Chapter 2
I thought you said he wasn’t in this timeline!
You seem to be mistaken, Master, came Death’s dry, amused drawl. I have told you that Lord Voldemort does not exist in this timeline, the boy before you is Tom Marvolo Riddle, not Lord Voldemort.
Harry could almost hear the distant cackle of the creature, and fought the urge to summon him in person just so he could find a way to kick his arse. He slammed his shield back up, blinking at Hermione when she squirmed out of his hold, looking both annoyed and bewildered.
“What?” he snapped at Riddle when he caught another glimpse of his calm, ever composed smirk.
How does someone like this become such a raging lunatic?
“I said,” Riddle drawled, “I believe Hogwarts has been a public institution for centuries now, and as a student I have full reign to roam where I please.”
Merlin, what a pompous little arse. How did anyone deal with him?
Hermione gave his sleeve another sharp tug, eyes wide. Harry glanced at the sudden surprise that filled and fled Riddle’s face, and realized he must have spoken aloud.
“Harry,” Riddle said slowly, “I didn’t realize our conversation had left you feeling so. . . negatively towards me.”
Conversation? They had a conversation? What the bloody hell could Harry have to talk to Riddle about? They were complete opposites. If anything, this Harry and this Riddle should be nowhere near each other's social circles - not to mention they appeared to be in entirely different years - there was sure to be no overlap in classes either.
Unless…
Unless Riddle had to be up to something nefarious in this timeline too. Maybe this world’s Harry figured it out and was trying to put a stop to it! Tom Riddle had opened the Chamber of Secrets in his sixth year, it would be natural to presume he'd done something equally as evil here.
Harry eyed Riddle, trying to catch a hint of a sign that he was missing bits of his soul. The Voldemort in his timeline started showing physical effects the more horcruxes he made. If this world’s Riddle had created only one there probably wouldn’t be much evidence of it. He most definitely didn’t look snake-like yet. His eyes…
Harry squinted and inched just a slightest bit forward, ignoring Hermione’s insistent tugging and hissing.
His eyes looked normal. There was no tinge of red in them yet. Maybe that came later. Maybe he needed to lose a few more slices of soul before that happened…
Harry blinked, and froze, a thought suddenly hitting him.
A conversation. A conversation right before this world's Harry had somehow died?
Maybe…
Maybe, this world’s Riddle was the one that’d killed him.
Harry reared back, arms practically pinwheeling as he raised his wand again and pointed it at Riddle’s chest.
“You-!”
Riddle remained ever so composed. “Yes, Harry?”
“I’m onto you!” Harry cried, “You may have everyone else fooled but not me-” at this Riddle’s amusement faltered, and was immediately replaced with a glimmer of suspicion, “I know what you’re doing! And you better believe me when I say that I’m going to-”
“Harry for the love of god! ”
Hermione, seemingly having enough, yanked Harry towards her, even as he glowered at Riddle.
“I apologize on his behalf Riddle,” she sighed, blowing a rogue strand of hair from her face, “he got hit in the head by a bludger at the last Quidditch game and has been acting off since he woke up this morning.”
“Ah,” all hints of emotion faded from Riddle’s eyes, even as he gave a small, cordial smile - fake and plastic, Harry noted with suspicion.
“Well I wish you a swift recovery, Harry,” he said smoothly, “you two better head down now, I believe dinner is nearly over.”
Harry scoffed and opened his mouth to retort, but a quick swat from Hermione had him snapping it shut again. Instead, he opted to glare at the boy.
I’m onto you, he thought, trying his best to convey it through his eyes, and I won’t stop until I find out just what you did.
Riddle’s brows shot up once more, yet instead of irritation - or even fear - Harry caught him with dark eyes narrowed and alight with interest, watching thoughtfully as he was dragged away and around the corner.
***
Harry skipped dinner.
He begged off of it, not wanting to be stuck in the hall packed with hundreds of other students. The last time he’d been in the Great Hall, Hogwarts had just reopened after a full six-months of non-stop construction. It was nearly restored to its full glory, but a part of Harry couldn’t look around without seeing the lines of corpses that’d lain there during that final Battle.
He went to the kitchens instead, very much aware of his growling stomach. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten; or well the last time this Harry had eaten.
A part of him hoped Dobby was there. If he wasn’t, then Harry would have to figure out if he were with the Malfoy’s - if the Malfoy’s even existed in this timeline, Riddle had thrown everything for a loop - and if so, Harry would have to find a way to free him again.
The portrait swung open revealing a sea of smiling house-elves and —
“Dobby!” Harry cried out, happy to see the house elf. Their last meeting burned into the back of his mind, and he fought the urge to sweep his old friend into a hug, sure that would just confuse him.
“Harry Potter, sir!” Dobby cried, launching himself at Harry’s legs, “Dobby was so worried when he’d heard of Harry Potter’s injury! Dobby tried coming to see you, but Harry Potter was gone when Dobby went!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Harry patted Dobby, affection swelling in his heart. It seemed like - if anything - the one thing that stayed consistent in this timeline was Harry’s choices and the friends he managed to make through them. “I - er - had to go somewhere. But I’m fine! Got a couple of potions and was up and running in no time.”
Besides the tiny, minuscule fact that he was murdered and replaced by some war-addled adult version of himself from a different timeline, though that’s besides the point.
“Is Harry Potter wanting some food?”
Harry nodded, slumping into the chair a house-elf ran to set up nearby, giving her a grateful smile, “That’d be great Dobby, thanks.”
Dobby beamed and ran off. Within seconds the table was stacked with streaming heaps of food. Harry dug in without another word, feeling much like Ron as he inhaled the meal. He chatted with Dobby and the other elves, making sure to discern their names so that it wouldn’t look odd if he suddenly forgot. He tried getting some information out of Dobby, but at the slightest mention of his “memory problem” had his friend in tears, so Harry quickly changed the topic to distract him.
After eating enough that he nearly dozed off right then and there in his seat, Harry bid his goodbyes to the elves and left, assuring them that yes he certainly did not want a third slice of pie and of course he’ll be back soon.
He wandered the halls a bit longer, not quite ready to get back to his dorms and face his best friends with the knowledge that their actual friend was dead - the whole situation messing with his mind, honestly. He winded up running his way back just seconds before curfew, cursing both himself and the Hogwarts staircases for making him late.
Thankfully, the common room wasn’t as filled as he’d worried it’d be, instead littered with a few older OWL and NEWT students hunched over their quills and books and fiercely writing. And on the armchair near the fire — Hermione and Ron.
There was no dramatic greeting again, but he didn’t miss the look of relief on their faces as he made his way to them.
“How was dinner?” he asked, slumping into his seat and resigning himself to the interrogation that was no doubt about to happen.
“Good,” Hermione bit her lip, “how are you feeling? Does your head still hurt?”
Harry grinned and shook his head, going so far as to tap his skull with his knuckles. “Nope, no pain thank Merlin. But the memory thing is still a bugger.”
“How much do you not remember?” Ron asked, leaning forwards.
“Uh,” Fuck, what was he supposed to say? “I remember important bits, like you and Hermione, Hogwarts, Sirius, Quidditch, of course. I just think it’s random things that are slipping…”
“He didn’t remember Riddle,” Hermione said, directing a pointed look at Ron, who gaped in shock.
“You don’t remember Riddle? Merlin I never thought I’d see the day…”
Harry figured his hatred for Riddle was probably comparable to his hatred for Malfoy in his timeline. “Rather glad to not remember the git,” he muttered, glaring at the flames.
He saw Hermione and Ron exchange a look, but he ignored it, used to all the looks he’d gotten in his own time when he’d bring Malfoy up.
“I think you should head to bed,” Hermione said firmly after the silence dragged on, “maybe a good night’s rest is what you need.”
Ron nodded in agreement, and Harry shrugged. He’d been yawning non-stop since he’d sat down, and the fire was a welcoming heat lulling him into sleep. He let a hovering Hermione guide him up to the dorms, and was glad when Ron fended off the rapid questions from the others.
He barely managed to take his glasses off before he’d fallen face first into his bed and went to sleep.
***
The next morning was jarring. Harry woke up with a shock, heart racing when he realized where he was. It took a minute for the memories of the previous day to come rushing back, and he let out a low groan, collapsing back into bed.
“Mate-" his curtains ripped open, and another low groan escaped at the sudden influx of light, “-sorry,” Ron grinned, “rise and shine, time for class.”
Harry flipped onto his stomach. Merlin — school. In all the excitement he’d forgotten one important detail: he had to redo school.
At least he’d been through it before, which meant he didn’t necessarily have to pay much attention to pass.
“How’s the head? Any memories resurface throughout the night?”
“No,” Harry said, shoving his glasses onto his face. He screwed his face, pretending like he was thinking hard. “Feels about the same.”
Ron’s face fell, before he shrugged. “Well maybe you just need a few more nights of good sleep.”
Harry shuffled through his morning, feeling an odd sense of deja vu, going through the same routine he’d had for six years before the war disrupted everything.
They were joined by Hermione on their way to breakfast, who looked equally concerned when she heard that he hadn’t regained any memories. Her lips tightened and she nodded with a determined look.
“I’ll look into it,” she promised at the Gryffindor table, as they stacked their plates with sausages, eggs and toast. “I’m sure there’s more than a couple books of head injuries and brain trauma…“ her eyes went distant, likely running through the titles in her head.
Harry just smiled his thanks, more than aware that there was no point in stopping her now that she’d set her mind to it. He only felt bad for the time she might waste.
Maybe I could fake a return, he mused, wouldn’t be too hard to stay calm and collected, act like I know what’s going on.
Calm and collected? Just like you were with Tom Riddle?
He scowled as Death’s voice reappeared, but frowned when he took the words in.
…you have a point.
Next to him, Ron and Hermione bickered as always. He tuned in briefly - noted that it was about Ron trying to persuade Hermione to let him use her Charms notes as a reference - and tuned back out with an expert's ease.
“If you just did the reading Ronald, ” Hermione snapped, “you would have found that the essay was actually quite simple and straightforward. All your required sources were there! It wasn’t even that difficult - right Harry?”
Harry froze, a scoop of beans inches from his mouth.
…Did he finish his essay? If it’d been his own timeline, the answer was probably a half hearted yes. But Harry had no idea how…studious this version of him was.
“Er—” he frowned, “I actually…am not sure.”
For a split second Hermione looked confused, before her eyes widened, brimmed with tears. “Oh Harry I’m so sorry—”
Harry panicked, eyes wide and whirling to an amused Ron and back. “No—it’s alright! Hermione, really!”
He opened his book bag and dug through it, “I’m sure it's in here somewhere—“
“Oh no Harry you weren’t there for the lesson!” Hermione said, “it was the day of your injury - when you were in the hospital wing! Oh I can’t believe I forgot!”
Harry paused. “Oh…alright then. I’ll just let Flitwick know and do it later.”
“You can use my notes to reference!”
Harry grinned around her at an outraged Ron. “Thanks Hermione, you’re the best.”
She smiled at him, but the smile quickly dropped, her eyes following something across the hall.
Harry stiffened, feeling the presence of someone approaching behind him, and fought the urge to react to the unknown threat.
You’re in Hogwarts, he reminded himself, you’re not at war. You’re not on the run anymore.
The presence stopped right behind him, the warmth of them heating his back.
“...Riddle,” Ron said slowly, eyes wide as he turned to glance at Harry.
“Weasley,” Riddle greeted, “...Granger. Harry — how are you this morning?”
“Fine,” Hermione answered, when the silence stretched long enough that it was obvious neither Ron nor Harry were going to respond, “did you need something, Riddle?”
“Yes,” Riddle said, sounding amused, “in fact I did. I wished to steal away Harry to speak privately. We never got to complete our previous conversation, as we were interrupted by the Quidditch Match.”
Harry set his spoon down, and turned in his seat to glare at him. Riddle, in turn, threw him a charming grin, but Harry didn’t miss the glint of something in his eyes.
“Well,” Hermione said slowly, “I’m not sure that’s a good id-”
“Sure,” Harry cut in. Honestly, he wanted to know what Riddle was up to. And what better way to discern his evil intentions than to talk to him?
He grabbed his bag and slung it over his shoulder, giving his friends a look. “I’ll just go talk to him and come to class — Defense right?”
“Potions,” they corrected together, looking pained.
Right. Defense was the first class of his sixth year.
“Great,” he muttered, chancing a glance at the Head Table to see — ah yes, Severus Snape was there, and with no sign of Slughorn, it was clear he was still the Potions Professor. He hoped this Snape was a little less obsessed with his late-mother, and perhaps less hateful of his father, but he doubted it.
The Potion’s Master glanced his way, and scowled, black beady eyes filled with distaste. Harry threw him a wide, beaming smile in return and fought the urge to laugh at the bewildered expression that answered.
He turned back to see Riddle watching him with an unreadable expression, that same, fake as hell cordial smile on his face. He wanted to punch the smug look right off the handsome git.
Instead, Harry squared his shoulders and brushed past Riddle and out the great hall, looking for a quiet alcove for their conversation. Riddle, however, suggested an empty classroom instead — sending his guard on high alert.
What does he need a closed door for?
They passed a group of students, and Harry fought the urge to flinch as Death’s large, cloaked figure made an appearance.
Privacy, perhaps?
Harry ignored Death, resolutely glowering at Riddle’s back instead of looking over at the figure.
Another murder attempt? Maybe he wants to make sure there are no witnesses…
After asking you for a chat in front of a hall full of students? That would be a poor way of going about it…
Harry blinked. As much as he hated to admit it - Death had a point.
Okay fine, but can you blame me for finding this weird as hell?
I would never dare blame you for anything, Master.
Death seemed to be an arse with an attitude problem. Harry turned to wear the figure loomed and scowled, eyes narrowing.
“Don’t you have some other place to loom?” he snapped.
“Excuse me?”
The creature disappeared with a sharp crack, and Harry’s head snapped to Riddle, who’d paused at a classroom door with a raised brow.
Fuck. Had Harry spoken aloud?
“Er—nothing. I wasn’t talking to you.”
“Weren’t you?” Riddle asked, amused, “odd seeing as there doesn’t seem to be anyone else here.”
Harry ignored him, brushing past him into the empty classroom. “What did you want to talk about, Riddle?”
The door shut behind them with a soft click, making his hackles rise even further. As casually as he could, he slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew his wand.
It wasn’t casual enough, apparently. Because Riddle’s eyes zeroed in on the movement, and that same strange look — a mix between amusement and intrigue, like Harry was a pet that’d just performed a funny trick — appeared.
“I wanted to speak about our last conversation.”
Harry leaned back against a spare desk. He couldn’t let Riddle know that he didn’t recall their last conversation — mostly because it wasn’t between the two of them — in case that gave him an advantage of some sort.
No chance of you enlightening me?
Afraid not, Master.
Harry scowled mentally. “What about it?” he said, keeping his voice even, “I thought there was nothing left to discuss.”
A brow shot up. Riddle didn’t respond, and instead studied Harry, head tilted just a fraction to the side.
Harry fought the urge to shift uncomfortably where he stood. Shit, was that the wrong thing to say? What could they have possibly been discussing before a bloody Quidditch game that was so important?
“How are you faring?”
…What?
Harry blinked.
“Your head,” Riddle said innocently, “it was quite the injury, I heard. I’m afraid I missed the game…”
“Good,” Harry said suspiciously, “skull’s like stone, barely feel it now.”
“Ah,” Riddle smiled, as if his answer was something amazing.
Harry’s eyes narrowed, alarms ringing in his mind. His answer was simple, no? Then why the hell did Riddle look like Christmas had come early?
Bloody maniac.
“Tell me, Harry,” Riddle said, mirroring his stance on an empty desk across from him. His legs were impossibly long, and he crossed them at the ankles, somehow looking regal in the shoddy room, “how is your relationship?”
“My relationship ?” Harry echoed, failing to hide the disbelief in his voice. He had a girlfriend?
Oh — oh of course. He was in his sixth year, maybe this Harry also began dating Ginny Weasley this year.
But why wasn’t she at the hospital wing? Or in the common room? Even before they’d dated Ginny and the other Weasley’s were always there for him whenever he’d gotten injured.
She was likely busy, he determined. You’re not Harry Potter the Chosen One, maybe she did visit and you forgot.
Harry cringed inwardly. He hoped this Harry’s relationship dwelled better than his. Him and Ginny after the war were simply…not a good fit.
“We’re great,” he said, “very happy. Never been happier.”
A light of understanding filled Riddle’s eyes. Although in light of what Harry was quite honestly nervous about finding out.
“Excellent,” Riddle said conclusively, glancing down at his wrist watch, “ah there goes the time. You must hurry to make it to your class.”
“Don’t you have class?”
“Free period,” came the swift reply, “seven years are allocated a few in order to study for our N.E.W.T.S.”
Harry exited out the room slowly, careful not to turn his back to Riddle, who seemed amused when he noticed what was happening. Without bothering to see where he was going, Harry left as quickly as he could, unsettled by Riddle’s charming smiles and his knowing gaze.
A part of him preferred to deal with the snake-faced Voldemort from his time instead. Although quite unhinged and basically psychotic, at least he was much easier to read. It was less mind games and more dueling and running for his life.
Tom Riddle, on the other hand, was much, much more.
***
Harry found getting through Potions just as irritating as it was in his timeline. Snape was somehow less hostile, yet still quick to pounce with the snide remarks whenever Harry made a mistake.
Thankfully, Harry’s seventh year at Hogwarts — completed a full year after the war had ended, when the castle was reconstructed and everything else had settled — was blissfully quiet.
Er, Harry thought, thinking back to how hectic the wizarding world had become due to the fact that his fame had pretty much quadrupled since he defeated Voldemort, maybe not quiet. Calm? Relatively peaceful? At least there wasn’t a noseless freak trying to murder me every half hour.
Without a life-or-death situation to distract him, Harry quickly learned that he was actually pretty good at potions when someone wasn’t breathing down his neck. Even without the notes from the Half-Blood Prince, he was a decent A level student that did quite well for himself, much to his surprise.
He managed to ignore the potion’s master, completing his assigned potion well within the time, and fought off a grin when all Snape could do was sneer in response as he marked it with a reluctant Acceptable.
He even found that Charms was much easier after a few years of field-experience. Charms he hadn’t bothered learning while in class became a staple during raids, and Harry shrugged at Hermione’s sharp questions at how he knew how to perfectly cast an Extinguishing Spell against a strongly casted Incendio.
All in all, Harry finished his lessons for the day feeling much better than how it started.
“Excuse me?” Hermione repeated, brows raised with shock, “you’re going where? ”
“To the library,” Harry repeated calmly, “I need to refresh my memory on some of our classes.”
Ron stopped in front of him, grabbing his shoulders. “What’s your name?” he demanded.
Harry blinked. “Harry Potter.”
“What’s my name?”
“Ron Weasley.”
A hand left his shoulder, and five fingers were shoved in his face instead. “How many fingers am I holding?”
“Two.” Harry deadpanned.
Ron grinned back sheepishly. “Just making sure,” he said, with a final pat. “I mean — I don’t think I’ve ever heard those words come out of your mouth.”
Harry scowled.
“Hilarious. I just want to make sure I don’t fall behind. I mean we are in our sixth year, and besides I won’t have all that much time when the Quidditch season gets busy.”
His friends’ face relaxed, apparently accepting his excuse of Quidditch being the reason why he was suddenly eager to study.
“I’ll come with you,” Hermione said, beaming, “I was going anyway to check out some books for that essay on the Goblin Wars, and I wanted to get a bit of studying in since our exams are just around the corner—”
“Around the corner?” Ron cried, “bloody hell Hermione, the terms barely begun!”
Hermione sent Ron a piercing glare. “We are already four months in,” she said, “which means there is less than twenty five weeks before our finals. In between coursework and holidays coming up, there is nowhere near enough time!”
Ron opened his mouth to argue, face twisted in annoyance when Harry decided it was time to cut in.
“Alright, alright,” Harry sighed, “I’m going to the library to catch up on my current coursework-” a lie, obviously, but it wasn’t one that they would catch, “-and if you two are going to argue, I’d rather you not join me. I’m not jeopardizing Quidditch,” he added quickly when hurt flashed across their faces, “if I start to fall behind, or let anyone know about my - er - memory problem, then I might get taken off the team.”
There. That was a good enough lie. It was one he could see himself making, anyway, if this crazy situation were to ever truly happen to him.
Ron frowned in understanding, nodding slowly. “Captain or not-” Harry fought a grin at the confirmation, “-McGonagall might bench you if she found out you’d been Lockharted,” he said.
Something jolted through Harry, and his stomach dropped at the reference.
“Lockharted? he repeated, “what do you mean?”
Ron blinked, then his frown deepened. “This will never not be weird,” he muttered, then seemingly geared up for a story, “Gideon Lockhart? Our first-year DADA professor that winded up being a phony? We found him trying to flee after he was tasked with taking out the Troll at the Halloween feast. He stole my broken wand and tried to cast an Obliviate on us, but it backfired on him instead.”
“He’s at Saint Mungo’s now,” Hermione explained gently, through Ron’s snorts at the memory of the event, “we saw him when we went to visit Ron’s father after his injury.”
Harry nodded slowly, mind racing with the new information. So it seemed like some bits of their timeline was similar — or similar enough. Lockhart had still taught them DADA — though it was in their first-year — and was still the fraud that stole other’s hard work for himself.
Yet the Troll entering at Halloween was still the same. How had it come in, if there wasn’t Quirrell letting it in? If there was no Philosopher’s Stone to steal? Had it simply found its own way in somehow anyway?
Harry stayed silent, following his friends towards the library, musing over their words. They seemed to catch on that he needed to collect his thoughts, because even Ron pulled out his books and started working through their homework for the evening.
Mr. Weasley still had an injury in our fifth-year, he noted, though it probably wasn’t because a giant horcrux-carrying snake attacked him. Maybe he got it on one of his raids?
He shook his head, filing the information away for later. Now that they were in the library, he needed to move quickly to get what he needed.
Harry muttered an excuse to a distracted Hermione and a tortured-looking Ron, and went deeper into the shelves until he was no longer in their eyesight. He slowly made his way towards the restricted section, managing to avoid Madam Pince’s hawk-like gaze with practiced ease.
The section was empty, thankfully, which meant nobody saw as he went straight for the books on time magic. There was unsurprisingly, not as much as he’d hoped for — likely to ensure no student got any wise ideas. He read through the titles quickly, hoping to find at least something he could use.
"Chronomancy: Manipulating the Sands of Time" by Cassandra Chronos.
"The Time-Twister's Tome: Advanced Techniques in Temporal Magic" by Tempus Fugit.
"Temporal Tapestry: Weaving Time Spells" by Chronos Weaver.
"Parallel Realities: The Theory and Practice of Alternate Dimensions" by Octavius Quantum.
Harry froze at the last one, heart racing. Alternate Dimensions...
Just what do you wish to do with these?
Harry didn’t bother turning to look at the cloaked figure, already flipping through the pages, hoping to catch a glimpse of something that proved that this book held the information he needed.
I already told you, Master - there is no way back to your world. You are stuck here. This is your dimension now.
Harry scoffed. “And how could I trust you?” he paused at a page, then flipped again, “I’m not going to believe I’m stuck here until I’ve exhausted every other option trying to get back into my own world. I don’t care who or what I have to go up against to do so.”
He needed to try. He needed to make sure that there was truly no way back to his old life — to his family and friends. If anything, he just wanted to be sure that everything was alright, that no one else was in danger. If they were fine — then he would relax, he would be assured that there was no threat against the people he loved, that they would mourn him, but move on with their lives again.
If they weren’t alright. If there truly was a bigger threat in their world…
Harry would tear apart through time. He would rip through death and dimension and Mother Magic Herself to get back to them. And he would find the one responsible and hold them by the fucking throat.
Such callous thoughts. Death drawled, circling Harry’s back until it was propped up against the shelf on his left, you petty Humans, thinking so highly of yourselves.
“Well you said it yourself,” Harry said, snapping his book shut and tucking it under his arm — he would have to bring it to his dorm for later, “I’m no petty human, I’m the Master of Death.”
He brushed past the figure, making his way to the other side of the restriction section. He had to hurry. There was only a certain amount of time before either Hermione or Ron would begin to look for him.
Or, he thought with a shudder, before Madam Pince caught me. She was terrifying enough in my world, no doubt she's the same here.
His eyes flew across the titles, trying to see if he could find what he was looking for. He knew there was likely to be very little, as this library’s collection seemed similar to the one from his time, and they never found books related to Soul Magic there.
“The Essence of the Soul: A Study of Immortal Beings" by Perpetua Daemonis
“"Eternal Slumber: Soul Magic in the Realm of Dreams" by Hypnos Nocturne
"Soul Transference and Identity: Ancient Rituals of the Arcane" by Seraphina Spiritus
“The Secrets of the Soul: Unveiling the Mysteries of Life and Death" by Archibald Grim.
“And just what are you doing here?”
Harry whirled round, heart in his throat. He snapped the book shut and tucked it behind his back in one swift movement.
Tom Riddle stood behind him with a raised brow, that same unreadable look in his eyes as he studied the books behind Harry, before turning his gaze back.
“Now, what could you possibly be looking for in the Restricted Section? With such...dark reading material too.”
“What are you doing here?” Harry threw back, mind racing. He fought the urge to fidget, and instead straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin.
“I have permission, of course,” Riddle said smoothly, he lifted his hand, a small piece of parchment held in between two fingers, where Harry could just make out the ends of a signature.
“As do I.”
“Do you, now?” Riddle said, gliding closer. Harry held his ground, hating how his head had to tilt back to maintain eye contact as Riddle towered over him. He glowered, pouring every bit of hatred in his eyes.
Riddle, if anything, seemed delighted.
“As far as I know,” he continued, “special permission for books — particularly in this section — are given to seventh years for their career-guided projects. As a sixth year student, it’s hard to believe you were given permission to be here.”
“Dumbledore gave it to me.”
It was the option that made most sense. No matter what world they were in, there was no way he could picture Tom Riddle prancing up to Dumbledore to ask whether he’d given Harry permission to go to the Restricted Section or not.
Thankfully, it seemed to be the right answer, because Riddle stepped away — a flash of annoyance on his face, before it disappeared just as quickly.
“And what could possibly need to learn about Time and Soul Magic for?”
Harry stiffened, “Were you watching me? ”
“Merely observing.” Riddle picked a piece of lint from his robes, and flashed that same, small smile that never reached his eyes, “as Head Boy it’s my responsibility to keep those in charge — even Prefects such as yourself.”
He was Prefect? Quidditch Captain and Prefect? Merlin . . . why didn't Ron or Hermione think to mention that yet? Wasn’t he supposed to wear a badge? Do some rounds?
Harry glanced down at his robes, and didn’t see anything. He hadn’t found anything when dressing this morning - although he simply must have missed it.
When he looked back up, Riddle was studying him.
“Your injury must have been much more serious than I thought,” Riddle mused, “you seem surprised to learn that you are a Prefect.”
“Just memory fluctuating here and there,” Harry said, narrowing his eyes, “nothing that’ll hinder me from the important things.”
“Important things,” Riddle echoed, drawing the words out, “such as your girlfriend?”
Shite, he’d forgotten to ask Ron and Hermione about that.
“Yes,” Harry said, lying out of his arse, “Memory problems or not, I still love her, and we are very happy.”
“Are you now?”
Harry shifted his weight, suddenly feeling unsure at the look of amusement on Riddle’s face. Alarms rang in his mind, and a part of him screamed that he needed to leave immediately.
“Now if you’re done wasting my time,” he said, “I have my friends and a whole lot of assignments to get back to.”
Riddle didn’t move.
“My friends are waiting.” Harry stressed impatiently, “can you move?”
Riddle simply cocked his head to the side. This close, Harry could see his eyes weren’t dark - they were an odd mix of brown and red, dancing over Harry’s face, allowing both the silence and Harry’s anger to rise. He was stupidly, hideously handsome. With the same perfect features Harry recalled the diary horcrux having; straight nose, thick neatly styled dark hair a contrast to his pale, almost porcelain skin. He was at such odds with Harry’s shorter stature, tanned skin, and messy locks.
Just as Harry opened his mouth to snap, he stepped back, swiping his arm out.
“Merlin,” Harry muttered, “you’d think he never heard of personal space.”
With one last glare, and books tucked hidden beneath his robes, Harry swept out from the shelves, trying his best to ignore the fact that Riddle’s eyes never left him the entire time, a slow chuckle trailing behind him on his way out.