You think you know someone

 Immortality seemed to be a topic of Tom’s latest ‘interest’. Harry personally preferred to use the term obsession because there was no doubt the bastard had a rigorously obsessive personality. Harry had known that about him since he (they) had been little, not that he’d known the right word to describe the other orphan at the time. Now he was able to tell just how unhealthy it was for Tom’s mind to churn with the excessive plotting and scheming for whatever he found to be the tiniest bit intriguing.

 And what’s the wanker’s sixteen-year-old self’s interest obsession? Achieving immortality.

 Since his mind laid back onto the habit of replaying the life events of Tom Riddle, Harry hadn’t been getting enough sleep, for he purposely forced himself awake to avoid slipping into the consciousness of a psychopath. But with the crazy night he had, his insomniac self was convinced that he didn’t need sleep after all. Harry paid for that foolish postulation later in Potions as he slept for the majority of the class.

 Just a moment ago, he was dozing off to Slughorn’s words as the Potions master spoke of a reward of some sort that guarantees good luck, now there he was, as Tom Riddle, standing face to face with Tom Riddle.

 Wait, that’s not right.

 Tom was standing face to face with his father.

 And there had been only one gruesome thought meandering inside, the ridiculous desire to maim those who deserve it. To punish the family that failed him.

 Tom wanted revenge.

 The man who looked to be the reflection of Tom’s older self widened his eyes in horror upon seeing his son. Aside from the fear in his eyes, he remained graceful in his demeanor as he looked down his nose at his shameful secret. The expression was strikingly similar to how Aunt Petunia could belittle Harry with a single stare despite having channeled that negative reaction from a place of fear.

 Harry understood why Tom Riddle Sr would be afraid, given his personal experience when it came to magic, but what had been Aunt Petunia’s excuse?

 “I take it you know who I am?” Tom said to his father.

 “You dare show your face to my house?” The adult Riddle said slowly, tone dripping with an unvoiced threat.

 “Our face?” Tom arched an amused eyebrow, but his insides coiled as he thought up creative ways to end the life of the man before him. Each idea that came to mind was sicker than the last. In spite of how he truly felt, he kept his demeanor perfectly elegant in the same façade he wore at school, especially when speaking to his Transfiguration teacher, to mask the obsessive and more brutal side of himself. His true self. “If the sight bothers you so, perhaps you ought to have someone skin it off you?”

 I’d be happy to do it.

 Voldemort’s father opened his mouth, but before he could utter a word, a woman’s voice came from within the house.

 “Tom?” A sweet voice called from within the Riddle House, followed by the sound of high heels gracefully descending the stairs. Both Tom Riddles turned upon hearing her. “Who is it, Tommy dear?”

 Harry’s—Tom’s stomach churned from the utterance of his childhood name coming out of that muggle’s mouth. He hated how common of a filthy muggle name he had.

 She’ll have to go, too.

 The blonde woman approaching them stopped on her tracks, her mouth forming an ‘O’ at the sight of the teenager standing in the threshold, leaning on the door to prevent the other man from shutting it.

 It took a couple of seconds before Harry recognized the woman, she was an aged version of the one he’d seen Riddle Sr speak to from the Gaunt’s window in the memory Dumbledore showed him.

 She placed her hand over her round belly, eyes darting from Tom to Tom, and, like her husband—for there was no mistaking what relation she had to Riddle—understanding dawned in her eyes.

 Tom took a gander at the very pregnant woman who now glared accusingly at her husband, though spoke sweetly in an effort to concealed it. “Would you care to introduce us, dear?”

 Tom Riddle Sr spluttered. Tom was expecting that. If the man’s visit to Wool’s Orphanage over a decade ago proved anything, it was that Riddle Sr wanted to erase Tom from existence, so he could get on with his life as though he had no son.

 The thought almost made Tom bristle from the uncalled irony on the situation. Tom believed he was entitled to feel ashamed of his muggle father—not the other way around!

 As always, his expression betrayed nothing as he looked at the man and said sweetly, mockingly. “Yes, dear, won’t you introduce us? We’re all family here after all.”

 “You. Are. Not. family.” He hissed venomously, which made Tom smile widely. Riddle Sr shouted for the maid to bring the rifle before turning his attention back to address the unwanted son. “You stay away from us, you hear me, Boy. I’m warning you. You go back to the hell hole you crawled out of and leave me alone!”

 “It’s the tramp’s spawn, isn’t it?” The woman clutched her stomach, breath jagged as her eyes widened as the brutal realization finally hit her. “He’s old enough to be.”

 Tom’s eyes darkened as he studied the way her hand held her unborn child protectively, lovingly. That filthy Riddle child would live the way he, Tom, never had and never will. “The more the marrier, I suppose.” He whispered, not bothering to contain the malice this time.

 Riddle Sr yanked him by the collar, voice quivering from the rage. “You leave my FAMILY alone, Devil’s Child!”

 Tom wasn’t listening though, he was still in trance at the thought of the soul that would become privileged enough as to be born in a place where they needn’t work hard to earn it.

 “What’s with all the screaming?!” An old woman’s voice came from the living room the same time another old voice—a man’s—called. “Tom, why do you need my rifle for?!”

 The old couple were shocked, to say the least, once they’d arrived near the threshold. They instantly knew who he was.

 Tom felt triumph coursed its way to his veins. The whole Riddle klan was here. Good. It was essential to cut all ties to the muggle world, and it wouldn’t hurt (him) if he were to achieve his ultimate goal in the process. The obsession in immortality grew in Tom, and the desire to use Dark magic grew along with it.

 It was why he was here, a week before the start of his sixth year, about to attempt his first massacre, but he wanted to do something exceptionally awful to his father. Something that could help him with his journey from escaping death’s greedy clutches. Though Tom here entertained a thought, for the briefest of moments, if he could use his unborn sibling for that instead. After all, what right did that child had over Tom? What was so special about the child of two snobby muggles that they deemed it worthy of their care and not Tom? It wasn’t even born yet, and it was already being loved unconditionally, promised to be pampered with the richness that the Riddles could provide—could’ve provided to Tom, if only just to help get him out of that sickening orphanage he had to return to every summer.

 Tom never thought he could hate a soul more than his father’s, but at that moment he did. He took out a wand that didn’t belong to him with hatred fueling his magic.

 The pregnant woman gasped, though it was probably because, to a muggle, the movement made it look liked Tom was about to take out a Glock from his coat.

 Adult Riddle didn’t need any more reasons to snatch the rifle from the older man’s grip and aim it to Tom’s face. “You have been warned, you—”

 “Imperio.”

 Tom’s plan had been set. The soul inside its mother’s belly should go first. He made Riddle Sr aim his weapon at his wife’s stomach. What better way to make his father suffer than to kill the child he wanted despite Tom being there?

 She covered her mouth as she wailed, realizing that she could not move her legs thanks to Tom’s wandless sticking charm, which he used on all the people present.

 Tom silenced her and the elder man that started shouting. He relished in seeing their terrified faces. Especially his father’s horrified, tearful eyes that looked at him pleadingly. Silently begging Tom: Please don’t.

 “Tommy, love, what are you doing?” The old woman uttered to Tom’s father.

 Tom scowled at the mention of the pet name, but just as he was about to silence the old woman as well, he decided it would be fit to let Riddle Sr listen to his mother’s inevitable shrieks as he shot her unborn grandchild. Tom closed the door behind him, things were about to get messy.

 “I’m. . . not. . . doing. . . anything—it’s. . . it’s him.” The man with the rifle panted, struggling to let out the words.

 “Tom. . .” Her voice shook as she looked at her helpless son.

 Tom’s own head snapped at the name despite knowing it wasn’t addressed to him. It was out of habit, after all, he was the only Tom that attended Hogwarts.

 The old woman seemed to have picked up on that and looked at him. “Tom? That’s your name, child, isn’t it?”

 Tom almost stopped what he was doing when he saw the way she looked at him. She, like everyone in the Riddle House at the moment, was undeniably upset, yes, but there was another emotion overwhelmingly written all over her face. Tom couldn’t name it. He never had anyone look at him that way before.

 She looked as though she wanted to hug him.

 “You don’t have to do this, child.” His grandmother urged with unshed tears.

 When Tom felt the first hint of water piling up in his own eyes, he forced himself not to let it show. He never cried before. Moreover, he never had trouble suppressing the weakest part of himself before, the part that longed to be loved. But something about the woman’s sincerity unnerved him. Left him. . . vulnerable.

 He did not care for vulnerability.

 Not unless it came from his enemies.

 He made Riddle Sr aim the weapon at the old woman and shoot her first, causing the man to let out a strangled sob and the rest to cry in suppressive silence.

 Tom felt at ease once her dead body hit the floor with a thud, and her son sobbed while still holding the rifle.

 Tom blinked the alien sensation away, as though he had been unfazed by the fleeting moment where he’d hesitated—but Harry knew him better than the people he was about to kill ever did.

 To make up for the moment of weakness, he made his father shoot the woman’s belly, and then proceeded to aim another bullet to the woman's heart to relieve her suffering, ending the lives of two in the process.

 Tom only unleashed his hold over his father after making him shoot the other man, who, surprisingly, put on a fight. The elder man still attempted to launch himself at the enemy—or tried to. It took three more shots at the man before he, too, collapsed with the rest.

 Tom Riddle Sr was left sobbing on the ground, surrounded by his dead family, save for his unwanted son.

 Seven bullets for four, and a killing curse for one.

 Tom forced the pathetic muggle to look at him, allowing his hatred for the man to build the Dark magic that would fire the Unforgivable.

 The last thing Harry recalled seeing before Ron shook him awake was the familiar ring on Tom’s finger as he raised a wand that wasn’t his own to perform the killing curse. For the life of him, Harry could not pinpoint where he’d seen that ring before.

The trio spent their break near the lake which was home to one Giant Squid. Sixth year being busy as it was, Harry used their first free time of the day to tell them about last night. Of how he figured out that Malfoy had been sneaking to the Room of Requirement, solving the mystery of his abrupt disappearances from the map once and for all. He told them a little about his theory regarding the tiara (while purposely leaving out the part where he spoke to Voldemort) before jumping into the topic he was dying to tell them about.

 “Your godfather’s alive?” Ron asked in disbelief.

 Harry confirmed it again.

 “And you’re sure that after the long night you had, you haven’t dozed off and dreamed what happened–and before you deny it, we know you haven’t slept at all last night. You literally slept throughout the entirety of double Potions!” Ron looked sidelong at Hermione and smirked. “Now Hermione’s jealous that I won the lucky potion, and she didn’t—which I think you would’ve won by the way Harry. It took me forever to understand the Prince’s tangled scrawling—I don’t know how you do it!”

 “I am not jealous of your obvious cheating.” Hermione bristled before saying gently to Harry, “Anyway, I believe you, Harry. About Sirius, I mean. If Al ended up here because of the veil, it would only make sense for Sirius to wind up wherever Al came from.”

 “I can’t wait to speak to him.” Harry smiled wanly. “He told me that only Dumbledore could send a message though.”

 Hermione’s eyebrows came together.

 “What?”

 “Oh, nothing, it’s just, well, Sirius sent the message through the veil, I’m assuming, and instead of telling you to send a Patronus back, he tells you that only Professor Dumbledore could?”

 “Yeah.” Harry said, not getting where she was coming from. “So?”

 “So, wouldn’t it make sense to have anyone who’s able to make a corporeal Patronus, such as yourself, make that message?”

 “He’s Dumbledore.” Ron shrugged. “Maybe Sirius said to rely on him for messages because he has more of a chance to gain access to the veil than any of us do.”

 “Yeah, maybe. . .” Hermoine didn’t seem convinced. “Unless. . .”

 “Unless what?”

 Hermione stared at Harry for a moment before replying. “Never mind. I’m probably giving this way more though than I should. I—”

 Just then Al came and asked to speak with Harry alone.

 Ugh, not him. Harry hadn’t the energy to put up with him. What the ruddy hell does he want?

Hermione seemed eager to leave and she dragged Ron along with her, whispering intently while glancing over her back at Harry and Al. Whatever assumptions Harry was about to come up with regarding her abrupt behavior was cancelled out when Al took out a shiny object from his Slytherin robe and thrust it to him.

 It was the tiara from last night. The one Malfoy stole when Harry had passed out.

 Harry had questions. Lots of them.

So having a Slytherin counterpart wasn’t so bad. It hadn’t occurred to Harry how convenient it was for Al to have Malfoy as a dormmate, what with how he handled the situation once recognizing the potential danger was honestly something Harry would’ve done himself.

 He and Al weren’t as different as he thought they were. But that did little to comfort him once Al told him that he could feel the Dark magic tainting the artifact as Harry could.

 Could Voldemort effect Al as much as he effected Harry for simply being the same person? Harry hoped for Al’s sake that it didn’t.

 Better destroy the diadem now before finding out.

 This was how he ended up in the Chamber of Secrets without Hermione and Ron as he would’ve preferred it. He would not risk wasting time looking for them in case the diadem would somehow do to Al what it did to Harry. No matter how unlikely it was to happen, he still didn’t want to take any chances.

 He made sure not to touch the diadem with his bare hands the entire journey to Salazar’s secret chamber. And once the danger had been fully eliminated did Harry allow himself to relax.

 That’s one problem from last night solved. Now, all that’s left for him was waiting for Dumbledore’s return to discuss the potential return of his godfather.

 “You know, you and Sirius Black switched places.” Harry said to fill in the silence. He and Al were still in the Chamber of Secrets but had gone a little further from the Basilisk to escape its stench.

 “Oh,” Al’s face was unreadable. “That’s. . . that’s good to hear—not that it’s good he’s probably as stuck as I am—but—er, at least he’s alive? How did you know that he’s survived?”

 Harry thought about it for a second before choosing to tell him what he’d known.

 “He told you to speak to Dumbledore?”

 Harry nodded. “As soon as I can, yes.”

 “I mean—he told you Dumbledore’s Patroni was effective? If you don’t mind me asking, can you phrase exactly what your godfather said?”

 Harry tilted his head. “My memory’s a little fuzzy from last night. Why do you ask, Al?”

 Al sighed tiredly and shook his head. “We should probably head out.” He told Harry after leaving him in suspense.

 Harry narrowed his eyes but obliged by making a staircase appear after guessing multiple words to activate the chamber in Parseltongue. They ascended the stairs silently side by side. Harry holding the destroyed artifact to present to Dumbledore if he got the chance.

 Harry thought more of how similar he and Al could be. Despite being a Slytherin, Al was nothing like his House. It eased Harry’s childish worries about himself, that being in Slytherin would somehow mean that he was Dark like Voldemort. But, in another universe, a world where he didn’t argue with the Hat, he seemed to be doing just fine as a Slytherin. Al and Harry were different, yes, but they were the same in the ways that mattered.

 So Harry, thinking that Al would agree with him, shared his theories about Malfoy and told him about how he knew the other Slytherin stole the diadem from the Room of Requirement.

 “If you could just check his left arm, that’ll be all the proof we need to expose him!” If he could perhaps convince Al to spy on Malfoy for him. That’d be great.

 However, much to his dismay, Al seemed to have some sort of loyalty toward Malfoy. Refusing to confirm Harry’s suspicion even though Harry knew it was true. For Al hadn’t denied anything anymore than he was confirming them.

 “He’s not your friend, Al.” Despite his Slytherin self starting to get on is nerves in his insistency to defend Malfoy, Harry was genuinely worried for Al. He seemed to have put a little too much faith in Malfoy, of course, he knew why, Al and another version of Malfoy were best mates, so Harry couldn’t fault him for wanting to befriend the other Slytherin. “Whatever you think Malfoy could be, forget about it. You and I aren’t the same, so why are you expecting Malfoy and your friend to be?”

 “You speak of him as though you know him personally.” Al said, voice dipping with a warning undertone. “You’re sure that’s not just the snobby Gryffindor talking? What do you think?”

 “Maybe you should watch whose House you’re calling snobby, Slytherin.” Alright, forget about Al. He’s a hopeless cause. “Besides, I’m just helping you adapt to your surroundings. Things here aren’t the same as they are in your perfect little world. It’ll do you some good not to trust someone like Malfoy too easily, or else it’ll be you biggest mistake yet.”

 Why did he ever think he could reach common ground with Al? They’re nothing alike!

 Al never knew what it’s like to live in a world with bigoted, pure bloods running it if he thought Slytherins like Malfoy could change their beliefs.

 Al never knew what it’s like to feel lonely yet never alone in his own head.

 He never knew what it was like to have hatred for the summer to be so extreme, he hated it as much as he loved Hogwarts.

 Harry’s thoughts came to a short halt.

 It just occurred to him he might have more in common with Voldemort than he did his own self. Fantastic.

 “Yet?” Al hissed at Harry. “What’s that supposed to mean? What other mistakes have I done so far—please, do enlighten me.”

 Harry stopped because Al had stopped. In his position on the higher step of the stairs, he had the privilege of standing taller than Al for once. He stared at his own green eyes, contemplating his options. Not worth it.

 Harry shook his head and turned to continue his way up, but Al’s sudden grip on his shoulder was so firm and aggressive Harry couldn’t help but be reminded of Uncle Vernon’s tendencies to grip him by the shoulder before shoving him inside the cupboard.

 The cupboard.

 The place that held many of his childhood memories. The place he'd dreamed about Tommy's miserable life after each miserable day he had to endure.

 The place where the door would be slammed shut and he would hear the click as someone locked it. He used to be afraid of the dark when he was little. He would knock repeatedly while crying. Then, he'd knock some more, but nothing good ever came from knocking. He would make noise while he was supposed to pretend he didn’t exist.

 Harry bet Al never had to pretend he didn’t exist. He bet no one ever told Al that he shouldn’t exist.

 “No, tell me. What mistakes have I done that aggravated you so much!” Al demanded, not noticing Harry’s flinch upon lying a hand on his shoulder.

 “You’re first mistake is that you exist.” Harry’s tongue answered for him.

 Judging by Al’s unexpected reaction, Harry bet he wasn’t the first person to tell him such a thing.

 Words could not begin to describe the hurt that flashed across Al’s face. Harry’s insides coiled with burning shame. He wanted to apologize, to say he that didn’t mean it. He just—oh no. Is he crying?

 Harry wished the stairs underneath his feet would disappear, so he’d fall, and the Chamber could swallow him whole for all he cared. Anything was better than dealing with the guilt that was eating at him. He opened his mouth to say something—anything that would stop the tears generating from the other’s eyes—his mum’s eyes.

 It’s like seeing his mother from the mirror cry. He made her cry. He made Al cry. And why? Because of his own pitifulness.

 He tried to speak again but found that he still couldn’t.

 Not that Al wanted to hear it, though. He pushed past Harry and continued to climb up the stairs without him.