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Stay with me

Act I: He doesn't exist

Tom Riddle’s body was frozen, chilled by the stillness he had imposed on himself these past few minutes. He waited. Had been waiting for what already felt like hours. His patience was reaching its limits. Limits that this transferred student was dangerously testing. His gaze drifted to the clock on the platform of the small Hogsmeade station, and he couldn’t stop a growl of impatience from slipping past his lips when he noticed the late hour.

Why hadn’t he taken the Hogwarts Express like everyone else? Tom’s irritation mingled with a curiosity stirred by the strangeness of the situation. A transfer student who would only be there for a single term. A wizard who had never set foot in Hogwarts and who was coming for only six months—that had never been seen before. Why come here for just a few months?
He didn’t know.

The only thing he was certain of was that Professor Dumbledore knew this student and had intervened on his behalf with Armando Dippet, the headmaster of the school of witchcraft and wizardry. It was at his request that Tom stood there, waiting for a new student who didn’t even bother to show himself.

There were other prefects, like the Gryffindor one, who could have taken care of this task, but the role had been given to him. Probably out of interest. Tom had no idea what was going on in the Transfiguration professor’s mind, but he knew that if the man took the trouble to entrust him with something, it was with a precise goal in mind.

Perhaps he was convinced his protégé would be sorted into Slytherin and wanted to ease his integration by putting them in contact.

Thinking about such nonsense was pointless. Tom had no intention of playing babysitter for anyone. Even if it might allow him to soothe Albus Dumbledore’s fears about him. Let him be afraid—he was the only one who saw him as a threat.

Riddle forced himself to push his Transfiguration professor out of his thoughts and refocus on his own objectives. There were several he intended to accomplish this year. Finding the identity of his parents was one of them; uncovering the Chamber of Secrets was another. With it, he would have proof that he was Slytherin’s heir.

The dark wizard needed to know. A pressing need that had been turning into an obsession for several months now. Since he had learned that Parseltongue was a unique ability, one that came directly from the line of Salazar Slytherin.

He was tied to that family by blood, and it was only a matter of time before he obtained legitimate proof of it. Proof that could not be denied.

Tom was aware that it would change nothing about his status as a half-blood. That it would not erase the years spent in the orphanage, nor the difficulties he had faced in being accepted by his classmates. Still, it would be a beginning. For his future, to escape mediocrity, to survive this war that threatened to reduce London to a heap of ashes and rubble.

By being the heir to a family of wizards, he would no longer be tied to the misery of the orphanage, to the ruin promised to him by the absence of a name of magical origin.

Being born without a wizarding name was his greatest shame. His greatest obstacle in finding a place in this world where the supremacy of blood reigned. Tom knew he would have to change his identity to integrate himself, but he still did not know how to proceed.

He could not remain forever the poor half-blood orphan, brilliant but condemned to an inferior status by his birth. The professors did not hesitate to talk about it as soon as his back was turned, lamenting the loss that his low birth represented for the prestige of the wizarding world. Horace Slughorn repeated it endlessly to anyone willing to listen.

He would have been destined for a great future if only he had been better born. With such a name, at best he might become a professor. The worlds of politics, research, and even professions connected to law or medicine would close their doors to him. What a waste.

Slughorn was a man of odious hypocrisy: he criticized Gellert Grindelwald for the chaos he created, yet remained in agreement with his ideology. He was not the only one. The wizarding world as a whole was like that—against the Dark Lord, yet incapable of defending causes that stood in opposition to his and those of his supporters.

A wizard born of Muggle parents was a gift, certainly, but he also embodied a threat to pure-blood families, who accepted them only on the condition that they remain discreet. As for half-bloods, they were the indelible mark left by a growing decadence in wizarding society. The fall of purity. Dirty blood mixed with honorable blood, an immoral and monstrous blend.

Hogwarts was no exception. Riddle knew he had left one cell for another, made of magic and possibilities, yet just as cramped and painful. At the orphanage he had the choice between dying of hunger or under the bombings; at Hogwarts he fought for a respect that had been taken from him at birth. He struggled to prove a worth that would always be seen through the prism of the quality of his blood. Impure.

Being Slytherin’s heir would allow him to prove that a part of the blood that was his was purer than theirs. That he belonged here. Tom would not condemn himself to the misery and mediocrity to which half-bloods were forced—driven toward the lowest tasks in society.

A half-blood did not even have the right to vote. He was not permitted to participate in the political life of the nation, possessed no power.

An injustice commonly accepted.

His wandering thoughts reminded him of the name of the student he was waiting for. Potter. One of the most prestigious wizarding families in England. The reason this boy had not been enrolled at Hogwarts since birth was a mystery. Perhaps he had attended another school? Or the Potter family was so strict that they refused to see him associate with impure blood… but if that had been the case, he would not have been transferred here.

The common theory was that he had been born with a weak constitution and fragile health. That would explain why a noble family might have wanted to keep their son close to them.

Tom thought it possible that he had been educated at home by tutors and then sent here to broaden his connections before inheriting his father’s title. The firstborn traditionally inherited the title at seventeen. And Hogwarts seemed the right place to develop friendships and alliances useful in adulthood.

With a name like his, Potter should not be very different from the others. Tom expected to see a spoiled heir, similar to the Malfoy heir, claiming some sort of delay to excuse his blatant lack of punctuality. The thought left a bitter, nauseating taste on his tongue. It worsened his irritation, and he had to restrain himself from turning on his heel.

Instead, he cast his gaze once more at the clock face and, realizing that he had just missed the ceremony for sorting the new students, he decided to turn back and inform Professor Dumbledore that no one had shown up at the meeting point.

He had just turned away from the platform when he felt the air tear open behind him.

Apparition. Potter had just apparated without a license.

That was the first thought that struck his mind; the second was that Potter was nothing like he had imagined.

Dressed in Muggle clothes, stumbling over his own feet after landing, Potter shook himself as if to rid himself of the unpleasant sensation caused by the Apparition spell. Then he grabbed an old trunk that had fallen at his feet and turned toward him.

Tom could not help staring at him.

Dark hair, messy; clothes far too large; and mended glasses. His appearance was unkempt, neither noble nor pure, almost as if he had just come out of a chase with a pack of stray dogs.

At last he noticed him, fixed eyes far too green on his, and froze. Like a deer caught in a car’s headlights.

Riddle froze as well, incredulous. Potter looked him up and down for a moment, then tightened his grip on his wand. The features of his face were twisted with the same astonishment. He scowled, growled an unintelligible sentence full of swearing, and let it fall into the silence that had become unbearable.

“Did Dumbledore send you?”

Suspicion dripped from his voice, sharp and inexplicable. The question was not truly a question; it was a statement, and Tom did not bother to answer.

After another moment, the other boy let out a defeated sigh and gave him a strained smile that was nothing more than a dreadful grimace.

“Harry Potter. Nice to meet you.”

He was not pleased to meet him. He looked furious, and Riddle briefly wondered what this Potter had against him. He concluded that Dumbledore must have taken the liberty of saying a few words about him. Half-blood orphan. That was enough for Potter to despise him without even knowing him.

Tom tried to convince himself that the other boy’s hostility came from that, but something told him that such a violent reaction could not be due to his origins.

The Potter heir passed very close to him to take the path leading to the carriages, and Tom caught sight of a scar carved into his forehead. A dreadful scar shaped like a lightning bolt, half-hidden beneath a few strands of hair cut too short.

Very quickly, he forced himself to hate him. Because he was the complete opposite of the image he had formed of him. Because the scar on his forehead made him deeply uncomfortable.

Because he unsettled him. He and his Muggle clothes, his messy black hair, and the strange aura—something caught between clumsiness and determination—that radiated from his behaviour.

Tom had neither the desire nor the time to be distracted by him. He had the impression he needed to get away from his presence at all costs. Before it became an obsession.

He had the vague impression that he knew him. Not truly as though they had already met, but rather like a deeper recognition.

Timeless.

As if they had crossed paths in several other lives.

He was being ridiculous, and he knew it. He locked those thoughts away in a tightly sealed box and focused on watching the ground as he sorted through his emotions. He could not silence the inner voice shouting at him to pull himself together, that he must not appear weak or disturbed—not in front of him.

Him. Already his mind had given him a title the others did not have. Tom knew from that moment that he represented a danger to his plans, because before him he had never felt curiosity or interest toward anyone. This novelty made him restless; he wanted to flee from him and follow him at the same time.

Harry Potter looked nothing like a pure-blood, nothing like a Slytherin. He resembled none of the wizards Tom had encountered in recent years. Why was he wearing Muggle clothes when he was the heir to a noble family? Was he truly a pure-blood like the Blacks and the Lestranges, the Malfoys and the Notts?

Potter had introduced himself without waiting for him to do the same, as though he already knew who he was, or did not care. He took the lead without hesitation, and Tom had no choice but to follow. He seemed to know the way to the carriages. Completely ignoring him.

When he reached one of them, he stroked a Thestral’s head, smiling when the creature pressed its damp nostrils into the palm of his hand, pleased that someone acknowledged its existence.

The newcomer could see the Thestrals. He did not seem afraid of them either. Riddle had always been able to see them; however, that was not the case for most of Hogwarts’ residents, so he had grown used to ignoring them. Only children who had faced the death of someone close to them could see them.

Tom supposed that his mother’s death on the day he was born was the reason he could perceive them. Yet he had no precise memory of his birth, only the sense of someone important missing during his early childhood. His poor, foolish mother had died in childbirth; if he had wizarding blood, it could not have come from her. It could only have come from his father. Yet however much Tom searched, he had found no descendant of Slytherin who had attended Hogwarts in recent decades. His father’s identity was unknown to him, and his mother could only have been a Muggle.

Perhaps Potter could see the Thestrals after losing a member of his family as well? Had the Potter family suffered losses during the conflict against Grindelwald? It was likely; some Potters were Aurors, and Aurors were on the front line against the dark wizard’s attacks.

When the boy noticed him watching, he abruptly stopped smiling, which filled Tom with a deep sense of injustice and anger. What had he done to him? It was obvious the boy had something against him, yet he did not know what had provoked such behaviour. Riddle was not impulsive by nature, but the question burned on his lips for a long moment.

What have I done to you?

Harry climbed into the carriage and waited for him to do the same. When they were seated opposite each other, Tom hesitated between ignoring him completely or trying a different approach. He would have preferred to ignore him. Except that whenever Tom was not looking at him, Potter was looking at him instead. Potter looked away whenever Riddle returned the look, but each time Tom glanced elsewhere, those green eyes behind ridiculous round glasses came back to haunt him.

This little game continued until Tom finally decided to introduce himself. To convince himself that the other boy was nothing extraordinary, he wanted to establish a certain superiority over him by indicating the role he held among the students.

“My name is Tom Riddle. I’m the Slytherin prefect.”

Tom expected a reaction. Because his name was Riddle, and because he was a prefect, he should have reacted—looked disgusted, or on the contrary impressed. It did not happen. Potter looked at him intently and said, quite plainly.

“I know.”

Then he pointed at the badge on his chest and added,

“I know a thing or two about how Hogwarts works. Your badge shows you’re a prefect, and your uniform is Slytherin’s. I know who you are.”

His last sentence echoed for a moment in the Slytherin’s mind. I know who you are. It sounded like a confession, something Tom ought to understand—but he did not understand it, he understood nothing, so he chose to reply instead.

“Did Professor Dumbledore tell you about me?”

Riddle recognised the anger in his own voice at the thought that the Gryffindor Head might be spreading rumours about him. Dumbledore was not the sort to lie or slander, but the man and Tom had not got along particularly well since he had come to fetch him from the orphanage. He knew he was a Parselmouth and knew things about his past that Tom would rather avoid, and so Tom feared him. The way one fears an adult who meddles a little too much in matters that are none of his concern.

Potter shook his head. He straightened and pulled his gaze away from Tom, fixing it on the castle without adding anything more until the carriage came to a halt. Then he said, with a cryptic air,

“I’d rather make up my own mind.”

He gave him another somewhat strained smile, turned away, and once again left him behind. His statement seemed to mean that whatever Dumbledore might have said about him, he trusted only his own judgement. Yet he did not seem to like him.

Tom convinced himself that it must simply be a trait of character, that Potter was naturally suspicious of people. That conclusion was more agreeable than the idea that he himself might be the problem.

He followed him. Harry seemed able to find his way on his own, whether outside or inside the castle. It was no easy task, and Riddle remembered getting lost frequently during his first month. Which made Harry Potter even more suspicious. He moved through Hogwarts as easily as if he had spent his childhood there, even though this was supposed to be the first time he had ever set foot here.

He stopped in front of the massive, decorated doors of the Great Hall and went no further.

Beyond them they could hear the clatter of cutlery, a sign that the meal was already well underway. At this hour, dessert was probably being served, which meant the ceremony was nearing its end.

That did not bother Tom. He was not unhappy to have missed the Sorting. He had always found that ceremony dull.

Except on the day it had been his turn.

Harry seemed to hesitate before going in, and Tom realised the other boy would have to be Sorted himself. The fact that he was not even wearing his uniform suddenly stood out to him, and the dark wizard restrained himself from commenting on it. Strangely, those clothes, which were nothing wizarding at all, suited him. They were far too big, and Potter looked as though he had fought with them, but they suited him. Tom pushed the thought away with the others and tried to guess what Potter was feeling at the idea of entering the hall.

Perhaps he had never been faced with so many wizards his own age. Tom knew nothing of his history and did not know what was paralysing him, but he was aware that since Dumbledore had asked him to bring him here, he had to make sure he entered the Great Hall. The sooner, the better.

With a bit of luck, he would be Sorted into a different house and Tom could rid himself of the unpleasant sensation he felt in his presence—the one that forced him not to take his eyes off him.

Riddle joined him at the door and pushed it open with a spell, voicing what he had repeated to himself over and over when he had been nothing more than an eleven-year-old boy.

“You belong here.”

The doors soon stood wide open, and Potter shot him a surprised look. As though he had said something that had shaken the image he had formed of him. However, he asked no questions; his attention was drawn away by the Great Hall and the hundred or so eyes fixed upon them.

He ignored them and seemed to search for Albus Dumbledore. The Transfiguration professor greeted him with a smile, and the newcomer stepped into the hall. Tom left him at that moment to sit in his place among the Slytherins while Potter continued on alone towards the teachers’ table. When he reached it, he glanced at the Sorting Hat and suddenly seemed nervous.

The headmaster took the opportunity to present him to everyone, specifying what Tom already knew. He was a transfer student who would only remain with them for a single term. Then the old man added a piece of information Tom had not known: Potter would join the fifth year directly after his Sorting.

Suddenly, Tom wondered how old his classmate was. He looked about the same age as him, but he could easily be older. It was difficult to make an accurate guess just by looking at him.

Between fifteen and seventeen. The way he had managed to Apparate on his own made Tom think he had to be at least fifteen.

As Tom took his seat where he preferred to be—at the middle of the Slytherin table—Malfoy seemed to think it was the perfect moment to say something, because he said, loudly enough for half the table to hear.

“Is that the Potter heir? If I were him, I’d be ashamed to show up dressed like that. Must be one of those idiotic Gryffindors.”

The comment irritated Tom, but soon the new student sat beneath the Sorting Hat and apprehension drowned out his irritation. His gaze moved between Potter’s closed-off face and the Hat, which looked just as focused. Clearly, the two of them were having a conversation. Sometimes the Hat took the time to debate with the students it Sorted. Riddle had not had that privilege, but rumour had it that it enjoyed a conversation with minds that were difficult to read.

After a few minutes, during which the Great Hall seemed to hold its breath, the Sorting Hat tipped forward. Most of the students leaned in to hear the decision. The Gryffindors obviously wanted the newcomer with them. Potter looked like a Gryffindor at first glance. The Ravenclaws were curious about someone who had studied elsewhere, and the Hufflepuffs were naturally welcoming to outsiders, whoever they might be.

In the end, only Tom’s fellow Slytherins were convinced, after Malfoy’s remark, that Potter would not join them.

Riddle had sensed Abraxas’s mistake, and even though he had hoped it would not be so, he resigned himself the moment the Hat proved him right.

In a voice that was almost sing-song, it cried,

“Slytherin!”

Potter sprang to his feet as if propelled by a spring, then shot an annoyed look towards a delighted Albus Dumbledore, who stood up to applaud. Soon the other tables did the same, with the exception of the Slytherins’.

Potter headed towards them nonetheless, and Tom gave him a nod and silently indicated the seat left empty in front of him.

He liked to keep that seat free so he could watch the rest of the hall. No Slytherin ever sat opposite him. At first they avoided it because they did not want to sit across from a Muggle-born or a half-blood, and later out of fear or to avoid trouble. They left him the place in the middle and behaved as though Tom did not exist.

For a moment, Potter seemed inclined to refuse the offer. Then he eventually came over after glancing along the entire table. He sat down opposite him, and the dark wizard had the impression he ought to say something to him.

He felt an almost uncontrollable urge to speak.

“Congratulations. The Hat hasn’t taken that long in years.”

Potter grimaced but said nothing in reply. If he had seemed nervous in front of the Hat, he now looked completely lost. Lestrange, who was sitting near him, stared at him for a long moment before snickering and introducing himself.

“I’m Conrad Lestrange.”

Then he began asking him questions about his family, about what he had done before, about what he had studied, and Potter never really answered him. He simply turned the questions back on him, and Conrad happily replied with ready-made lines. A conversation of the deaf.

Lestrange was the talkative sort—talkative and dangerous. He had a talent for extracting information that he later used against the person he was speaking to. The fact that Potter refused to play along and even seemed to be turning the exchange back on him would soon make him lose patience. Tom knew Conrad well, and he was as welcoming as he was talkative and hot-tempered.

Riddle decided to put an end to the interrogation. Potter would say nothing, and Conrad would only end up creating a conflict that would get them all into trouble if he continued. Tom shot him a warning look that the other boy did not seem to take into account, and the dark wizard was forced to stop him with a Silencing Charm, speaking in his place.

“I don’t think Potter wants to lay out his life for strangers.”

The spell ended, and Lestrange finally fell silent. The warning had worked. Conrad was one of the Slytherins over whom Tom had managed to gain the upper hand.

Malfoy, who belonged to the opposing camp, seized the opportunity and began the hostilities. Welcome back among us, Riddle. Did you miss constant battles during your dreadful summer? That was the sensation that gripped Tom’s throat when he heard his voice.

“I see Potter has already wrapped our dear prefect around his finger. You ought to choose your company more carefully, Potter. Riddle isn’t suitable company for someone of your standing.”

It was written all over Malfoy’s face: he did not merely disapprove of Potter’s associations but also of his appearance, the way he sat at the table, and no doubt a whole host of other things. Malfoy judged everything and everyone according to prefabricated codes that had nothing human about them and that he himself could not even follow perfectly. It was how he had been raised.

The newcomer’s face suddenly twisted into an expression close to contempt, and he hissed at Malfoy almost immediately, like a long-practised reflex.

“Keep your advice to yourself, Malfoy. I know perfectly well what bad company looks like.”

Potter was clearly implying that Malfoy belonged in that category. It was the first time anyone had dared answer Malfoy with such open hostility, and what was bound to happen happened. Abraxas immediately seized his wand and pointed it at the forehead of a deathly calm Potter.

The entire table turned towards the scene as Abraxas shot back.

“I will not be insulted by a traitor to his blood.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tom noticed Dumbledore and Slughorn rising just as Potter’s still-calm voice snapped back in answer to Malfoy’s declaration.

“A traitor to my blood? I’m a half-blood, Malfoy. Your blood-supremacy nonsense doesn’t interest me. Now you have a choice: you can throw an Unforgivable at me like the people who share your ideals, or lower that wand like the coward you are.”

Malfoy was beyond furious. No one had ever humiliated him so openly; his face turned a most unpleasant shade of red as his hands trembled with rage.

The rumour about Potter’s blood status spread like wildfire around them. A half-blood born into the illustrious, respected and noble Potter family. It was a scandal. The word bastard was being whispered all across the Great Hall.

Boiling with anger, Malfoy was about to cast a curse at a Harry Potter who still had not moved. Worried that Potter might truly decide not to defend himself, Tom grabbed his own wand—just before Slughorn swooped down on them like a bird of prey.

He squeaked, in his overly shrill voice,

“That’s enough! Abraxas Malfoy, conduct yourself properly—you are supposed to set an example! As for you, Mr Potter, you should know this is hardly a proper way to begin your stay among us. Just because you have only just arrived does not mean you may show such disrespect to your elders. I shall leave you both with a warning this time, but see that it does not happen again. Have I made myself clear?”

Then he turned to him and said in a much kinder tone,

“Tom, my dear, would you mind helping our guest find his way around the school? I trust you to help him settle in.”

Potter did not look pleased at the idea of spending another minute in his company, but Riddle found nothing to object to. He was still too stunned by the news.

Harry Potter was a half-blood.

That explained his clothes and his behaviour, so different from that of the other pure-bloods. That was why the Potter family had not sent him to Hogwarts from an early age—he was a bastard. Just like him.

He had probably spent part of his life among Muggles. If his father was a Potter and he had inherited his name, then his mother must be the one whose blood was impure. He was fortunate to bear his father’s name, a wizarding name, and he had just declared before everyone at Hogwarts—who still believed him to be pure-blood—that he was a half-blood.

What he had just done made no sense. How reckless did one have to be to make such a mistake?

It was not a mistake. That much was obvious.

Potter was not ashamed of what he was.

He did not respect the codes of their society, dared to defy Abraxas, who among them would hold the most power within the Wizengamot once he left the school benches. Harry Potter had no respect for hierarchy.

Malfoy made his wand disappear, humiliated by the newcomer, who shot him a satisfied look as he began eating a slice of tart he had just helped himself to.

Tom watched him with a mixture of fascination and incomprehension. He had just turned more than half the school against him, and he was calmly eating, looking relaxed. As if the confrontation had reassured him. Where Riddle was weary of having to defend himself constantly, Potter seemed in his element.

Conflict was familiar to him. Beneath the dark looks and barely concealed insults, he appeared perfectly at ease. Between two bites, he threw him a glance that was half wary, half intrigued, clearly wondering why the dark wizard could not take his eyes off him.

Tom wanted to tell him that he had just dug his own grave, that the coming months he would spend here would be worse than hell. But those green eyes discouraged him; they were filled with a confidence that had certainly allowed him to be accepted among the Slytherins, despite his impure blood.

The future Dark Lord realised that, for his own good—for the sake of not losing the little he had gained in four years of silent battles and forced coexistence—he needed to keep his distance from him.

Tom understood better why his interest had awakened. Harry Potter was… the perfect opposite of what he wanted to become. So close to what he was, and yet so far from what he aspired to be.

His mere existence reshuffled the possibilities before him.

And yet he stubbornly chose to hate him. Him, who accepted so easily what Tom fought against. Him, who seemed to understand nothing of the pain of being set apart from others.

Tom had always lived like a pariah. He had never accepted it and never would. He felt a need for recognition that Potter simply did not possess.

Potter was not fighting to be a pure-blood among the others; he was fighting for the right to be a half-blood.

Tom had waited a long time for someone like him, at first, back when he still held an idealised vision of this magical world. Now it was too late; he felt too wounded to want to follow him. He only wished to escape him. Despite all the pull he felt towards Harry Potter, he feared him even more.

Simply being in his presence would bring him trouble, and he knew it. Tom could not predict what Potter would say or do in advance. He knew he would not be able to manipulate him or lie to him as he would have done with someone else.

It would not work on him.

Harry Potter was uncontrollable. He had to ignore him.

Tom took advantage of the lull to eat something. He resisted for a few minutes the urge to turn his gaze in Potter’s direction once more, before finally giving in. Potter was looking up at the sky through the stained-glass windows, seemingly lost in thought.

What could possibly be occupying his mind right now?

Around them the Slytherins were getting to their feet, and Tom knew it was time to leave. When he stood up, Harry gave a small start and looked at him as if to check he had not disappeared. Tom did not want to spend any more time with him tonight, but he had no choice after Professor Slughorn’s request.

He had to lead him to their common room and explain how and where the next day’s lessons would take place. The second Slytherin prefect—a girl whose name he could not remember—was in charge of the first-years, which meant Tom would only have Potter to look after.

Potter followed him without protest, and as they walked down a corridor side by side, Tom could not help telling him,

“Malfoy holds grudges. He’ll do everything he can to get his revenge before you leave this school.”

Potter shot him a glance and seemed to weigh the pros and cons before finally deciding to answer.

“The Malfoys hold grudges. That’s nothing new. They’re also cowards who can’t choose a side and talk far more than they act. He won’t do anything to me that this school would punish.”

He sounded confident, and perhaps he was right, but he also seemed to be underestimating Abraxas. Their elder did not command the Slytherins’ loyalty by his name alone—he was cunning and malicious.

Still, Tom had the feeling Potter would not change his mind, so he avoided pressing the point.

They went down into the dungeons following the other Slytherins, only briefly interrupted by the Bloody Baron, who had come to greet the first-years. Potter did not seem surprised to see him appear so suddenly. His expression only changed when they entered their common room.

Without knowing why, Tom saw a clash of conflicting emotions in his eyes as he looked around their house.

Beneath the lake, the Slytherin common room had large windows through which they could occasionally see the creatures of the water passing by. Its sofas were black leather, and the two fireplaces framing them were imposing, casting fantastical golden glows across the entire room.

As at the beginning of every school year, the common room was empty and tidy. From experience, Tom knew it would soon be covered with forgotten textbooks, ink and parchment, old volumes stolen from the library’s Restricted Section, and artefacts of all kinds. It was the closest thing he had to a home.

Potter stood looking at it for a moment without moving, as though expecting someone to leap out from behind the armchairs and bite him. Tom gestured for him to follow. He was going to show him the fifth-years’ dormitory and be done with him.

From first year to seventh, the dormitories stretched deeper and deeper beneath the Black Lake, and the fifth-years’ no longer had the characteristic green glow of the waters visible in the common room. Here the water was dark, almost black, lending the dormitory a particular atmosphere, reinforced by the four-poster beds and the hangings in the colours of their house.

Normally they would have had to wait for the pure-bloods to choose their beds before settling their things, but while Riddle had no power over Malfoy and the seventh-years, he held authority over the fifth-years and a good part of the sixth-years. Which allowed him to place his belongings wherever he pleased without having to answer to anyone.

Potter chose the bed closest to the entrance, clearly not very comfortable in their dormitory. Putting some distance between them seemed like a good idea, so Tom set his trunk on the bed farthest from the door. As the room formed a perfect circle, they ended up almost facing each other, separated only by its centre.

Riddle had the impression he did not need to explain much to him. Potter seemed capable of managing on his own. As he passed him on the way to the bathroom, Tom offered, out of duty as prefect,

“If you have any questions or any trouble, you can come and speak to me, or to our Head of House.”

He avoided looking at him, so he did not see his reaction. But he heard his reply, even after he had walked away.

“I won’t need your help, Riddle.”

His surname sounded like an insult—more so in his mouth than in anyone else’s. Tom tried to ignore the negative feelings that the simple sentence had stirred up in him, and he promised himself he would stay out of his business.

Harry Potter did not exist. He had to behave as though he were not there, and in a few months he would leave, and Tom would be rid of him. Rid of him and his intoxicating presence, the irresistible urge to look at him, the desire for him to return his gaze. Rid of him and his contempt for the castes that divided wizards, rid of him and the danger he represented. Tom feared he might not reach his goals if he allowed him to have any influence over him. So he decided he would not give him that chance.

Harry Potter did not exist.

Act II: He’s mine

It was the time between Christmas and New Year. The holidays had begun a week earlier, and silence ruled the castle. Deprived of its students, Hogwarts stood empty and cold, and Tom Riddle was losing his mind.

Sitting on the frost-bitten windowsill, Tom had his back to the inner courtyard. His research, his homework, and his diary were spread out at his feet—witnesses to what he was in that moment.

Caught between his personal ambitions, his role as a student, and his new obsession. Still recent, it was the only thing that made him unstable. Responsible for his mood swings and his most violent emotions.

That soft, unreal, insatiable obsession. The one he had developed, against his will, for Harry Potter.

With a movement he could barely control, he rested his head against the glass already fogged by his breath and turned towards the outside. Almost naively hoping the cold would allow him to regain some control over his thoughts.

Tom was going mad. His senses were constantly searching for his presence. He could not enter or leave a room without finding him with his eyes, cross a corridor without straining to hear his voice behind a door or the echo of his footsteps somewhere ahead of him. His existence made him ill.

Like a cancer that spread a little further each day.

He had lasted one night and one day. He had managed to deny Potter’s existence for twenty-four hours before giving in. Since then, he had fought every day to regain control of himself.

Tom was fully aware that his obsession had no foundation, that Potter was nothing. It was like an invisible force pushing him relentlessly towards him. As though a piece of his soul had remained attached to Potter the day they first met. His presence made it difficult for him to breathe properly.

Controlling his excessive obsession with Potter was a daily battle in which he lost himself a little more each day. An endless duel between his reason and the rest of what made him who he was.

Potter, Potter, Potter, POTTER.

Grinding his teeth, he stepped away from the window and took a deep breath, watching it form pale swirls of mist in the air. Not letting Potter influence his behaviour was no longer possible, but repeating his name in his mind until it lost all meaning would not help him rid himself of this dependence.

A day after deciding to deny his existence, he had found himself sketching his face in the margins of his notebooks. Reproducing the scar on his forehead wherever he could. Noting every one of his expressions, trying to understand the way he functioned, thought, and acted.

Riddle was taking more notes about Harry than about the classes he attended, and he did not know what drove him to do it. Not entirely, at least—but his interest in him was unreasonable, and he knew it.

Potter provoked in him a fascination bordering on psychosis, manifesting like a curse corrupting his mind.

By now Tom could recognise the different tones of his voice, the way he moved, the way he sat down, his favourite place in a classroom and the ones he tended to avoid. He knew his strengths and his weaknesses in every subject taught at Hogwarts.

Potter was easy to read. A few months had been enough to understand him. He despised pure-bloods who defended the ideology of Gellert Grindelwald, liked talking and playing Quidditch with the Gryffindors, revising and reading with the Ravenclaws, eating and laughing with the Hufflepuffs. He did not seek attention, did not like being at the centre of a conversation, but had a strong temper that frequently landed him in trouble.

If he had the opportunity to be alone, he took it, spending that time isolated and lost in his thoughts. Nostalgic for a past about which Tom knew nothing.

Despite his careful analysis, he could not lose interest in him. Nor unravel the mysteries surrounding him. Riddle still did not know his real motivations; he still did not know why the other boy had come to Hogwarts.

Several months had passed, and the term was drawing to an end. Soon Potter would leave, and Tom had made no progress at all on his personal goals.

Finding his father’s name seemed impossible. So much so that the dark wizard was beginning to suspect his father had been a Muggle. A Riddle. Which would make his feeble mother a witch connected to Salazar Slytherin. She had died giving birth to him—how could she have been pure-blood?

The idea that his mother might be the one who connected him to the wizarding world poisoned him. As if someone had planted a seed inside his heart and it had begun to grow, suffocating every positive emotion he had ever felt, replacing them with a biting resentment.

If his mother was a witch, then her name was not Riddle. She must have carried the name of a wizarding family, but despite his research, Tom had found nothing to support that theory. He did not even have a convincing clue, and his search for the Chamber of Secrets was proving slow and unsatisfying.

If he had to name someone responsible for his failures, it would be him. Harry Potter. His name echoed inside him like an Unforgivable whose very prohibition made him shiver with anticipation.

With an impatient flick of his wand, Tom summoned his notes into his hands and scanned them, trying to focus on the lines before his eyes. He wanted to revise Transfiguration for the assessment Professor Dumbledore would give when term resumed and make sure he obtained the highest mark.

That was what he had planned to do today, even though it was his birthday. He did not want to think too much about it, and Transfiguration usually distracted him. Riddle did not particularly like Albus Dumbledore, but the man had undeniable talent for teaching, and his lessons were thorough, precise, and of remarkable quality.

Which was why Tom continued to attend them despite the suspicious and accusatory looks he received during class. Dumbledore sometimes behaved as though he were the most dangerous prisoner in a high-security prison, under the watch of the magnanimous Head of Gryffindor. Tom almost hated him as much as he hated Potter for what the latter made him feel.

He had never experienced such fierce and desperate fury as when he thought about him. Instead of revising, he could only think about that transfer student.

Distractedly, he rolled his quill between his fingers, staining them with ink. That nobody—mediocre in most subjects. Like in Potions, where he could not brew the simplest mixture without blowing it up. Potter should never have held his attention; he was inferior to him in almost every respect.

Tom grudgingly admitted that he was gifted in Defence Against the Dark Arts.

A prodigy at duelling, just as good in attack as in defence. Agile and athletic, his reflexes were monstrous. Tom had seen him catch a glass marble in mid-air, fired by one of Malfoy’s spells. Anyone else would have taken it straight to the head and ended up in the infirmary.

Potter had caught it with his bare hand, barely twenty centimetres from his face, then let it fall to the ground, releasing it without even looking at Malfoy. He had only bothered to tell him he was too old to be playing Gobstones before leaving the room.

As expected, Malfoy had not left him alone since the welcome feast where Potter had provoked him. If someone had asked him, Tom would have wagered that Abraxas would win and make Potter’s life such a hell that he would eventually give in.

He would have lost.

Malfoy had tried to intimidate him, to trap him, to turn the rest of the school against him—and Potter had simply sidestepped his attacks, calm in the face of adversity.

Beyond his remarkable abilities as a duellist, he was an ordinary wizard. Uninteresting. He preferred the company of Gryffindors to that of members of his own house, which was hardly surprising considering the ordeal Malfoy was putting him through.

Tom knew that Potter watched him as much as he watched Potter.

They did not speak to each other. Ever. The last words they had exchanged dated back to the first of September. And yet, when he was not looking at him himself, Tom knew the other boy was doing it. When he was not following him, it was Potter who ended up behind him.

Harry borrowed every book Tom studied, whether from the library or the Restricted Section. Dumbledore had given him access. There was… something like an unusual friendship between the two men. A complicity, a tacit understanding, a way of communicating with nothing more than a glance.

Sometimes Potter stayed after Transfiguration to talk with the Head of Gryffindor, and when that happened he returned with a renewed sense of determination.

Tom hated that Potter spent time with Albus Dumbledore. He hated hearing him laugh with the Gryffindors and could not stand him giving his attention to Malfoy.

He wished it could be only him and Potter, pursuing each other in silence.

That was what he had obtained during these holidays. He should have been satisfied. He was not.

These holidays were the first and last Potter would spend here.

He is leaving Hogwarts when term begins again.

In a few days, the focus of all his thoughts would be gone.

That should have relieved him. Tom dreamed of it. Being freed from the dependence he had developed on Potter’s presence was what he wanted. It was what he had tried to convince himself of these past few days. Only he knew that Potter’s sudden and brutal disappearance would not satisfy him.

Far from it.

It would drive him mad.

Losing him felt like a heresy even more dangerous than the violent and irrational fascination he felt for him. Harry Potter was going to leave Hogwarts, and Riddle had no idea where he would go or what he would do.

He had obtained every piece of information he could about him through observation. He had taken advantage of the research he was doing into his own lineage to conduct some into Potter’s as well. Unfortunately, there was no trace of any Harry Potter in the official records of the Potter family lines.

It was not surprising.

Just like Tom, Harry was a bastard who appeared nowhere.

The idea of tracking him down had struck him the previous morning, when Tom had discovered him asleep in an armchair in their common room, empty of its usual occupants.

As he approached, Potter had stood up and fled, and he had not reappeared for the rest of the day. Riddle had felt as though the absence might drive him mad.

Hunting him down outside Hogwarts seemed impossible while Riddle was still a student here.

Tom had to finish his schooling, achieve his goals. Gain more power and recognition—enough to obtain the name and status he lacked, the respect he was owed.

After that, Potter would no longer be able to run from him.

Their game of cat and mouse was exhausting him. Sometimes Tom had the impression that Potter was not aware of the attention he gave him, and other times their eyes met by accident and he was certain Harry knew perfectly well the effect he had on him.

As they had never had the slightest real conversation, Riddle could not set things straight with him. Ask him… he did not even know what he wanted to ask.

Who are you? What are you doing here? Why am I so drawn to you?

He could easily answer his own questions: he is Harry, the illegitimate son of the Potter line; he studies here to gather the knowledge he was never taught; and Tom is drawn to him for no valid reason.

Simple answers. False ones—because everything that seemed simple about him was not.

The dark wizard stood up abruptly, his stiff muscles protesting against the sudden movement. He had remained still for too long.

He gathered his things and packed them into his satchel. If Potter was leaving in a few days, Tom wanted certainty. To confront him. He would surely manage to persuade him to stay—or force him to. He had convincing arguments.

Tom felt ridiculous. Incoherent. Potter would take him for a madman—which he probably was.

Despite his fears, he had spent too long fighting himself, resisting the urge to speak to him, to get closer to him. This was his last chance to understand why he fascinated him.

Riddle took a few steps across the spotless tiles, preparing to face what he had feared and avoided for months.

Crossing Hogwarts seemed disarmingly easy. The staircases, usually so contrary, carried him downwards without trouble, and he soon found himself standing before the entrance to the Slytherin common room.

He had little chance of finding Harry behind that door, but it was a possibility, and the first place he had to check. He gave the password to the stone serpent guarding the entrance and stepped into their quarters.

His eyes found his immediately. Potter was about to leave. He was there, a few metres from the door—just a few metres from him.

Looking startled, his eyes slowly lifted to meet Tom’s, and he stepped back, as if their sudden proximity had burned him. It was not as though Tom could touch him from where he stood.

Riddle looked him over as he closed the distance between them step by step, almost hungry for the idea of having him closer, of being able to brush against him if he simply reached out.

His appearance still carried that subtle mixture of awkwardness and strength. His brows were drawn together and, despite being a good five centimetres shorter than him, he seemed imposing. Overwhelming. Tom felt it again—the sensation that his chest was suddenly caught in a vice as he stood facing him.

A dull apprehension, as though the situation might spiral out of control at any moment.

Potter avoided meeting his eyes, and the lack of eye contact made Tom want to howl with frustration. His scar drew his gaze; his short, messy hair made him want to run his hands through it, to tug at it and try to tame it.

He wanted him to look at him.

His uniform was much like Tom’s, second-hand, and his tie was undone. He held it wrapped around his hand, as if he had just torn it from around his neck.

He wanted him to look at him.

Their eyes met for a second, and the green of them haunted him. Suddenly Potter lowered his head, squared his shoulders, and said,

“Move away from the door. I want to get out.”

They were the first words he had spoken to him in months. The urge to seize his face and force him to look at him—to acknowledge him—caught in Tom’s throat, and he had to rein in his impulses.

Touching him would only worsen his dependence and reveal his madness.

His eyes returned to the tie Potter was gripping tightly in his fist, and he noticed how tense the boy opposite him was.

Carefully, controlling his voice and the expression on his face as best he could, Tom asked,

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Addressing him so familiarly pleased him. Speaking to him pleased him. Potter’s gaze struck his sharply, and he replied, his voice rough with the anger filling him,

“That’s none of your business, Riddle.”

His name sounded, once again, like a curse on his tongue.

Potter was lying to him. Tom could not explain how he knew it, but the moment he said it was none of his business, Riddle knew that whatever Potter intended to do outside had everything to do with him.

Tom realised that if their confrontation dragged on, Harry would draw his wand and a duel would begin. It was surprising that Potter was not already trying to curse him, he seemed so close to starting a fight he knew he might not walk away from unharmed.

He did not like him. Tom had known that from the first day, but he had not thought Potter saw him as a danger, an enemy. Riddle had done nothing to justify such fear.

Harry had never been so tense, and his hostility was unexpected. Even with Malfoy he seemed more relaxed. Something was wrong.

Tom resisted the urge to ask what it was; he would not answer anyway. Instead, he stepped aside and let him reach the door.

Potter stared at him in disbelief, clearly convinced he would not be able to leave without a fight. Then, wary, he moved towards the door, and when he passed within a few centimetres of him, Tom had to force his muscles to remain still—so as not to seize his arm and squeeze until the bones broke, making sure he could never move away from him again.

After he left, Tom released a strained breath. His chest hurt and his heart was beating too fast. He was letting him go—but he was going to follow him. He could not help it. He had the feeling that if he did not track his prey immediately, it would escape him forever.

He gave him a few minutes’ head start. Tom did not know where Harry was going, but he knew it had something to do with him, and he still had not obtained the answers to his questions.

Who was he? Why was he here? And what was it about him that made Tom so uncontrollable?

Before his arrival, everything had been fine. He had priorities. Objectives.

Now he was nothing more than the slave of desires that kept growing stronger.

Harry Potter was gradually becoming his adversary, his antagonist. He had never planned to have one, but now he could not imagine achieving his ambitions without first ensuring either Potter’s death or his allegiance. Because he could imagine him only at his side—or destroyed.

Uneven in his results, a poor student, a half-blood. His appearance was nothing extraordinary, nor were his magical abilities. None of which stopped Tom from wanting his recognition more than anyone else’s. From desiring his presence more than that of anyone else.

He was ready for anything.

Fighting his inner demons where Harry was concerned already made him his sworn enemy. Tom had feelings for Harry Potter—feelings he only half understood, wavering between violence and tenderness.

Letting him go far away from him was unthinkable. He had to know.

Riddle took out his wand and focused enough to cast a charm that would make him indistinguishable for a time. It was a temporary and complex spell he was not entirely certain he had mastered, but it was the only way to follow him without being noticed.

Once satisfied with the result, he left the common room without delay, taking the same path as his target. Hogwarts was deserted and his senses sharpened. He felt as though he could hear Potter’s breathing quicken ahead of him as he began walking faster and faster.

Tom followed, keeping a respectful distance between them. Even with the spell, he had the feeling that if he drew any closer, Harry would know. Because Riddle was there, staring at his back, just as he had grown used to doing.

Harry climbed the stairs to the second floor, occasionally glancing behind him to check that no one had followed. He seemed convinced that Tom would—and he was right. At that moment, following him had become his reason for being.

When he reached the second floor, Potter slowed down, until he stopped in front of the girls’ toilets. Tom frowned, growing more and more doubtful about what his enemy was up to.

Potter cast one last look around and stepped inside.

The door closed behind him, leaving Tom alone outside. He could not enter after him; Harry would see the door open and know immediately he was not alone.

Ten minutes passed without Riddle hearing anything in particular from inside. What could possibly be so interesting in the girls’ toilets on the second floor?

It had to be something connected to him.

A sudden intuition struck his mind, and Tom pulled out the map he had been using for his research on the Chamber of Secrets. He had searched every room in the basement, the ground floor, the first, second, and third floors. Every room except one. The girls’ toilets on the second floor had been inaccessible to him, and he had not considered that they might lead to the Chamber.

He had considered the possibility that Salazar Slytherin’s monster might be a Basilisk—if the legends were true, which he doubted. But if they were real, a serpent the size of a Basilisk would need space to move. Hogwarts’ plumbing was a vast network, immense and accessible through toilets and bathrooms.

He had not thought of that possibility until today. Potter had clouded his mind too much for him to reach the conclusion on his own. If his intuition proved correct, and Harry Potter had found the passage leading to the Chamber of Secrets, it would only add to the mystery surrounding him.

Potter must have been spying on him, must have discovered what his research was about and reached the Chamber before him. How? For what reason? Tom had no idea.

The Potter family had no connection to Salazar Slytherin. What was the point of searching for the Chamber if he had no use for it? He could not even open it.

Was it a trap? Was Potter expecting him to follow and open the Chamber for him? For what purpose?

Tom Riddle wanted to find the Chamber to be certain that part of the blood of Slytherin’s line truly ran in his veins. To make sure he had wizarding blood. If he proved to be Slytherin’s heir, he would be able to impose himself on the members of his house. Use the monster of the Chamber to establish his authority and gain the upper hand over Malfoy and the other pure-bloods who looked down on him.

To raise himself to their level and claim a place in this world. It had nothing to do with Potter. It was personal.

If it was a trap, how would Harry Potter know he was a Parselmouth? Tom never used his gift; Dumbledore’s reaction to the mere mention of it had convinced him never to speak of it to other wizards again.

Perhaps it was Dumbledore himself who had betrayed him…

Even so, something was still missing. Important pieces of understanding. The pieces that would connect Potter and him. Perhaps those pieces would rationally explain his irrational fascination with the other boy.

As he stood frozen in front of the door, the map still in his hand, he suddenly heard a hiss.

A human hiss. Parseltongue.

The first human hiss he had ever heard that did not come from himself.

§ Open! §

A cry—an order, hissed. Instantly a grinding noise rang out, as if something heavy were being dragged across stone. A click echoed, and then Tom heard Potter gasp, as clearly as if his ear had been pressed to his mouth.

Riddle could hear him moving. The sound resembled that of a body sliding down a rough chute, as though Potter had fallen into the plumbing.

Tom rushed at the door and threw it open, still in shock from hearing Potter—POTTER—speak Parseltongue.

His mind was already reaching conclusions he hardly dared consider.

Potter and he had to share a blood connection. Family. That would explain why Tom had felt as though he knew him. It would explain, at least in part, his obsession with him.

If they were related, perhaps Potter knew. Perhaps his behaviour towards him came from that.

A blood bond. That blood so precious and important to wizarding society. Tom wanted it to be real. The idea that the same blood as his might run in Potter’s veins felt satisfying. It was personal enough to fulfil his desire to see them bound together.

And yet it was impossible. The Potters were not connected to the Slytherin line. He could only be mistaken in assuming that they were—or Potter had lied about his surname. That seemed possible. There were countless possibilities, and Riddle did not have time to consider each one.

The first thing his eyes landed on was the gaping hole opened at the back of the room. On the tap of the sink that had moved aside, he noticed serpents engraved in the metal. They had been there all along. Right under his nose. Potter knew the location of the Chamber—there was no doubt about it. How else could he have found it before him?

Was that why he had come to Hogwarts for a few months? Did he want to claim the monster supposedly kept inside? If they were both heirs of Slytherin, Tom was prepared to make certain concessions and share—provided Potter answered all his questions in return.

For that, he had to go down, find him, and confront him. The spell that had concealed him had broken the moment Tom heard Parseltongue spoken. He did not bother casting another.

He wanted Potter to look at him. He wanted them to speak. He needed to speak to him.

The fall was long and unpleasant. Unable to close his eyes, he watched the ground rush dangerously closer and only just managed to slow himself before crashing down. Pipes as large as corridors stretched out before him.

Panic made his heart skip a beat when he realised he had no idea which direction to go. Then, looking more closely at the ground, he noticed the marks left by Potter’s wet shoes. They led towards the opposite corridor. All he had to do was follow them to catch up with him.

His own shoes were soaked now, just like his uniform. The place was unpleasantly damp, but Tom paid little attention to it. He was too exhilarated by the thought of discovering the Chamber. He still had trouble believing he had fallen into the bowels of the school. He was close now. One of his dearest wishes was about to come true.

He followed Potter’s footsteps carefully until the corridors widened into vast caverns as wide and high as the Great Hall. Then he reached a door fitted with a complex mechanism, where intertwined serpents held dozens upon dozens of different locks in place. The eyes of those serpents were the same colour as Potter’s. Emerald.

Potter had opened it without taking the time to close it again, and Tom did not bother either. If it had been dark until now, Riddle could at last perceive a source of light coming from the Chamber itself.

He stepped inside uncertainly despite his impatience. The Chamber of Secrets was a long, damp hall lit by a greenish glow. It was lined with immense stone pillars around which countless serpents were carved, rising towards the shadowy ceiling—too high to make out clearly.

Tom moved forward slowly, taking the time to admire the grandeur of the place while searching for Potter. He reached the far end of the chamber, where a massive statue of Salazar Slytherin, the Chamber’s founder, towered above the room. Near the statue, head lifted solemnly, Harry Potter was studying Slytherin’s features with determination.

Everything in his posture shouted the intensity he felt at being there. There was a resilience about him that turned Tom’s stomach, and he did not dare approach any closer. Harry did not seem to have noticed his presence, as if in a trance, focused entirely on his goal.

Tom could barely make out the details of his face, but he could see his movements with perfect clarity. As if, for a moment, the two of them were somehow the same.

Harry raised the tie he was still holding to his face and, with a sure movement, tied it across his eyes—blinding himself.

Tom immediately understood the meaning of the gesture. If the monster of the Chamber truly was a Basilisk, protecting his eyes to avoid meeting its gaze was essential. Yet the legends claimed that Slytherin’s heir had nothing to fear from the creature’s power. It could only obey him.

Perplexed, Tom watched him check that the blindfold was secure before pulling something from his pocket that looked unmistakably like a sword.

Then Potter opened his mouth—and everything sped up.

The Basilisk attacked.

Time passed, stretched, twisted.

Act III: He stayed with me

Tom grimaced. Rereading his diary made him feel as though he were rediscovering the person he had been as a teenager. His goals, the way he saw the world, his ideals, his behaviour—everything seemed a little childish and ridiculous now.

“You seriously thought we were part of the same family?”

Tom turned towards the voice and found Harry’s face. The other man was reading over his shoulder without the slightest embarrassment, and then added,

“You were completely obsessed with me. It’s rather frightening.”

Tom snapped the journal shut, stood up, and stole a kiss from his companion. Taking advantage of the other man’s surprise, he murmured against his lips,

“That’s the only thing that hasn’t changed.”

Potter smiled, pushed him back onto their bed, moved away and said,

“Get ready. We’ve been called to move a supposedly haunted urn.”

Tom took the time to watch his lover undress and put on the clothes he worked in. Harry Potter had not changed much in five years. He had not grown taller, but he had grown stronger, and he still had the same short, messy black hair, the same mended golden glasses, the same scar, the same aura. He looked good in his uniform. Terribly good.

When Potter headed towards the door of their bedroom to leave—probably to Apparate without even taking the time for breakfast—Riddle locked it with a flick of his hand.

Harry Potter stopped, his hand on the handle, and growled in a way that made Tom smile.

“Did you just lock us in?”

Tom did not answer immediately. He removed his own clothes and began changing, putting on each piece of his suit slowly. When he reached the knot at his collar, he heard a curse, and the next second Harry Potter had grabbed him by the back of the neck and kissed him in return.

They broke apart breathless. Tom kept his hands on Potter’s body, looking straight into his eyes, immensely satisfied that Harry returned the look. That the green eyes which had haunted him five years earlier were now fixed on him with the same intensity.

Harry Potter belonged to him.

Harry must have caught the turn his thoughts had taken, because he pulled away and told him,

“We’re going to be late.”

Tom replied, taking his lover’s hand,

“You travelled through time to find me. We can afford to be late.”

Potter contradicted him but squeezed his hand in return.

“That’s not the same. I travelled through time to kill you, and that doesn’t give us the right to be late. You know what goblins are like.”

Yes, Harry Potter had come from the future with a very specific goal. Eliminate the Basilisk that represented a threat—and kill him, once that task was done.

Harry had killed the monster in the Chamber of Secrets that day at Hogwarts. Then they had fought a duel, and Potter had won. He could have struck him down. Two words would have been enough, but he had not done it.

In Harry’s future, Tom had been a monster. He was the murderer of his parents and responsible for two wizarding wars. Yet Harry had not been able to kill him.

Instead, he had collapsed beneath the weight of the responsibilities resting on his shoulders. Tom and he had remained there for a long time, lying in the darkness and silence of the Chamber, splattered with the Basilisk’s blood and dazed by their own injuries.

Potter had broken the silence to tell him his story—the story of a very real future from which he came and in which he had lived. Tom had understood then, clearing away the last shadows that still clouded Potter’s history. And when he had finished speaking, Tom had asked him, aware that he would be incapable of defending himself if Potter suddenly changed his mind and decided he deserved to die for actions he had not yet committed.

“What are you going to do with me?”

Harry had struggled to his feet, his face wet with tears, and shouted at him,

“You think I have a choice? I’m stuck in the past and if I—if I don’t finish the mission I was given, what were all the sacrifices I made for?”

Potter had spent the last six months training to defeat him. He had left everything behind to accomplish that goal. In his future, Lord Voldemort was an immortal monster who had taken control of England. A madman destroying the wizarding world. Travelling back in time to kill him had seemed like the only way to prevent disaster.

Harry Potter had just turned seventeen when he left his own time for good.

Understanding everything that implied, Tom had given the only answer that seemed possible—to him, for them, to satisfy the feelings that obsessed his soul.

“Stay with me.”

Potter had looked at him as if he were insane, which Tom had already admitted to himself he probably was. Then he had begun to laugh, a joyless laugh, the kind that betrayed despair bordering on madness.

“Brilliant idea. I spend the rest of my life stopping you from becoming the man who kills my parents. How long do you think it’ll take before we end up killing each other?”

There was irony in it, and sadness, anger, despair. Tom had simply repeated,

“Stay with me.”

It was all that mattered to him in that moment—that Potter would not disappear from his life like a mirage.

Tom did not know why Potter had accepted. Perhaps there had been nothing else. No other possibility. No other solution. Whatever the reason, Potter had not left Hogwarts after the Christmas holidays. He had stayed with him. They had finished their studies together, earned their diplomas, and Potter had prevented him from committing the acts that would have led him to become Lord Voldemort.

It had not been easy, and they had argued more than once. Riddle had understood that, if Potter was to stay with him, he would have to abandon the ambitions he once had. Those ambitions would only have led them to another duel in which Potter would not have given him a second chance.

They had grown closer. Albus Dumbledore—who had turned out to know the entire story—had not appreciated that closeness. The man had wanted Potter to accomplish what he had come to do, and since he had not, he had begun to distrust them, as if Riddle had somehow corrupted Harry.

After Hogwarts, they had remained together and looked for a way to earn a living. They ended up in Knockturn Alley working for Borgin and Burkes for a few years, long enough to earn enough money to open their own shop.

A shop right in the middle of Diagon Alley. Their business was tolerated by the Aurors and the Ministry since they did nothing illegal. They retrieved cursed, haunted, or dangerous objects, made them harmless whenever possible, and sold them in their shop. If an artefact proved too corrupted to be sold there, they gave it to Borgin and Burkes in exchange for a few Galleons—or Tom kept it for himself.

Harry allowed him to keep the trinkets he considered acceptable. That is to say, the least amusing ones, or those too dangerous to end up on the black market.

Tom had recognised his feelings for what they were. That irrational and painful obsession was a twisted form of love. A love he felt for an enemy from another time.

Potter had not returned those feelings easily. Tom had had to earn his trust. It was still recent. Five years had been necessary to convince him.

It was perfect. Tom had Harry Potter, and their status as half-bloods mattered little to him. Harry had told him that a decade after the defeat of Gellert Grindelwald, the laws would change and the wizarding world would become more tolerant. Tom would settle for that. He would not change the world, would not destroy it, nor even alter his identity to conform to it. He would simply live in it—and he would do so with Potter at his side.

That was all that mattered to him. Potter’s recognition was enough. He felt accepted, understood, listened to—and he hoped to give Harry back the freedom Harry had given him.

Harry Potter had let him live as he was, without forcing upon him any prefabricated social codes. Harry Potter had let him love him.

“Tom? Tom! Are you listening? If you’re thinking about that artefact that can summon the dead again, I’m confiscating it. The Gaunt ring isn’t a toy—it’s probably one of the Deathly Hallows.”

Potter was standing in front of him, exasperated by his lack of attention, threatening to take the most important piece in his collection. Tom could only give him a mocking smile.

“I wasn’t thinking about the ring’s powers.”

His companion looked at him suspiciously and asked,

“And what were you thinking about?”

Tom Riddle smiled even more.

“I was wondering whether you’d accept it as an engagement ring—or if I’ll have to find another.”

Harry Potter’s eyes widened. He went pale, then flushed red, and Tom decided that his life had definitely taken the right direction.

The End