You think you know someone

 If only time hadn’t crawled at an insufferably slow pace, Harry wouldn’t have been so impatiently waiting for the weekend to arrive. The minutes of each day stretched into what felt like an eon rather than hours, but the week had mercifully come to an end. It had not been Harry’s best first week back at Hogwarts, but he figured he’d had worse, so he tried not to be too bothered by everything going on. Especially with the additional issue he had to take into account. Namely the fraud wearing his face who’s free to roam the grounds of Hogwarts. After their quarrel in the Headmaster’s office (that had only been incited by the absurd scene they previously created at the Great Hall), the two Potters had done everything in their ability to avoid one another the rest of the week, which had been no easy feat considering the classes they shared. Harry didn’t want to think about that now. He had been restlessly eager to have his first private lesson with Dumbledore this evening.

 When he went haring off to the Headmaster’s office, he was expecting more of a practical kind of lessons like the kind they do in Defense. What Dumbledore had in store was less applied but nevertheless important.

 They dipped into the memory of a former Auror by the name of Bob Ogden. He was sent by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to investigate the whereabouts of Morfin Gaunt the night before. Through Ogden’s memory, Harry and Dumbledore found Morfin in the old, filthy house cast out of Little Hangleton that The Gaunts, who were descendants of Salazar Slytherin, lived in. At first, Harry didn’t quite understand Ogden’s confusion while speaking with Morfin, for Harry understood him just fine. Then the look Dumbledore gave Harry had him slightly reel from the realization that Morfin was a Parselmouth, and that only he, Harry, could understand what the mad man was saying.

 He subconsciously pulled his sleeve lower to securely hide Monty as the rest of the memory played out. Harry couldn’t help but ponder his unasked question in horror: could speaking the language of snakes that regularly have a way of disabling him from speaking properly without even realizing it? Morfin Gaunt probably never learned to speak anything other than Parseltongue, he lied to himself to dissolve the growing uneasiness inside of him.

 When the memory came to an end and they both exited the Pensive, Dumbledore began discussing with Harry the possibilities of what might have happened after the scene they had just witnessed. The Gaunts were the mother’s side of Voldemort’s’ family, that much was obvious. That dysfunctional pure-blood family contained an abusive father, a son that knew more Parseltongue than English, and a daughter repressed to the point of becoming an Obscurial mistaken for a Squib. She had a talent for brewing potions from what Harry saw in the Auror’s memory. Dumbledore said that she later took a chance to find her happily ever after once her father had no way of preventing it from being locked in Azkaban.

 The daughter, Merope, fancied the rich, well-respected muggle who they’d caught a glimpse of through the window of the Gaunt’s house (the man sounded familiar when he spoke to a woman whom he was strolling the streets with. Harry could’ve sworn he heard that voice once a very long time before). Dumbledore suspected that Merope had brewed Amortentia to drug the muggle, who Harry thought looked the perfect image of what the memory of Tom Riddle would have grown to look like (maybe that’s why he sounds familiar). Dumbledore said that they’d gotten married before expecting a child, and that her husband had left her when she announced her pregnancy.

 “Why? Did the love potion stop working?” Harry asked Dumbledore.

 “I’m sure it worked just fine if she was able to keep him under its influence for quite a long time.” Dumbledore said pensively, running his knuckles through his long beard. “I believe that she craved her husband’s love and was unsatisfied by only receiving the illusion of it, so she chose to stop giving him Amortentia in the hope that, after all that time spent together, he had grown to love her. It was either that or she might’ve loved him enough to know that her actions was hurting him, and therefore wanted to give him the choice he was deprived of from the beginning of their scandalous relationship. Perhaps she was hoping he’d choose to stay, if not for her, then for the sake of their unborn child.”

 Harry knew how important it was to learn everything there was to know about Voldemort, he really did, but he failed to see what his parents’ history had to do with defeating him. Harry already knew Voldemort was a half-blood descendant from Salazar Slytherin, so learning the rest of the details of his heritage didn’t really matter. Harry didn’t voice his confusion to Dumbledore of course. He knew the Headmaster wouldn’t have told him all that if he hadn’t thought it important.

 “Much to Merope’s dismal disarray, her husband left her as soon as he regained full control over himself.” Dumbledore resumed. “From what I can tell, he never bothered to play any part in his child’s life after he learned of Merope’s death or even wanted to discover what became of him.”

 Something deep within Harry’s mind couldn’t help but strongly disagree with that assumption.

 Dumbledore must have sensed the shift in his mood, detecting a flicker of the doubtful frown crawling onto Harry’s face before it vanished just as quickly as it appeared. “Unless. . . you have something you would like to add on that?”

 Devil’s Child.

 How many times had Harry dreamed of being called that before those dreams stopped occurring once he’d turned ten? How many times had Tommy—Voldemort been called that awful name as a child? Harry racked his brain, searching for an old memory. One of the earliest dreams he had of Voldemort’s past life. . .

. . . before potential parents called Tom the Devil’s Child, there had been children at the orphanage referring to him as that first. . . those children only mimicked what they heard the matrons say about Tom. . . Mrs. Cole only started calling him that because it was the only way Tom Riddle Sr would refer to his son when he visited Wool’s that one time. . .

 The muggle man from Ogden’s memory was the first to ever call Tom that. It was no wonder Harry thought the man’s voice sounded familiar. He’d dreamed of him once.

 “Harry, do you know something?” Dumbledore implored attentively.

 Harry shook his head, muttering a “no, sir.”

 Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled, and Harry shifted, slightly uncomfortable with the sudden intensity of the older man’s gaze. It was as though Dumbledore saw right through him. Almost as if he could see the thoughts inside his mind clearer than Harry could grasp them himself.

 “Very well.” Dumbledore said, expression unreadable. “That will be all for tonight. I’ll be sure to inform you when our second lesson will take place. Good night, Harry.”

 “Good night.”

Trying to remember what those dreams were like felt as if he was recalling an old, burried memory. Granted it wasn’t Harry’s memory, it was someone else’s, but it sure felt like his own.

 Harry was Tommy, and he had been five years old at the time he saw a very well-dressed man come to the building from outside his bedroom’s window. The man had a very long coat and a hat on, the collars raised to cover his face as he hung his head down, clearly ashamed to be seen at Wools Orphanage. Tommy did not blame him. He was pretty ashamed to be here himself.

 Like all the children at Wool’s, Tommy wished to escape the orphanage, and the only way to do that was by getting adopted by some buffoon. Tommy wanted someone wealthy and of higher class to take him away, it was the least he deserved after all. Despite his young age, he knew he was smarter, and more well behaved than all the other children could ever bring themselves to be.

 He was special.

 He eagerly snuck out of his room to follow where the mysterious man had gone inside the orphanage. When he saw the tall man walk into Mrs. Cole’s office, Tommy slithered slowly until he could peek through the thin crack where the closed door didn’t quite connect to its frame.

 “Are you Mrs. Cole?” The man had demanded impatiently.

 “Mr. Riddle? You received my letter?” The matron had sounded surprised and there had been an obvious hint of relief hitched to her voice.

 Riddle!

 Harry hadn’t known why he—why Tommy—felt excitement buzz coursed through him at the name. He hadn’t understood the implications of what it could mean. He did now.

 It all made sense now.

 Growing up at the Dursley’s, his heart yearned for an unknown parental figure to come and take him away from his unpleasant relatives. Unlike Harry, Tommy was the more fortunate orphan to have someone come for him. No one ever came for Harry.

 “Oh, I did. I received all of them.” Mr. Riddle answered Mrs. Cole coldly.

 The man, Tommy’s birth father, was angry at Mrs. Cole. Telling her to lose his address, that he had no bastard children. Mrs. Cole tried reasoning with the angry man. Telling him that his son was one of the children under her care. Harry—Tommy couldn’t see the man’s face nor his figure from the peephole, only thing visible to his view had been Mrs. Cole’s desk, where she sat behind it.

 “I do NOT have a son. The demon in your custody has no relation to me! He is the spawn of the wrenched woman!” The man could be heard shouting frantically. Most of the words he’s used Harry’s five-year-old’s self didn’t understand, but through Tommy’s own feelings, the message had been received. “She-she deceived me—used sorcerer’s tricks and witchcraft t-t-to lure me to her. I don’t know what she did to me, but she’s done something! That wretched woman—made a deal with the Devil, she did. I am but a noble, respectable man!”

 “Mr. Riddle, I haven’t written to you to accuse you of a scandal.” Her hands could be seen gesturing for the man to calm down. “I am merely trying to do my job of providing children proper homes. Surely, you can find it in yourself to put aside what led you here and focus on getting your child—”

 “My child? No, whatever the tramp had you believe, the child you have that goes by my name isn’t mine, but the Devil’s.” The man’s seething voice practically spat the last word, losing the edge of his posh accent. “Give me a number.”

 “What?”

 “How much will it take to buy your silence? Whatever it takes, I want all ties cut from the Devil’s Child you have here. Now, give me a number.”

 Five-year-old Tommy stared pleadingly at the woman sitting behind the desk, willing her to defend him, fight for him. But the look of greed flashing across the woman’s eyes had him regretting his quiet moment of weakness. Even though no one had seen him, he was ashamed of having his hopes up, of foolishly, if only for a moment, having trust someone unreliable.

 Henceforward, Devil’s Child had caught on and was used at Wool’s as frequently as Freak was used in the Dursley household. Both titles were just as unpleasant as the other one. Being associated with such names had no doubt an impact on the little boys that grew up burdened by them.

 Being called a Devil’s Child meant that others saw him as a monster, it would make someone see themselves as such. Just like how being called Freak made Harry nearly believe he was one. But Voldemort did turn out to be a monster after all, so it was only probable that Harry was what the Dursleys made him. It made Harry’s insides boil with anger.

 He was angry that Tom Riddle Sr. had failed his son. Had let him down by making his life miserable for the short duration he could have made a good difference from that visit.

 Harry redirected all the anger toward himself for having sympathy toward his greatest enemy. Voldemort did NOT deserve anything remotely good. Harry had always felt empathy toward Tommy, but never sympathy. Until now. He would never ever allow himself to pity his parents’ murderer.

 He was angry at how unfair it was that his life revolved around Voldemort’s for so long. It meant that before his resurrection he was in Harry’s head. Now it might not be as strong as it was during fifth year, but it was still there, nonetheless. Only difference was that Voldemort was currently relying on Occlumency to keep their minds separate so Harry wouldn’t have to. Small blessing.

 While recounting his first private lesson with Dumbledore to Ron and Hermione, for whatever reason, Harry decided not to tell them about every revelation that night brought and chose to only stick to what Dumbledore revealed to him.

The second week of school felt like a near repetition to the first. Harry still did his best to avoid his counterpart, and he could almost convince himself that the other Potter didn’t exist if only the Slytherin hadn’t been so persistent in provoking Harry the following week. They would throw caustic comments at each other during lessons, and those remarks would sometimes end up sprouting a yelling fit.

 Dumbledore hadn’t told Harry when their next meeting would be, so Harry only had to worry about holding quidditch tryouts for the following Saturday, which was tomorrow.

 He, Ron and Hermione were sprawled on the hearth of their common room for the evening. At least Ron and Harry were. Hermione was busy writing an essay for History.

 “If you need me, I’ll be in the library with Al.” She announced after twenty minutes and proceeded to leave the common room before Ron got up too.

 “You’re still talking to him?” Ron critiqued.

 Harry wasn’t quite sure who Al was, but it wasn’t the first time Ron got worked up over Hermione meeting with some bloke in private. Ron might deny it if Harry brought it up, but he’s jealous.

 Harry mentally groaned. It was like Viktor Krum all over again.

 Hermione sighed. “I don’t know why you and Harry keep antagonizing him for. He’s alright, really.”

 Harry stayed where he was, idly lifting his head toward their friends. Do I know an Al? He wanted to ask, but Hermione wasn’t done yet.

 “I think he’s rather lonely.”

 “I’ve seen see him hang around Lovegood.” Ron shrugged.

 “Exactly! He’s that lonely.”

 “Who’s lonely?” Harry finally asked.

 Hermione and Ron turned to him and answered in unison: “Al.”

 When Harry stared blankly at them, Ron drawled. “Y’know, Al? Slytherin you?”

 Alright, so it had nothing to do with jealousy. Harry made a face. “Since when did he go by Al?”

 “Since he wanted to avoid confusion.” Hermione bristled. Harry didn’t understand why she was angry with him all of a sudden. “He asked to be called that. Don’t you remember?”

 “Why are you angry at me?” Harry said, getting to his feet.

 Hermione looked personally affronted by that. “I am not!” She struggled not to roll her eyes. “Honestly, you two! Al isn’t a bad person! He’s asked me to help him revising each History lesson. And from what I can tell, he’s really nothing like the students in his House. He and other Slytherins don’t even get along.”

 “They don’t?”

 “No!” She exasperated. “I’m meeting him at the library now. I think you should, too, Harry, but you better not cause a scene this time or I swear I’ll stop lending you my Transfiguration notes.”

 With that, she walked through the Fat Lady’s opened portrait. Harry first sped toward his dorm to get his Charms homework before following after her.

 “I never cause a scene—”

 Ron snorted behind him as he went to get his Charms textbook as well. Harry shot his friend a glare that lacked any real heat to it but knew better than to argue.

 Hermione made her way to the Hogwarts Library with Harry and Ron tailing behind her. When they got in, they went straight to the desks aligned there, and sure enough, they found a mess of black hair settling alone there, reviewing his notes. He looked up when he heard footsteps. First, he saw Hermione and waved at her. But when he saw the other Gryffindors approaching after her (or just Harry), his face perceptibly dropped.

 “Oh, it’s you.”

 Hearing him speak would never not catch Harry off guard.

 “Yeah, it’s me.” Harry answered coolly.

 Hermione and. . . Al exchanged History notes together while he and Ron worked on their Charms essays, which they stopped doing after fifteen minutes to talk about tomorrow’s quidditch tryouts. Hermione kept giving them disapproving looks before she gave up trying to shame them into studying. At the end, she asked Ron to help her search for a book. He hesitantly agreed while eyeing both Potters before leaving them alone.

 Harry and Al both attempted to appear occupied by pretending to study. Some of the library’s dust tickled Harry’s nose and he winded up sneezing.

 “Bless you.” Al whispered without looking at him. He did, however, take out his wand to summon a handkerchief before handing it to Harry.

 “Er, thank you.” He accepted it gingerly. Not taking his eyes off Al’s exposed wand. The wand that looked nothing like his own.

 “Can I have that for a second?” He asked without thinking.

 “What—my wand?” Green eyes flashed with something akin to fear for a moment. But it was only for a moment, it probably didn’t mean anything.

 “Yes.” Harry said keenly. “Please.”

 When the wand made contact with his skin, Harry felt nothing. The wood didn’t warm up to him like his Holly would. “What kind of wood is this?”

 “Cherry. . .”

 “Mine’s Holly.” Harry swallowed the unexpected lump in his throat.

 Why didn’t the wand react to him? If it was supposed to be his from another dimension, then why wasn’t there any response?

 “Is the core phoenix feather?” Because if it was, then it was definitely his, and the only reason it wasn’t responding to him was because the wand belonged to an outer reality. Sure, it looked different from his own wand, but his own counterpart looked different from him, too.

 “No.” Al said quietly.

 Harry’s head went to a dark place. A place where he started questioning the validity of his life’s events. When Harry first got his wand from Ollivanders, he knew that the wand was his because it agreed with his magic. Even after the shop owner explained that it shared the same core to another wand. The wand that was a brother to his. Harry hadn’t thought much about it at the time. His wand was his because it was compatible with him and had nothing to do with the scar Voldemort gave him.

 But now, there’s evidence that proved otherwise.

 Al had no scar, but he had a different wand, and he was— he lived in a Voldemort-free world. He had living parents—he—he. . .

 Harry gave the other boy his wand back without saying anything.

 Al represented something Harry could never have. A world where his life didn’t revolve around Voldemort.

 That’s not fair.

 Nothing about his life was fair. Then how come the same couldn’t be said about Al’s? Why did Al get to have a better life than Harry? A better set of eyes? A better face? A better family while Harry was left with Voldemort as the center of his world and a cursed scar that controlled the way people saw him and the Dursleys who hated him with everything that they had, and why? Not fair not fair not fair NOT FAIR!!!

 “Harry?”

 It was his voice speaking, but it wasn’t him using it.

 “Harry.” Al repeated. “Are you alright?”

 Harry looked up and saw his own scarless face looking at him with deep concern. Harry saw the ghost of unshed tears threatening to drop from his counterpart’s eyes. Of course Harry could notice such details without glasses shielding Al’s eyes. He scoffed bitterly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

 “You’re sure you’re alright? Considering. . .”

 “Considering what?” He asked irritably when Al trailed off.

 His counterpart seemed to debate whether to continue or not and chose to do the latter. “Never mind. It’s none of my business.”

 Al redirected his focus to his notes.

 “Tell me what?”

 He shook his head, which only made Harry more curious.

 “No, tell me. What is it?”

 Al sighed tiredly before looking up from his homework. He hesitated a bit before answering, his voice quivering slightly. “I don’t know you and what you’ve been through, aside from what I read from old newspapers during my stay at Hogwarts last summer, but. . .” He seemed to be choosing his next words carefully. “Have you ever thought about seeking professional help?”

 Harry’s mind came to a halt, digesting what had been said.

 He thinks I’m mental, that I should be locked in some room at Mungo’s. He's not wrong.

 “Oh, I get it.” He said lowly, gathering his things to leave. If he stayed here with Al any longer, he might lose his copying-of-Hermione’s-notes privileges.

 Al grabbed Harry’s arm, preventing him from leaving his side.

 “No, please—hear me out on that one—Harry, I’m not trying to offend you, and I’m not calling you crazy. Please sit down.” He said desperately.

 Something about his pleading expression defused the fire raging inside of Harry. He let Al guide him back to his seat.

 Al didn't say anything, so Harry did first.

 “I’m listening.”

 “Well, I’m not really sure where to start.” Al said, giving Harry an encouraging and a bit strained smile. “How about with last year, yeah?”

 If Al read the old Daily Prophets through the summer like he claimed he had, then he must already know about the Boy Who Lied rubbish that had been all over the place. 

 “Last year,” Harry humored him. “according to the ministry, I was a lunatic who lies for attention. This year, I’m being idolized as the Chosen One.”

 “Alright, I’m sure there’s a lot to unpack there,” Al said anxiously. “but that’s what, er, therapy is for—just—talking about difficulty you face in life, and a therapist helps you navigate through it by offering you objective advice or something like that.”

 Harry raised a quizzical eyebrow. What’s he playing at? “Okay?”

 Al sighed exasperatedly like he was the only prudent person in the world capable of having common sense. “After everything you’ve been through, not just last year but maybe, I’m guessing, all your life? Maybe this kind of help will benefit you?”

 “All my life?” Harry repeated slowly, narrowing his eyes at his nearly-lookalike.

 Al shrugged. “Or maybe just start with fifth year and then you can circle your way back to, I don’t know, early childhood, if there’s something to unpack there.”

 “Would you like a recap of my fifth year? Because I’m sure the news aren’t reliable.” He challenged.

 Al looked mortified. “Just to be clear, I’m not offering to be your therapist. There are Mind Healers and people who actually specialize—”

 “No, no, no. I don’t mind telling you as a. . . friend.”

 “A-are we friends?” Al looked unconvinced. Good, he should be.

 “Any friend of Hermione’s is my friend too.” That wasn’t entirely true. Harry didn’t even know if Hermione considered Al to be her friend or she just hung out with him because she felt bad for him. Al wanted to say something, but Harry didn’t let him. “Okay, first, I was on trial before the start of the year, and d’you know why? For self-defense basically. Turns out the person who sent those dementors to where I live was that year’s Defense teacher and later Headmistress. Oh, she uses blood quills as punishment method, bloody ministry left out that part from the news. By the end of the year, my only family was gone, and then you showed up, so that’s fun.”

 Al fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat. “Sorry?”

 Despite the fleeting sensation of triumph for making Al as uncomfortable as he made Harry feel, the Gryffindor couldn’t help the guilt from eating him up for causing the other boy to fidget restlessly.

 What is wrong with you? Al was far away from home, and instead of giving the dimension traveler space, Harry was dumping his problems on the stranger. “I’m sorry.”

 Al tilted his head in confusion without responding.

 The two Potters sat in silence like that for a while. At the back of his mind, Harry wondered if Ron and Hermione left together on purpose because they hadn’t come back yet. It was Al who broke the silence.

 “When I first saw you, I thought you’d be like my brother because you’re both Gryffindors.”

 “You’ve a brother?”

 Al nodded. He wasn’t looking at Harry as he spoke. “And a sister. Also Gryffindor.” He was staring off at a distance, reminiscing about something. “Everyone thought that, out of all my siblings, I’d be the most like my dad because I look like him the most, but. . . Jimmy’s the most like him.” Green eyes met Harry’s identical ones. “Or I thought he was.”

 Two siblings. In another life, he could’ve had two younger siblings. But in another life, he winded up in Slytherin, even though there was no Voldemort in Al’s world. Harry looked at Al like he was seeing him for the first time. When the Hat wanted to put him in Slytherin, it had nothing to do with his scar or his ability to speak with snakes, Harry’s a true Slytherin apparently. But he was able to wield Godric Gryffindor’s sword in his second year, so no, he had to be a true Gryffindor. Why wasn’t Al?

 “Jimmy’s a. . . his name’s James but we call him Jim. He’s a. . . a James Jr.” Al stammered, like he wasn’t sure he believed what he was saying himself. “He was Gryffindor’s Captain before our sister took his place. As you can imagine, my parents are crazy proud of him.”

 Harry thought of how people were always on about how proud his parents would be of him if they had been alive, and how much like his father he was. They meant it as a compliment of course, or maybe they just missed James Potter and were clinging to whatever ghost of him lived through Harry’s features. If his parents lived long enough to have other two children, would people think that James Jr. (as Al called him) was more like their father than Harry? He smiled sadly at the thought. In the perfect world, I have siblings to compare myself with.

 But Al didn’t seem happy about that. His dad was alive, and people were still expecting him to be like James Potter Sr.

 Harry’s eyebrows knitted in sympathy for his counterpart. Al must think he let his parents down, but Harry couldn’t imagine a world where James and Lily Potter didn’t love their kids regardless. Then again, it wasn’t like Harry knew his parents personally like Al did.

 Harry shook his head. He would not pity the version of himself that had a better life. He’d rather have his parents alive and disappointed than not to have them at all. So really, what was Al complaining about? The Slytherin should consider himself lucky that he knew for himself what his parents thought of him rather than rely on what others had to say about them like Harry did all his life.

 But Harry wasn't planning on antagonizing Al (not now anyway) . Let him think Harry’s on his side all he wants. Harry's only going to play chummy from now on to fill his hungry soul with whatever version of his parents he could get. He would not bring himself to care for Al. Yes, he’s being unreasonable, but he couldn’t help but envy the unburdened version of himself. Al was a constant reminder of what he, Harry would never have.

 Harry couldn’t help but resent him all the more for it.