before we reached the porch, we were stopped by a man who must have been the gardener. He hurried toward us and said,

“I’m sorry, gentlemen, but this is private property, and you cannot speak to the Riddle family without an invitation.”

Then his gaze fell on Tom. His complexion suddenly went ashen; the resemblance must have been so striking that it unsettled him. Riddle exploited that vulnerability, saying with the feigned but very convincing authority I knew so well:

“I’ve come to see my father.”

The gardener, already pale, looked ready to faint at any moment.

“I’ll take you to the entrance and announce you. If you would follow me.”

Behind the manor’s main door, Tom scrutinized every detail of the entrance hall obsessively. The gardener had gone. The long wait made him increasingly unstable. He seemed to be silently screaming: Why didn’t I grow up here with my mother?

Allowing that hatred to take root would have been a mistake. My hand briefly touched his shoulder as I asked, genuinely concerned,

“Are you all right?”

Once again, he seemed surprised by my presence.

“Harry? No. I don’t feel very well. I’m glad you’re here.”

It was the first time he had spoken my name since learning it. Though we were always together, hearing it from his lips had a strange effect on me.

I wanted to offer him comforting words—any words. But soon raised voices echoed, followed by hurried footsteps. Tom Riddle Senior appeared, along with Thomas and Mary Riddle, Tom’s grandparents. Their fury was obvious, in dressing gowns, their breakfast interrupted.

As for Tom Riddle Senior…

He reacted just like the gardener, going deathly pale at the sight of Tom. The resemblance was striking—a Tom Riddle in his fifties, slightly graying and lined. There was no doubt about their kinship: similar names, similar appearances. The only difference was that one was the most powerful wizard of his generation, and the other a narrow-minded Muggle who had once fallen under the spell of a witch desperate to escape Little Hangleton.

The tragedy was about to repeat itself before my eyes, and I could do nothing to stop it.

Recovering from his shock, Riddle Senior descended the stairs with imperious steps, stopping a few meters from us. He pointed to the door behind us and ordered curtly,

“Get out. You are not welcome under my roof.”

It was obvious he had recognized Tom. The moment those words were spoken, Tom lost all hope. Yet he remained motionless as his grandparents came down in turn, questioning their son.

“Who are these young beggars, Tom? Do you know them?”

Riddle Senior answered clearly, turning his back on us and gesturing for his parents to do the same.

“It’s the son of that monstrous slut who bewitched me. Pay no attention. Go back to your breakfast. I’ll give him the money he’s no doubt come for and join you shortly.”

This was going to end badly. Tom was seething with rage; his murderous intent was unmistakable. Even though I had faced an older version of him, one determined to kill me, he frightened me.

While his grandparents murmured what were probably insults about Tom’s mother—and about him—his father approached us with a cruel smile.

“I suppose a few tens of thousands of pounds will be enough for you to leave and for me never to hear of you again?”

I knew that if I did not act immediately, we were heading for a massacre. I had not been able to stop them from shattering the hopes of the tearful boy who had fallen asleep on the brink of despair the night before. I would not let them turn him into the monster I had known.

As Tom raised his wand, the killing curse on the tip of his tongue, I disarmed him with a wandless, wordless Expelliarmus, driven by sheer will. His wand flew from his hand into mine, and without casting a spoken spell or curse, I managed to freeze his father and grandparents in place. Before Tom could even understand what was happening, I slapped his father.

“That’s for abandoning your wife when she was pregnant and penniless.”

Then I struck him again, harder.

“And that’s for treating Tom the way you did.”

And for helping create a psychopath I had spent my whole life fighting.

Without lifting the magic that held Tom’s father and grandparents immobile, I turned back to him. Shock was clearly written on his face, as if all threat had been wiped from him.

“We don’t need your money.”

I took a few steps toward him and asked, with slight uncertainty,

“Right, Tom?”

I wasn’t sure my little demonstration would be enough to stop him from killing everyone present. It was the first time I had spoken his name.

For a moment, I thought he would kill them anyway. Then his dark eyes gradually cleared. At last he nodded, turned toward the exit, and said,

“Leave them trapped in your magic until we’ve left Little Hangleton. That will be their punishment for the way they received us.”

Immobilized for days, unable to eat, sleep, or even relieve themselves. That was far crueler than the two slaps I had given Riddle Senior. But I suppose it was better than three corpses.

I only hoped the gardener would be too terrified to call the police, and that no one would visit the Riddles until we had left.

I followed the Dark Lord, and together we crossed the garden in the opposite direction. Only once the gate was closed did my wound make itself known again. I had strained my leg far too much.

As I cursed under my breath from the pain, Tom stepped in front of me and said,

“I’m going to carry you.”

When I didn’t respond, he turned his back to me, bent his long legs to crouch, and added,

“I know you don’t like it. I’ll walk quickly.”

Having no other way of getting back on foot, I accepted. He told me to be careful with my leg, and I was forced to cling to his shoulders to keep from falling.

The sky, which had been blue and bright when we left that morning, suddenly filled with clouds, and rain began to fall.

It was beneath torrents of storming rain, as I clung desperately to him to keep from slipping, that the Dark Lord spoke these few words:

§ Thank you. For what you did today. I’m grateful to you. §

Don’t worry, he’s just your friend

Our Hogwarts letters arrived the following evening, accompanied by two pouches filled with galleons—and excellent news for Tom: he would be Head Boy that year.

Holding the Hogwarts letter, Tom devoured it with his eyes for the second time with indescribable intensity. His appointment as Head Boy had awakened in him a mixture of pride and satisfaction.

That news succeeded where I had failed since our visit to the Riddles: it drove away his dark thoughts and lingering anger.

I remembered Percy’s joy when he became a prefect, and Ron and Hermione’s as well. Their appointments had been celebrated at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. I had been disappointed not to be chosen, because I felt I was giving everything for Hogwarts and for the war.

Later, I had learned that Dumbledore wanted to ease the pressure on my shoulders so I could enjoy my studies a little. So he had given the role of Quidditch captain and prefect to Ron, my best friend.

“We have to celebrate!”

His eyes lifted from the letter.

“Your admission to Hogwarts and my appointment as Head Boy?”

I insisted.

“Yes. I’m sure the other prefects and the new students are celebrating right now!”

A skeptical expression crossed Riddle’s face, but he let himself be persuaded, more relaxed than I had ever seen him in my presence.

“Do you have any idea how we’re supposed to celebrate?”

After a brief moment of thought, I pointed to the bottle of vodka.

“We could have a drink and… use some money to ask the innkeeper for a cake? I feel like something sweet.”

Riddle nodded seriously—perhaps too seriously—and I wondered if he had ever celebrated anything in his life.

A few hours later, I found myself with a Dark Lord who had absolutely no tolerance for alcohol, vomiting into the toilet while I patted his back, torn between concern and hilarity.

“Good thing you didn’t overdo the cake.”

He shot me a murderous look as he wiped his mouth over the bowl. His voice trembled slightly.

“I drank… less than you. Stop making fun of me, Harry.”

I couldn’t help laughing.

“Is this your first time drinking alcohol? You know the vodka you brought back was over sixty percent? Of course you were going to be sick, swallowing it like water.”

The rest of the evening was punctuated by childish bickering. A feeling of joy, absent for so long, filled me, and I could not even remember the last time I had felt it.

Tom taught me a few useless spells that produced confetti and streamers—charming little charms that nearly set our room on fire twice.

The innkeeper made no complaint; he congratulated Tom on his title of Head Boy and gave us the enormous chocolate cake we had meant to pay for.

In the middle of the night, with an empty bottle of vodka and a completely devoured cake, sitting side by side on the bed, a thought crossed my mind. A thought I would rather never have had.

I liked Tom Riddle. I liked this version of Voldemort—too young, half innocent, half guilty, who had already lived too much and yet not enough.

Honestly, I didn’t want him to die. Or to fight him.

My head in my arms, that was the moment Tom chose to hiss to me, still drunk:

§ You’re my first friend. I’ve always wondered what it felt like to have one. §

Never again would I be able to hurt him deliberately…

***

The next morning, I dragged a grumpy Tom Riddle out of the arms of sleep. Observing his tense expression in the daylight, I asked,

“Do you have a headache?”

He removed his hand from his face, looked at me, and denied it without hesitation.

“No.”

A smile spread across my face; his bad faith was obvious. He wore the classic expression of someone suffering their first hangover.

“Do you remember last night?”

He narrowed his eyes and, in a tone almost threatening, hissed:

§ I remember. §

My smile widened, and I held out my hand.

§ If Head Boy would be so kind as to keep his promise and take me to Diagon Alley, I’m looking forward to it. §

His eyes began to sparkle. I think he was amused. Briefly placing his hand in mine, he sat up, disentangling himself from the blankets, and asked,

“Why am I in your bed?”

“Because you’re too heavy for me to carry when you’re drunk?”

The threatening look returned, followed by a hint of amusement—and then a lie.

“I wasn’t drunk.”

Suppressing a laugh, I said with irony,

“Of course not. You weren’t drunk at all.”

“You drank too. Don’t you have a headache?”

“I hold my liquor well.”

“Your leg?”

“It still hurts, but I think I can walk.”

He frowned.

“I’d rather check before we leave.”

We had breakfast, eating what remained of our provisions, then Tom got ready. He took a shower and immediately put on his Hogwarts uniform. I supposed he feared running into classmates and wanted to look his best.

His uniform was secondhand, but his natural elegance gave him a noble appearance, whatever he wore. He brushed his short, slightly curly hair back, took the Head Boy badge that had remained in the envelope the night before, and pinned it beside the Slytherin crest on his uniform. He wore it with such solemnity that it looked like a military decoration.

I tried to push aside the thought that he had received it because Headmaster Dippet believed he had captured the monster of the Chamber of Secrets the previous year—which was false, since he had merely accused Hagrid of something for which he himself was responsible. The only positive aspect of that affair was that he had been forced to close the Chamber, which meant I would not have a Basilisk to fight at school this year.

Though before leaving Hogwarts, I intended to eliminate that giant serpent, if only to prevent the events of my second year from repeating themselves.

If my presence in this time could alter the past, I would not refrain. Killing the Basilisk was not my priority; I first had to unravel the mystery of my resurrection and my journey into the past.

I wanted to understand what had happened to me, even if part of me suspected I could never return to my own time. I had died after defeating Voldemort; I should not be alive. My presence here was a mistake, a second chance, an anomaly I intended to take advantage of.

Suddenly, I became aware of the cruelty of my situation. I was alive—but I would never see my friends again. They were not even born yet. I was alone. I was alive. I had defeated Voldemort, but none of it had happened yet. Did my existence have any meaning in this time that was not mine? Did I have a role?

No. Absolutely not. A role had been forced upon me all my life. I had obeyed a prophecy, a destiny. I was free now. I refused to seek another meaning for my existence. I wanted to live for myself, at least a little, selfishly. To make my own choices.

When a child is born, no one assigns meaning to its life. It lives—that is all. It grows. It has no particular destiny. It does not have to end a war or bring peace. It is not the chosen one of any prophecy. It has a normal life, friends, family. Perhaps it will fall in love, have a child in turn. Or perhaps not. It will make its own choices.

That was what I aspired to now: to make my own choices. My life did not need to have a meaning. It would be up to me to give it one.

When it was my turn to get ready, Riddle insisted on checking my wound. It still looked awful to me, but it did seem to be healing. Tom appeared surprised that the stitches had held so long despite the strain I often put on them. The wound was not infected and showed no worrying redness or bruising. The young Dark Lord concluded that I was able to walk today, provided I did not overexert myself.

At the end of his examination, I told him,

“You’d probably make a good Healer.”

The remark seemed to surprise him.

“I didn’t do anything special. Your body heals quickly. Fifteen days ago, you could see your ribs even when you were wearing my shirt. Now you look… well.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. I supposed it was a compliment. Had I really looked that bad? It was true I had not eaten properly during my hunt for Horcruxes, nor slept well. Perhaps I had lost more weight than I thought. I would have to take better care of myself.

If I had the chance, I would ask the Gryffindor Quidditch team of this era to let me join them. A bit of sport would do me good. And no one could forbid me from flying this year—even if I would have to do it on school brooms.

Riddle lent me a spare uniform until I had my own, he said, and I found myself forced to wear a three-piece suit far too large for me. Even the robe seemed fifteen centimeters too long, not to mention the Slytherin crest sewn over the heart and the matching tie. I grimaced at the result.

How could the same clothes have such a different effect?

Riddle looked like a fashion plate, and I looked… disheveled. Shaking my head, I decided to remove the tie and jacket, keeping only the waistcoat and shirt. I tucked the shirt into the trousers and rolled up the sleeves so it wouldn’t look two sizes too big. I was used to Dudley’s oversized clothes.

The grey sleeveless waistcoat seemed to fit me, which meant Tom must have outgrown it. I folded and tucked the trousers into my boots the same way—boots from the Battle of Hogwarts, the only things I had managed to keep besides my glasses.

I gave up on the robe. It was far too hot to wear one, and I could do nothing with my short, messy hair except run a hand through it. That was better. I felt better.

I came out of the bathroom, returning the excess clothes to Riddle and saying,

“The rest was much too big.”

I hadn’t noticed that he had been staring at me since I stepped out. He was studying my appearance, and his eyes had turned scarlet.

Confused, I asked,

“Is something wrong with what I’m wearing?”

Perhaps he was scandalized that I wore only part of the uniform. I had noticed a certain fastidiousness in him. No wonder he always looked perfect.

He looked me up and down once more, turned away abruptly, and hissed while fastening his suitcase.

§ You wear the Slytherin uniform with a nonchalance bordering on contempt. On anyone else, I would find that insulting. On you, it makes it seem as though it can only be worn that way. §

I laughed, suddenly understanding what he meant.

“So that means you think it suits me?”

I thought he wouldn’t answer, but he glanced at me and replied with disarming frankness.

“My clothes suit you very well. But we’re still going to buy you some that fit.”

His frankness unsettled me far more than I wanted to admit, but I quickly forgot my embarrassment when he announced our departure. I was eager to be in Diagon Alley, eager to see Hogwarts again, eager to live another year in that school. I had the feeling I had been given a second chance to finish my studies without war interrupting them—even if it meant doing so in the company of a young Voldemort.

As the first time I had gone with the Weasley family, we left by Floo powder, using the fireplace of the Little Hangleton inn to appear in the hearth of the Leaky Cauldron. Soon we stepped out into a crowded Diagon Alley, teeming with life on the eve of the new term.

Witches and wizards from every background hurried between shops with bright signs. Laughter, children’s excited cries, and the constant murmur of conversation created a cacophony that stirred a nostalgia in me I had not expected.

Shop windows displayed their latest goods. Young witches and wizards, accompanied by their parents, hurried to buy the supplies needed for the new year at Hogwarts. Colorful displays revealed immaculate uniforms, gleaming copper cauldrons, books of spells and potions, and a whole range of magical accessories.

No one would have imagined that war raged in the Muggle world and that Gellert Grindelwald had been threatening England for some time now.

I noticed a few differences between my era and this one. Fashion was not quite the same; brightly colored robes and pointed hats were rare. Wizards wore more suits that looked almost Muggle, and I had the strange sensation of being plunged into a period film, like the ones that played on Dudley’s square television.

Tom Riddle gave me a few moments to get used to the place. For him, it was my first time in Diagon Alley—and that wasn’t entirely untrue. In a sense, I had never seen this Diagon Alley before. He guided me through the crowd, murmuring,

“Don’t wander off. If you see something and want to stop, tell me. And if you do get lost, go back to the Leaky Cauldron and wait for me.”

He was treating me like a child, no doubt about it. Perhaps I could not hide my excitement and joy, and he had the impression I might do as the little boys we had passed, who had slipped away from their parents to run toward the ice-cream seller.

I was not going to contradict him, because as we passed a shop selling brooms and Quidditch equipment, I couldn’t help shouting,

“Stop!”

His long legs halted. He turned, looked at my delighted face, cast a disdainful glance at the display I was devouring with my eyes, and seemed ready to launch into an argument—probably something along the lines of we’ll buy what we need first and then you can amuse yourself.

But the moment he opened his mouth, I was already asking,

“Can we go in and look, please?”

His mouth closed. He looked exasperated for a moment, then sighed, walked toward the shop door, and said quietly,

“All right—but just for a moment.”

I hurried in after him, fascinated by the brooms of that era. Though they were probably slower and less efficient than those I had flown, they still held my interest.

As for Riddle, when the shopkeeper—drawn by my companion’s appearance and elegance—asked whether he was interested, he replied that he did not play Quidditch and was not there to buy anything.

After browsing the shop, we began following the school supply list, visiting different stores, starting with clothing. My new uniform bore no Gryffindor crest—and for good reason. I would have to face the Sorting Hat again tomorrow. I had every hope of asking it to place me among the red and gold once more, as I had the first time.

Tom behaved exactly as I imagined: attracting attention while remaining cold. It allowed him to remain alone, like an observer standing outside the world. He despised most, if not all, of the people he dealt with. Shopkeepers, antiquarians, booksellers, and others came to him almost immediately without his asking. He ordered, paid, and left, without small talk or unnecessary purchases.

Beside him, I went unnoticed, which was strangely pleasant. Usually my presence was always remarked upon—people shaking my hand, staring at my scar, or avoiding me because of slanderous articles in the paper. I was never at peace.

Here, it was completely different. While Tom ordered our supplies at the stationery shop, I took the liberty of wandering among the shelves, calm in my anonymity.

My eyes fixed on school supplies promising wonders of every kind, I failed to watch where I was going and suddenly collided violently with someone who was doing the same.

The impact sent us both to the floor, and my wound made itself known as I lay there, immobilized by the pain shooting through my leg.

The person I had bumped into—a young girl proudly wearing Gryffindor colors—got up at once and exclaimed,

“Oh! Merlin, I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you? I wasn’t watching where I was going! Are you all right? I’ll go get help!”

Before she could leave, I managed to say, awkwardly trying to stand,

“No, it’s fine, I’ll be all right.”

I managed to remain upright by leaning on the shelves. She studied me and frowned.

“Are you sure? You’re not hurt? You’re very pale.”

Suddenly it was her face that went pale as I felt a familiar presence behind me. Riddle was there. He steadied me with one arm around my shoulders, then said in an icy voice,

“What happened?”

The blonde girl, who must have been roughly his age, began to stammer a stream of words I didn’t understand. Then she blushed furiously as I tried to free myself from Tom’s hold.

“I fell. I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

He seemed to doubt my sincerity for a moment, but finally released me and asked, ignoring our spectator entirely,

“How’s your leg?”

I grimaced.

“It hurt at first, but it’s better now.”

He nodded, gave the student I had bumped into one last warning look, and murmured to me,

“We’re going to take a break. Then we’ll go and get your wand.”

That’s what we did. We shared a butterbeer—my first in a long time. Then I got my wand back. Mine, the only one I had ever truly recognized as such, bound to Tom, to Voldemort. The one with which I could never kill him. I didn’t care. The desire to do so had vanished. No more battles, no more wars. I wanted to be an unknown with no story, an ordinary teenager.

The young Ollivander of that era did not reveal that our wands were twins, but his enigmatic gaze suggested that he knew everything about me, about this wand, about my destiny…

That seemingly trivial trip to Diagon Alley was a reflection of the moments we would share afterward.

It made me realize how much I loved peace. Though the world was at war, it was not my war. Gellert Grindelwald could run—I would not follow. Albus Dumbledore was his hero. I had been the hero of another Dark Lord.

I began to believe in this second chance… a second life, in the humanity of Tom Riddle, and in our improbable friendship. I was content, but a life built on a lie was bound to shatter. I should have known, should have understood there would be no happy ending for me.

Born in war, I was not meant to know peace. And yet I want to record these rare moments of peace before everything falls apart, because they existed, and they play a role I will never forget.

After our excursion to Diagon Alley, the student routine of Hogwarts caught up with us—a routine I had never truly known, because for the first time, I was no longer Harry Potter. And that made all the difference. Harry Gaunt was not entirely me; perhaps that was why his existence was so peaceful, though short.

We traveled together aboard the Hogwarts Express. Tom guided me through his responsibilities, introduced me to the other prefects, of whom he was the leader that year, and carried out his duties. Afterward, we withdrew to an empty compartment, where I listened to his reflections on the school.

When I mentioned the possibility of not being sorted into the same house as him, he assured me I had nothing to fear. As a Gaunt, I was, to him, a direct heir of Slytherin’s line.

His certainty and his smile discouraged me from pressing the matter. Gryffindor was not mentioned. Nothing was said. A few hours later, we arrived at Hogwarts.

Tom had to assume his role as Head Boy, and we parted. I followed the first-years, crossing the Black Lake in a boat, like a little boy with shining eyes fixed on the castle that would be my home for the years to come.

Returning to Hogwarts filled me with a kind of inner excitement. The hall, the corridors, the Great Hall… everything seemed a little different from my memories. But the changes were so subtle that I could have reached Gryffindor Tower blindfolded, even with the capricious staircases.

Yet Gryffindor was not my destination, according to the Sorting Hat. You guessed that, didn’t you? I hadn’t. Until the very last second, I tried to persuade it. These were the words it spoke before delivering its verdict:

“Harry Potter. You belong to a future that exists now only in your mind. The future is made of choices—of all those that could not be made in favor of others. This time, I refuse you. Not because you lack courage, but to see a future whose shape I do not yet know. Your place today is in… SLYTHERIN!”

Tom was the first to stand and applaud—not excessively, like some, nor with the typical indifference of Slytherins, but with sincere joy and obvious satisfaction. That joy, that day, acted like a balm. Yes, I was not going where I would have wished, but I was in the company of a friend.

Tom Riddle was my anchor, a point of reference. After dinner, where I met my sixth-year classmates, we discovered our common room. Slughorn introduced himself as our Head of House, praising Tom for his role as Head Boy.

I felt at ease—more than I would have been alone among Gryffindors facing Professor Dumbledore. After all, as a Gaunt, my presence among the lions might have been poorly received by Albus Dumbledore.

Once freed from his prefect duties, Riddle seized my arm, pulling me from a leather armchair where I was already dozing, and spoke to me in unmistakable Parseltongue.

§ You can sleep later. I’m taking you to the infirmary. We’re going to treat your leg. §

All our classmates quickly learned that I was a Parselmouth.

The nurse, a young red-haired woman with a warm smile, was horrified when she discovered my wound. I considered inventing a lie to explain it, but she saw my other scars, and I could read in her eyes that she would not believe me, whatever I said.

Riddle had clearly grasped the situation before I had, stating calmly that my father had inflicted those injuries on me, but that after the last one I had decided not to live with him anymore. That decision, he said, was what had led me to enroll at Hogwarts.

I was officially categorized as a teenage victim of abuse who had fled his family, and that only strengthened the nurse’s determination to help me. She subjected me to so many tests that I remained in the infirmary, accompanied by Tom, who had insisted on staying at my side.

That was where we spent our first night at Hogwarts, without speaking of our disastrous childhoods. We could have, but we remained there, still and silent. Tom merely mentioned that he too had spent his first night at Hogwarts in the infirmary, and that was enough—it was sufficient.

The next day, we were allowed to choose our classes, and Tom wanted every option, even though that was impossible because of scheduling conflicts. When he handed in his form with every option checked, Dippet summoned him to give him a Time-Turner. Then Tom had an idea: to ask to use it jointly, so that I could attend all the classes I wanted and make up for lost time.

Although Dumbledore, as Deputy Headmaster, expressed reservations about letting two Slytherin students use a Time-Turner freely—especially after what had happened the previous year with the Chamber of Secrets—Dippet found the idea brilliant.

He had blind trust in Tom, considering him the best student in the school—which he was—and granted him every possible privilege, like most of the professors, who were under the influence of the young Dark Lord.

And so, each day at Hogwarts, we lived in triplicate, repeating the same day three times—running, laughing, studying, alone inside our own bubble.

My smile became constant, and Tom became the best friend I had ever had. Never had I been so close to another human being.

To live the same day three times, we had to avoid our doubles, which led us to such absurd acts as hiding in cupboards, behind tapestries, and eating at impossible hours of the day and night.

Our daily life overflowed with life, with shared moments. We held hands far too often for it to be innocent. One night in three, we slept together in Tom’s prefect dormitory—in all innocence, yet still in the same bed. Sometimes we slept under the open sky, and only rarely did I sleep alone in my dormitory.

It was always him and me, face to face—talking, watching each other, smiling, touching, forgetting the rest of the world for the other’s presence. Like two teenagers in love discovering what it means to care for someone.

Soon our relationship seemed ambiguous in everyone’s eyes, and rumors followed us. I paid no attention; I didn’t feel I was doing anything wrong.

I couldn’t define our relationship. We were no longer quite simple friends, because a tension had appeared between us, constantly driving us to seek each other’s touch or gaze. Yet we were not a couple.

Tom Riddle considered himself, in his own eyes, my cousin and therefore a member of my family. Perhaps that was what had held him back all this time. I didn’t know.

Perhaps we were incapable of distinguishing between friendship, brotherly love, and physical attraction, lost in an indescribable confusion about our own feelings.

My magical training was intense. In just a few weeks I had become a fully accomplished wizard. At a remarkable speed, I reached the same level as Tom, and the professors began to treat me the same way they already treated him.

Our excellence extended to every subject; magic became as natural to me as breathing. I even surpassed Tom in wandless, wordless magic, acting on instinct.

This rapid progress felt natural, because we spent all our days practicing. Magic was our reason for existing.

Tom, more studious and precise, contrasted with my instinctive and chaotic nature. He could cast Fiendfyre and extinguish it in a fraction of a second—though it had taken several hundred attempts, during which his uniform had cheerfully caught fire, forcing me to help mend it dozens upon dozens of times.

Horace Slughorn invited us to his gatherings, and we attended from time to time.

It was an opportunity to stay informed for two people like us who preferred not to mingle. Our presence always sparked outrageous gossip the next day, and Riddle seemed to derive a certain satisfaction from it.

We were only teenagers, acting accordingly—exploring the Forbidden Forest for no reason other than the prohibition itself, breaking curfew to sneak into Hogsmeade at night, spending entire afternoons on a single Potions essay, lazing in bed on weekends.

We felt the joys and sorrows of life with particular intensity.

Our Slytherin classmates wavered between jealous hostility and greedy envy. I could not join the Quidditch team, but I was allowed to fly freely in the grounds, while Tom read beneath a tree, amused by my aerial pirouettes on sunny afternoons. I had reached the point where I could no longer imagine a moment without his presence.

Wherever I went, whatever I did—if I turned my head, if I reached out my hand—he would be there, taking my fingers, thirsty for the slightest contact. He who disliked being touched had become hungry for the faintest brush of skin. And I myself was no longer embarrassed by his touch.

I had even forgotten the mystery of my resurrection, my journey into the past. I knew the Time-Turner could not return me to where I came from, and… in truth, I was not even trying to go back. I was well here, with him, reigning over Hogwarts.

I had not researched the ring or the Hallows. Sometimes I thought about it. Often fragments of my past returned to me, and I felt guilty. I was here enjoying myself with the Dark Lord while knowing what that man would become. He would kill my parents—my family, my friends.

And yet I could not bring myself to cut ties with him. Time passed, and I convinced myself that my presence at his side would be enough to keep him on the right path. I could not change him. I knew something in him was broken, and I could not mend it. But I thought I could stop his suffering, keep him from being hurt more than he already was—keep him from hurting others in turn.

Everything changed on an ordinary evening.

We had been living each day in triplicate for two months. We had already spent six months together, even though at Hogwarts it was only the first day of November. We had just celebrated Halloween three times in three different ways. I had given Tom a simple white plaster carnival mask that covered only part of his face, and he had worn it ever since, seeming to cherish the gift.

Walking through the corridors, I teased him about it.

“You’ve been wearing it for four days. You know Halloween is over. Do you like that mask so much? Are you going to keep it until it breaks?”

He raised one of his long hands to his face, pressing his fingertips against the thin plaster, and smiled at me in that way of his that only I recognized as a smile.

“It won’t break. I reinforced it. And yes, I like it very much. It’s your first gift to me—I intend to enjoy it a little longer.”

Our steps were light, and I was smiling so much my cheeks hurt.

“So if I understand correctly, I need to give you something else to make you stop walking around masked and scaring the first-years?”

“I don’t scare anyone.”

“Then why do the Hufflepuffs run away the moment you approach them?”

“It’s not me who intimidates the Hufflepuffs—it’s you. Because of that lesson we had with them, when you used that spell you invented… Sectumsempra? You sliced the training dummies to pieces, and cuts kept appearing on the remains for hours after we left.”

I sulked.

“It was an accident! The professor wanted to teach Diffindo, and I wanted to show them that spells can have more or less powerful variations. I didn’t mean to use Sectumsempra—I just got carried away.”

“You have a reputation for causing incidents wherever we go. Next to you, I look perfectly harmless.”

Riddle seemed amused by this reversal of roles. He and I both knew perfectly well who was more dangerous, and it was not me. I scolded him.

“That suits you. My clumsiness only reinforces your image as the perfect student. When in reality, your moral principles are completely deranged.”

My remark did not surprise him. He knew I was aware of the darkness of his soul as well as his fragilities. He had admitted, in half-words, that he was responsible for last year’s incidents at Hogwarts when I learned of them from classmates. He did not hide it from me. He did not play a role when we were together.

I saw clearly the human and the monster in him, struggling constantly for control of his mind and body. I was under his influence, and he was under mine. I even felt a certain pride each time he yielded to his more human, emotional side.

It was proof of trust on his part. I did not know when that blind trust had begun, but Riddle placed it in me, and nothing could destroy it. That, I understood much later.

At that moment, I did not know that he had already forgiven my lies. That he would forgive me anything, if it meant continuing to have me at his side.

I was not like him. In that respect, his heart was far greater than mine. My trust wavered; it could be broken. My forgiveness was hard to earn, and sometimes impossible.

Tom Riddle was, in a sense, far purer in his emotions, never betraying his own code of conduct. He acted without nuance, following an imaginary course that corresponded deeply to what he was.

To that adolescent who was gradually losing the last traces of childhood, becoming an increasingly handsome young man. To his cold, cutting charm, to his reactions sometimes flat, sometimes boiling over, as if he did not know that a middle ground was possible. Unable to see humanity as anything but a stage on which he played the leading role.

Intolerant of alcohol and barely able to endure more than one coffee a day. Preferring milk tea, and loving above all the smell of bread fresh from the oven. I knew everything there was to know about him.

That is why I should have understood sooner that this boy, who spent most of his time watching me, had developed an obsession with me. In a way, I was obsessed with him as well—but I knew his past, his present, and his future. I had no reason to dig further. It was different for him. I spoke little about myself, which must only have frustrated him, and that was what led us to this situation.

“You’re right. You’re the kindest person, and I hate the rest of humanity and dream of seeing it burn.”

It was sarcasm, dark humor that Tom appreciated, but which always held a grain of truth. I turned and walked backward so I could face him.

“Good thing I’m here, then. To stop you from indulging your destructive urges?”

His eyes turned scarlet. I was used to seeing them change color, and I knew what each shade meant. Scarlet meant…

He stepped forward abruptly and caught me by the waist, pulling me against him in an embrace that sent my heart racing. His beat so hard I could hear it, feel it, and mine could only fall into rhythm with those infernal pulses.

He whispered in my ear, his hands already moving across my back:

§ I’m afraid my urges don’t concern the destruction of this world. §

I didn’t know what to answer, and my face burned fiercely. One of my arms had already betrayed me by clutching at him.

I didn’t need to respond, because suddenly I sensed someone else’s presence, and distinctly heard Horace Slughorn clear his throat.

Without seeing him, I knew our Head of House was a few meters away and was probably looking elsewhere, away from this embrace which, to an outside observer, could hardly have seemed friendly. After Tom’s words, I myself doubted I could consider it as such.

Tom released me, and for a brief instant I thought he might hex Slughorn so that he would turn around and never appear before him again. But then his mask—not the plaster one, but the one of the perfect student—slipped back into place, and he stepped away from me for good.

He inclined his head in a way that seemed threatening even to me and greeted our professor in English that carried a faint hiss.

“Good evening, Professor Slughorn.”

Horace Slughorn did not falter; he looked uncomfortable, but not because of Tom’s attitude… he was looking at me, and I could see in his eyes a certain pity that made me feel uneasy in turn.

“Good evening, Tom. Good evening, Harry.”

I greeted him in return with a simple nod, my throat inexplicably tight. Slughorn avoided my gaze. Usually he was a rather straightforward man, with a genial smile and a jovial manner. He was not the sort to avoid my eyes, but rather to seek them.

“Harry, it’s you I came to see, in my capacity as Head of Slytherin House. We need to talk, just the two of us, my boy… it concerns your father.”

For a brief moment, I almost replied that my father had died long ago. Then I, too, remembered my role. My identity as Harry Gaunt—and the father of this boy who did not exist. Morfin Gaunt. Something had happened to Morfin Gaunt.

I was not worried for that man I did not know, but for a reason I could not explain, a deep dread seized my chest and refused to let go.

Slughorn led us to his office and did not refuse when Tom insisted on accompanying us. On the contrary, he seemed relieved not to have to tell me what he had to say alone.

Once we were seated in the armchairs of his office, Slughorn stopped circling the subject, sat opposite me, and spoke.

“I am sorry to have to tell you this, Harry, but I must offer you my condolences. Your father, Morfin Gaunt, died last night.”

I did not react immediately. Hearing the news was shocking, though not entirely surprising. Morfin Gaunt had lived like an animal, lost in alcoholism. His death was perhaps not as unexpected as it might have been…

I was already assuming that the cause of death must have been related to alcohol poisoning or something similar when Slughorn cleared his throat and added a few words.

“It is a tragedy, what happened. Your father was murdered… by a Muggle. I know no more, as the Muggle police have taken charge of the case. To protect the Statute of Secrecy, you understand, we cannot intervene in such an investigation. All I know is that this Muggle appeared to have lost his mind and murdered his own parents before rampaging through the village where your father lived. Mr. Gaunt came out of his house, and the man shot him with a rifle and… I do not think it is necessary to say more. After these abominable acts, the man killed himself…”

Slughorn kept apologizing while I remained frozen, like a statue.

“I am sorry, my boy. I know you did not have a good relationship with your father, but I realize what a shock this news must be. Of course, you are excused from classes for the coming week. I have spoken with the Headmaster, and you may also be absent to attend the funeral if you wish. You too, Tom—I know Harry’s father was your uncle… therefore you are excused as well and may accompany him.”

My mind remained blank and white for a while. Tom escorted me back to his room. Something was wrong. Nothing was right. Morfin Gaunt had been murdered? By a Muggle? A Muggle who had killed the rest of his family before killing himself? What Muggle? Was it really an accident?

Something was wrong.

I sat on Tom’s bed, knowing I should at least pretend to be sad about the death of my father. But Tom did not seem disturbed. Neither disturbed nor surprised. He had not offered his condolences. Since Slughorn’s announcement, he had been silent. For a moment I thought he might be affected by the death of his uncle, that silence being his way of dealing with the shock. Then I realized that was impossible.

Tom would have killed Morfin Gaunt himself if I had not been there that day. But why had he not done it? Because I was there. Because I was wounded and he wanted to help me. Tom had come to my aid, and that was what had spared Morfin Gaunt.

But what had prevented him from killing him afterward? Tom did not want me to return to my father. Never. Riddle wanted to know more about me, about my past, and I often avoided his questions.

The Dark Lord possessed a Time-Turner and wanted to learn more about me. He believed Morfin Gaunt was my father. What was to stop him from using that Time-Turner to go to Little Hangleton without my knowledge? He could have used one of the fireplaces in Hogsmeade. His absence would have lasted only a few hours. A turn or two of the Time-Turner…

Since the first Halloween, I had found him a little strange. At first he had seemed distant with me, but I told myself he simply disliked the festive atmosphere. He had never liked commotion. Then I gave him the mask, and suddenly… his behavior returned to normal. No—not really.

He became suddenly more… forward. And before Slughorn arrived, he had clearly made advances toward me. Before, he had restrained himself. He had restrained himself because he believed we were cousins, and although such things did not trouble pure-blood families obsessed with preserving their bloodline, he had been raised as a Muggle—and a Muggle does not have a relationship… with his cousin.

Tom Riddle no longer considered me his cousin. Not since the Halloween party. For us, it had been three days ago; for the rest of the world, it was last night. Tom had used his Time-Turner to see Morfin Gaunt and question him about me… Morfin had told him he had no son. That he knew no Harry Gaunt.

Because Harry Gaunt did not exist.

Riddle must have become enraged. He must have felt betrayed, already hating Morfin Gaunt. He wanted to kill him, to take revenge on someone since he could not do so on me. He devised a plan to get rid of Morfin—to kill him. He used a Muggle. Which Muggle? It was obvious. The only other person Tom wanted dead more than my supposed father was his own.

He had used Tom Riddle Senior to kill Morfin Gaunt and taken the opportunity to force him to murder the remaining members of his family before killing himself. The young Dark Lord was perfectly capable of enchanting a man’s mind merely by speaking to him. When he was in control of himself and his abilities, nothing could stop him once he had made a decision.

But if it were true, if my theory were correct… then why was I still alive? That Halloween night… Tom should have returned to Hogwarts and found a way to kill me, to take revenge. He knew. He knew I was not part of his family, that we shared no blood. That I had lied to him. Why not kill me? His rage must have been unbearable.

What had happened that night? Our first Halloween… I had given him the mask. I remembered it clearly. The evening had barely begun, and I had noticed a certain coldness in him. I had intended to wait a little longer before giving it to him, but I decided it was the right moment to lift his spirits. He had seemed surprised—genuinely surprised. Then satisfied. Happy, even. Too happy. Almost relieved. He had not taken it off since.

For a reason I could not understand, that mask had convinced him to spare my life. But why? He knew nothing about me, and he must have realized I was hiding things from him. He must have wondered who I really was, what I was doing in Little Hangleton that night, why I had destroyed the ring. How I could be a Parselmouth if I was not even part of his family.

He had not killed me, nor even confronted me.

Perhaps that was why I did not believe my theory at once. Part of me did not want to admit that Tom had just committed acts equivalent to Voldemort’s, in cold blood—which was worse, in a sense.

I did not want to make him my enemy again. I did not want to oppose him. I… I had no desire to destroy what I had built with him. I did not know if this feeling was love in the usual sense, but I loved him. I loved him and hated the idea of what he could be, of what he was, of what he might have done.

To be certain, I raised my head. I was sitting on the edge of his bed. His room lay beneath the usual dormitories, and here the water of the lake, visible through the windows, was so dark it seemed a solid mass blocking the view. I was inexplicably cold. The door was closed, and there was only him and me.

In a tense voice, I asked:

“It was you. You did this, didn’t you?”

His vacant eyes met mine at once with renewed intensity. He seemed stunned for a moment, then a twisted smile crossed his face, and he hissed in the language only we now spoke.

I understood immediately that the human was no longer in control. I was facing Tom the monster. Lord Voldemort.

§ You are clever. No one could have linked Morfin’s death to me—except you, isn’t that so? §

My blood froze in my veins, and I could do nothing but stare at him. He looked back at me for a moment, then shrugged and began to pace the room, an unusual sign of agitation for him. He hissed:

§ They deserved to die. All of them. I did not deserve a family so… disappointing. I thought you were part of it. I was happy at the idea of being connected to someone worth something. But that isn’t the case, is it? You are not my cousin. Not even a member of my family. I saw it in that man’s mind… there are no other Gaunts. That night, you were there to destroy that ring… then you were injured and you played a part. Did you pity me? §

His eyes never left mine as he paced before me.

§ It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter whether pity or weakness from your injury made you stay with me. Do you know what? I don’t care about your identity. I don’t even care about your past. And yet it was for that reason I went to see Morfin… Now there is only one thing that bothers me… you and I have no bond. Nothing stops you from leaving. From going away. You stayed before, perhaps because you were injured. Perhaps because you had nowhere to go. But now? You could leave. After all, I thought I was your friend—but if that were true… you would have told me the truth sooner or later. But you did not. And yet you gave me this gift. §

He stopped walking and removed the mask from his face with great care, contemplating it. A smile appeared on his lips—an expression that made me want to flee, but I was paralyzed with fear and shock. I could neither move nor speak. His magic surrounded me with a suffocating, powerful presence—stronger even than that of the man I had fought in my own time.

§ It’s the first gift anyone has ever given me. My first gift. The only one in my life. That must mean something. You like me. At least a little. I would have preferred you not to realize about Morfin and the Riddles… I had planned to act as though nothing had happened. You didn’t want me to kill them. I would have pretended. Until you were willing to bind yourself to me. Then I would have explained everything, and perhaps you would have been angry—but not forever. There are magical bonds, you know. Stronger and more indelible than blood. You would not have been able to leave, and in time you would have forgiven me. After all, he was not even your real father. §

He stepped toward me, the mask in his hands. My body refused to move, and I could only watch him kneel before me. On one knee, he said:

§ I love you, Harry. Stay with me. I will take care of you. You will lack nothing. I know you dislike senseless violence. I will not kill anyone else, if you do not wish it. You have no reason to leave; you are happy here with me. No one will know that I eliminated the Riddles and Morfin Gaunt. It will not cause you any trouble. And since Morfin is dead… you can continue pretending to be his son. He will never be able to deny it again, as he did before me. Your secret is safe. I will protect you. §

Tom Riddle had lost his mind. No—he had been mad from the beginning. I knew that. It was simply another of his crises. Learning that I was not his cousin had driven him over the edge.

The horror of the situation, the words he had spoken, seized my throat.

I need to know.

What would you have done in my place? If your best friend had been Tom, if you had found yourself in that room with him… what would you have done? Would you, like me, for one shameful instant, have thought of letting him get away with it?

He was my friend—perhaps even more than that. My heart was torn with rage and grief at the thought of raising my hand against him. So yes, for one very brief instant, less than a second, part of me almost wanted to say yes. To accept this madness, his madness, this murderer. To love him without feeling ashamed or monstrous for harboring his feelings.

That weak part of me was the same one that believed I could change him, help him, enjoy this second life under the identity of Harry Gaunt. But that night, Harry Gaunt died—and with him I smothered that part of my soul, of my heart. No more weakness. Never again. Not to suffer so much afterward.

I was a hero in spite of myself. Brave in spite of myself. I did what I had to do. I did not speak a word. I did not need to. I stood and attacked him. Crying, because I could not control both my body and my heart—but I fought.

Everything was my fault.

Tom the human and Tom the monster were not different—there was only one person. Complex and tormented, who had fallen in love with me, because of me. I had believed in possible redemption—for him, for me. I did not want to kill Voldemort again. I was selfish. Three innocent Muggles and one wizard had died yesterday because of me.

I had been naïve. I had been foolish. One does not escape destiny. One does not change the course of time. To live one’s life again is simply to live it once more. Nothing can change.

He and I are who we are, whatever happens. This fight was inevitable and… I was so unhappy at the thought. So broken.

It was my fault, because I knew every day spent with him brought him closer to the precipice. This time, it would be his affection for me that would make him become Voldemort. How disastrous must my life be for things to unfold like this?

Had I not earned the right to peace? To safety? To the feeling of being loved without everything ending so cruelly?

Our duel was of incredible violence. Tom would not accept my refusal, fighting with all his strength but without using the deadliest spells. He did not want to kill me—only to stop me.

As the room lay in ruins and students went to warn Professor Slughorn, we continued to fight. Our wands resisted us. They were twins and did not want to fight each other.

In a blinding flash of light, our wands separated yet again. Tom Riddle, breathless and clearly wounded, stared at the floor with intensity. His eyes reflected frustration and determination. I saw the duality of the man before me: the tortured genius and the power-hungry monster. The boy who loved me, and the one who had just caused the destruction of his entire family.

He murmured in a strained voice, seeking my gaze.

§ Harry… why? I don’t want to hurt you… I don’t want to lose you… don’t force me to hurt you. Please… I beg you… why are you hurting me? I love you. §

Tom’s words echoed in the shattered room. It felt as though he were driving a white-hot blade into my heart with every syllable. And yet, deep within me, a resolve had taken hold. I could not yield. I had to stop him.

My voice trembled with exhaustion and emotion.

§ Tom, it’s over. We can’t go on like this. It’s over. §

He burst into laughter and tears, a sound mingling madness and despair.

§ Over, Harry? No. You have no right. You have no right to come into my life and make me feel this… only to decide it’s over. You have no right! §

Without another word, Tom raised his wand, ready to resume the assault. My wand rose instinctively to form a shield. I do not know why, but suddenly I wanted to break our bond once and for all—the one Tom claimed we did not yet have. I told him the truth. All of it.

§ You’re wrong about me. I’m not your friend. I never was. I come from a future where you became a monster. A future where you killed my parents! We are not friends, Tom. We cannot be. It’s impossible. §

He refused to accept it.

§ You’re lying! §

I had only one option left.

§ Lying? Then how do you explain the memories in my mind? You’re a Legilimens, aren’t you? Go on—look. Look at my life, and you’ll understand it’s impossible. I don’t love you, Tom. You’re the monster who ruined my life. §

He obeyed instantly and tore into my mind, ripping out every memory he could find. He searched everywhere. Saw everything he could see. My life in its entirety. I heard him scream with rage and grief inside my own head. My scar split open and began to bleed profusely. When he withdrew, I was so weakened he could have killed me easily.

He did nothing. Silence stretched while he digested what he had seen—and while I endured the pain he had caused by invading my mind so completely.

The duel resumed. My spells came automatically. I had fought Voldemort before; I could defeat him again. Tom retaliated with increasing intensity, his face marked by grim determination.

He was not using Dark Magic, and I knew that as long as he refused to use it on me, I still had a chance.

Flashes of magic illuminated the room as we continued our relentless duel. The debris around us bore witness to the unleashed power. The tension reached its peak, and I saw Tom resign himself to using the most destructive magic he knew.

I was wounded. Blinded. Desperate.

Priori Incantatem manifested, revealing the tormented images of spells previously cast. Distorted faces and moments of our struggle flickered like shadows. Fragments of our shared life at Hogwarts, fragments of my previous life, of his—people who had died for me, and those he had killed in this time or the one I remembered.

Then, in an almost unreal silence, the wands drifted apart. Tom Riddle, exhausted, staggered, and I saw something in his eyes—a realization. A decision.

And suddenly, he said:

§ Avada Kedavra. §

The curse struck me full in the chest, tearing through my clothes and piercing my skin. It was over. I was going to die. Again.

I did not die. The pain made me scream, and I convulsed on the floor in a pool of blood until Tom cast a Stunning Spell to render me unconscious.

I could not resist… and everything went black.

Don’t worry, he’s just your thief… of death

Waking up was painful. My body felt heavy and numb. When I realized I couldn’t move at all—except for my head—panic flooded me. A hand quickly settled on my bandaged forehead, and I turned toward the person beside me.

Tom Riddle was at my side. Judging by the surroundings, we were in the infirmary. Riddle appeared to have been treated and was free to move, unlike me.

Night wrapped the infirmary in darkness. I didn’t know how long it had been since I’d lost consciousness, but I knew it was Tom who had decided to lift the spell that had kept me under.

I managed to articulate, with difficulty:

“What… did you… do to me?”

He watched me silently as I tried to break the spell immobilizing me. Then, his hand stroking my hair, he spoke. I didn’t have the strength to shout at him to stop.

“It’s only a spell to keep you from moving too much. You were badly hurt. I was very afraid. I wasn’t sure of myself when I used… that curse. Fortunately, my conclusion was correct. And you didn’t die.”

My head hurt too much to understand a single word Voldemort was saying. Gathering my strength, I said with all the bitterness I had left:

“Stay away from me.”

His hand stilled in my hair. He gave me an inquisitive look, then sighed. A smile appeared on his lips as he leaned back.

“Your wish is my command.”

My jaw ached from how hard I was clenching my teeth. He watched me in silence. I tried desperately to break the spell holding me, but the pain in my chest and head forced me to give up. When he judged me calmer, he said:

“I explained to the Headmaster that you suddenly lost control of your magic after hearing about your father’s death, and that I had been forced to fight it long enough to help you. That is the official version of our duel. Dippet seemed quite shaken by the tragedy of your situation. He authorized me to stay with you until you recover. A very kind man.”

He tilted his head, studying me. The perfection of his features irritated me, and I bit my lip, looking away. I would not play his game. He wanted us to talk. I had no desire to speak to him. He was Voldemort, and I was Harry Potter. We were enemies, and as soon as I could move again, I would kill him.

My thoughts must have been obvious in my expression, because he added gently, seeming fully back in control. His crisis had passed.

“Harry James Potter. Look at me, please.”

Hearing my full name made me gasp, and I turned back to him in shock.

He smiled and unconsciously brushed his fingers across his lips.

“It’s a very beautiful name. I wanted to say it the moment I learned it. Potter. Harry Potter. It suits you much better than Gaunt. It fits your personality far better.”

“Don’t play that game with me.”

“Play what?”

“Playing innocent. Playing the model student. I hate it when you do that.”

His eyes flashed, and his posture shifted subtly. His voice was far more emotional when he replied softly:

“I don’t know how to act with you. I’ve just learned that the boy I’m in love with is a time traveler from a future where I become a Dark Lord. Try to understand—I’m unsettled.”

I ground my teeth.

“You’re not in love with me. We’re enemies. As soon as I’m out of this bed, I’ll cast an Avada at you.”

Riddle fell silent for a moment, never taking his eyes off me. Then he said, suddenly threatening:

“You don’t get to decide for me whether I love you or not. You should have thought twice before involving yourself in my life. You knew who I was. You could have run. You could have ignored me. You could have poisoned me. Killed me in my sleep. You could have gotten rid of me—but you didn’t. Why? Because you are my opposite. You are good. You are a hero. The one who saves the world. And the hero doesn’t kill the villain if he thinks he can save him, does he? I am the villain of your story, and you are my hero, Harry Potter. So do what you must—and save me.”

He had spoken those last words with force. I looked at him and suddenly noticed he was trembling, shaken, lost, overwhelmed. He didn’t know what to do—but it was too late. Too late for him, too late for me. I was exhausted, deeply hurt; my heart was bleeding, and I didn’t want to see his hopes anymore. Mine were gone.

Tom Riddle is Voldemort. He always was, just as I am Harry Potter.

I stared at the ceiling as I spoke.

“No. You’re wrong. I may be a hero, but I’m certainly not yours. I tried to save you, and look where it brought me. Whatever I do, it ends badly. You’ll follow the same path as Voldemort, whether I’m here or not. I don’t want to watch it. If I can’t kill you, as you say—if I’m too kind to stop you—then I have no reason to stay with you. I’ve already lived through a war. I’m tired.”

I turned to him again, meeting his eyes.

“Get out, Tom. Go. Live your life. Take control of England, kill everyone you dislike. Split your soul into Horcruxes until you lose your mind. I don’t care. Do whatever you want. I’ll just make sure I’m very far away when you do it. I don’t know how I came here, to this time, or why I survive death every time—but I’ll find a way to undo it. I’ll go home. And if that’s impossible, I’ll find a way to end all this. I don’t care about dying. Anything would be better than fighting you.”

Half of what I said… I didn’t mean. It was a lie. I was torn into a thousand pieces, and I wanted to hurt him. I wanted him to suffer, to disappear. I wanted never to have known him, never to remember holding him at night when yet another nightmare woke him.

He reacted exactly as expected, unable to control his emotions in front of me. Grabbing me by the collar, he dragged me against him, his face far too close to mine as he declared:

“I forbid it!”

I narrowed my eyes in defiance.

“Oh, I see. And how do you plan to stop me from killing myself? That’s usually your specialty—the opposite.”

His hands tightened around my throat, choking me.

“You can’t die. You are the Master of Death. That is why the Killing Curse doesn’t kill you. That is why you heal so quickly, even after a knife wound. You are immortal, Potter. And it is that immortality that made you travel through time. You needed a Relic to reappear after the Battle of Hogwarts, and the Gaunt ring served as your bridge. You don’t remember it, but I saw it in your mind… you absorbed death. The process is complete, and even if I deprive you of oxygen, you won’t die. You’re incapable of it.”

Riddle released me, the immobilizing spell broke, and I doubled over, clutching my throat as bruises already began to form, my lungs burning. Voldemort’s revelations left me stunned. Before I realized it, I was sobbing uncontrollably, gasping like a child.

Riddle clearly hadn’t expected that reaction, because he panicked more than I did. Jumping to his feet, he searched through the infirmary supplies for potions and ointments, returning to me with a ridiculous expression of guilt.

Apologizing again and again, as if there were anything to forgive. I had provoked him; he had reacted. That was all. My answer would drive him mad—I knew it perfectly well.

Still, I hadn’t expected his words, nor my own reaction. Refusing his help, I struggled to my feet as I listened to his third attempt at an apology.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He had wanted to strangle me to prove I couldn’t die. But it had never occurred to his twisted mind that it might make me cry? What a lunatic.

Sitting on a bed a little farther away, I saw red stains spreading across my white shirt—nothing good for the wound in my chest.

Bent double with pain, I glared at Riddle, who clearly didn’t know whether he could approach without triggering World War Three—which would have been difficult, since the Second hadn’t even ended yet.

I managed to mutter through clenched teeth:

“Don’t come near me.”

He remained where he was, standing motionless like a statue.

When he spoke again, it was to say:

“Your shirt is covered in blood. Your wound must have reopened.”

“Whose fault is that?”

“I didn’t mean to… I lost control. You provoked me on purpose. You wanted me to drop the immobilizing spell so you could escape.”

Of course that was what I wanted—but I hadn’t expected him to go as far as choking me. I had been hoping for a punch, a slap, perhaps even the Cruciatus Curse—but not that he would try to suffocate me to prove my immortality.

Immortal. It had to be a joke, didn’t it? It couldn’t really be my status as Master of Death that had sent me through time after the Battle of Hogwarts… could it? I vaguely remembered being in limbo and hearing something speak to me. Was that thing Death itself? How could I have absorbed it?

Death wasn’t really a physical entity—it was just a children’s tale, one Grindelwald had taken too seriously. It wasn’t possible…

Of course it was possible. We lived in a world of magic. Anything was conceivable, for better or worse. Usually, that thought gave me hope.

“If magic could make me immortal, then the process must be reversible. I don’t want the title of Master of Death. I’ll give it back.”

Voldemort thundered from where he stood:

“You want to die that badly?”

“I’m not like you. The idea of living forever disgusts me. I… I…”

Tears returned, traitorous, to my eyes. Riddle stared at me. His trembling returned, and his eyes, too, seemed strangely bright.

“I want you to live. It may be hell for you, but that hell pulled me out of mine.”

“Death is important. It’s part of life. Losing the ability to die isn’t a blessing. Look what you’ll become in the future because of Horcruxes. Is that what you want? I don’t want to die right now—but I want to be able to. Like any human being.”

“You said you would end your life as soon as you found a way.”

“You said it yourself—I was trying to provoke you so you’d lose control and drop the spell.”

“You were very convincing.”

“I suppose I was. What’s the point of watching you? I did it for more than six months, and despite my efforts, nothing changed. I don’t want to spend my whole life chasing you only for us to kill each other in a ruined Hogwarts. I was honest about that. You should live your life, and I’ll live mine. Dumbledore and Grindelwald manage it—I don’t see why we couldn’t. I’ll leave you England—and all of Europe if you want it—and I’ll go to America. Maybe there I’ll find a way to live an ordinary life.”

Riddle let out a hollow, cynical laugh before assuring me:

“Albus Dumbledore is a coward. Not you. It would only take me killing three or four Muggles to bring you running. You couldn’t help yourself. You would never let me become Voldemort again.”

He was right, and it infuriated me. Yes, I would leave. Yes, I would try. But if I read in the paper that a new Dark Lord had appeared? If I saw the name Voldemort in the headlines? I would come back at once.

I was an idiot. I would never be able to let him kill without feeling guilty for his murders. Without wanting to stop him myself. And paradoxically, I didn’t want to kill him…

How could I kill him without losing what remained of myself in the process?

Riddle repeated, as if once had not been enough:

“You are a hero. Mine, in this case. So save me.”

I snapped.

“And how am I supposed to do that? You won’t listen to me. Your principles are immoral. Even if you tried, I’m not sure I could stop you from doing whatever you like. Tell me—why did you kill your family?”

Tom fell silent. Not guilty, not remorseful. Merely thinking. His reaction proved I was right. After a moment, he murmured:

“I already told you. They made me angry. I was disappointed. I wanted them to be… different.”

He didn’t even see the problem. I had to try another approach.

“And me? I’m not who you thought I was. I made you angry. I disappointed you. Do you want to kill me? By your reasoning, you should. You want me to be different, so why would you want me alive?”

He looked at me, genuinely shocked.

“That’s different. I’m not going to kill you for that. I love you. I’m no longer angry, and I was never disappointed in you. You’re far from disappointing. I wouldn’t want you to be different from who you are.”

Failure. Total failure. I grimaced.

“You should think that about all humanity—not just me. You don’t kill people because they don’t match what you want. You shouldn’t even have expectations of them!”

Tom frowned, then said:

“That’s impossible. If I want to rise in society, I must have expectations—and others have them of me as well…”

“What do you mean, ‘rise in society’?”

“To escape my half-blood status. To gain respect. To never be poor again. I never want to be forced to live somewhere like the orphanage again.”

“You don’t have to kill people for that. Or overthrow a country. Or become immortal. If what you say is true, then Voldemort failed at life. He never gained respect—only fear. He was never rich; he lived like a pariah off the wealth of his followers. He never escaped being a half-blood, even after proclaiming pure-blood supremacy. Changing your name doesn’t change your blood. And he was forced to live in places as terrible as the orphanage while on the run. He was reduced to drinking unicorn blood and sharing another man’s body. Nothing you plan to do will give you what you want.”

Tom Riddle stopped staring at me for a moment. My words seemed to disappoint him—disappoint him in himself. At last, he said:

“Those things don’t interest me anymore anyway. Rising in society is only a secondary goal now.”

It was my turn to narrow my eyes.

“You’ve changed your mind?”

He shook his head.

“Not exactly. Let’s just say something else interests me more now—and if I obtain it, I suppose it won’t matter so much if I never have the rest.”

I was more than surprised—and a little uneasy at the thought that whatever he wanted might lead him down a darker path than before.

“There’s something you want more than power and eternal life? Something you would give those up for?”

He nodded, and I don’t know whether it was my weakness or the loss of blood, but I suddenly felt dizzy. I wanted to ask what this thing was that he desired more than conquering the world or living forever, but black spots danced at the edges of my vision, and a second before I lost consciousness—this time on my own—he stepped closer, and I saw the light in his eyes.

It was possessive, an incredibly bright, vivid red.

It was me. The thing Tom wanted more than immortality and power… was me.

Don’t worry, this is just your end.