Memory Lane
— CHAPTER TWO —
Memory lane
Harry Potter regained his consciousness. His heavy eyelids slowly fluttered open, revealing a world blurred around the edges. For a fleeting moment, Harry hoped, prayed, that everything he had experienced last night was nothing but a product of a terrible nightmare, a side effect of stress.
It took a mere shift of his body, a simple attempt to reach for his glasses on the cabinet beside his bed, for reality to crash back down on him. The sharp jolt of pain that shot through his shoulder was a cruel reminder; this was not...
No, this was a dream. It had to be a dream. His shoulder was sore because it had been hit by a bludger during Quidditch practice, not because he had been thrown....
It was a bulger. A nasty, vicious bludger.
His glasses were not where he expected them to be. Panic crept to the edges of his consciousness as his hand fumbled in the air, his vision blurred and his heart racing.
"Your glasses are in the cupboard to your left, Potter."
Harry's breath caught, his heart pounding against his chest as a voice, soft but with a sinister undertone, rang through the room.
It wasn't a bludger.
Harry jumped, every muscle in his body tensing as he instinctively prepared to flee.
"Don't even think about it," Riddle's voice cut through Harry's panic, calm and unyielding. "Three reasons: one, you're wandless. I've got your wand. Two, this room has been enchanted to prevent any... unfortunate escape attempts. And three, you're in no condition to run anywhere."
Harry forced himself to take a deep, calming breath. With a trembling hand, he finally reached for his glasses, and as he put them on, the world came into focus.
Tom Riddle leaned against the back of the room, lit by a blazing fireplace, held a wand between his long, slender fingers. His other hand rested casually in the pocket of his well-tailored trousers, the picture of ease and confidence.
Satisfied that he had Harry's attention, Riddle pushed himself away from the wall and moved towards the bed, his movements graceful yet predatory. Harry's breath came in short, shallow gasps. His mind screamed at him again to move, to flee, but his body betrayed him, paralysed with pain and fear.
"Let me heal you," Riddle said, crouching on the edge of the bed; there was a fake concern in his voice and Harry knew he was being played.
"Don't you dare touch me," Harry snapped, instinctively pulling his legs up to get as far away from Riddle as possible.
"Now, now, there's no need to be so bristly. I won't hurt you...any more than I already have," Riddle said, smirking.
Harry's eyes narrowed. "You won’t, really? And you think I'll believe you?"
"You were the one who attacked me in the first place. I was only defending myself. And believe me, I held back."
The worst part was that Harry was well aware that Riddle was indeed holding back. No Crucios, no Avadas.
"Never mind, I'll heal myself," he said angrily.
"Oh, are you?" Riddle raised an eyebrow, a hint of pure curiosity dancing in his voice. "With which wand? And in your current state, I'd say you'd be doing yourself more harm than good."
Harry hated to admit it, but Riddle was right. Besides, he remembered, he was supposed to pretend he didn't know Riddle's true nature. His outburst might have looked suspicious, so he relented slightly. "Okay, so just... just my feet. And maybe a quick look at my shoulder," he mumbled, not looking Riddle in the eye, lest his true feelings betray him.
Riddle's eyes glinted with amusement. "So kind of you," he said sarcastically. He moved closer to Harry and began to carefully heal Harry's injuries. His movements were precise, almost gentle, a stark contrast to the vehemence with which he had cast the spells that had caused these wounds. Harry couldn't help but flinch as Riddle’s wand passed over his feet, removing shards of glass with a flick of his wrist. He watched, reluctantly impressed, as Riddle worked, his magic efficient and effective.
"Now your shoulder," Riddle said, his voice calm but commanding. Harry hesitated. "You told me to take a quick look at it."
With a sigh, Harry pulled back the collar of his shirt, revealing the bruised and battered skin. He winced as Riddle gently poked at the bruised flesh, but the pain was quickly replaced by a warm, soothing sensation as Riddle's magic worked to repair the damage. It was disconcerting, to say the least, to be at the mercy of his future enemy, to feel the gentle touch of hands that would one day wreak havoc on the wizarding world.
"Better?" Riddle asked, leaning back slightly as he finished.
"Yes," Harry murmured. The pain was mostly gone, replaced by a dull ache that was far more manageable. He could feel his strength returning, and with it a sense of clarity. "So what now?" Harry asked, feigning calmness.
"Now, Harry, let's take care of the future," Riddle said in a deceptively calm voice, but the predatory glint in his eyes betrayed how eager he was to find out what the future held.
Harry felt the blood drain from his face as Riddle's words hung heavy in the air.
"You... You can't!" Harry blurted out, abruptly jumping to his feet. "Knowing the future... You don't understand how dangerous it is."
"Dangerous to whom, Harry? To you or to me?"
Harry took a step back, his back touching the cold wall as Tom Riddle stood before him.
"To everyone. It… it could ruin everything," Harry said, lifting his head to look into Riddle's face, his voice filled with desperation.
"Ruin? Or improve?" Riddle's lips curled into a smirk. "Imagine the possibilities, Harry. If I know the future, I can bend it to my will."
Harry's pulse quickened, the gravity of the situation pressing down on him with a crushing weight. The wizard before him wanted to know the future — a future in which he, Harry, played a pivotal role in Tom Riddle's downfall. The consequences of such knowledge were catastrophic, and Harry felt a cold dread settle in his stomach.
"But you don't understand," Harry continued, his mind racing. "If you change things, it could mean that people who should be alive... may never exist."
"That's not my concern," Riddle said, his voice hard.
"But it is mine," Harry said immediately. He thought of his friends, of all the people he had met. "If you change the future, it could mean I have nothing to go back to. People I care about could..." He swallowed hard. The unspoken words 'not exist' lingered between them.
"Your life in the future is insignificant compared to the power I can gain."
"But... But you swore to help me return to the future, remember?"
"When you are no longer of use to me. Besides, I didn't say which one," Riddle replied mercilessly. "So let me check what the future holds."
With a defiant and determination in his eyes, Harry shook his head. "No, I... I can't..."
Tom Riddle raised an eyebrow, his expression unaffected. "Potter, you seem to be forgetting the position you're in. You also took an oath. The Oath of Submission, remember? This isn't a request, it's an order. Submit."
Harry felt his throat tighten as the reality of his situation sank in. He was bound by an oath, by magic he didn't fully understand. "There must be another way," he pleaded, his mind clawing at any solution that didn't involve revealing the future.
Riddle's gaze was unyielding. "There is no other way. And the consequences of breaking your oath are simple. No magic means no chance of returning to your precious time. Is that what you want?"
The room spun slightly as Harry's options narrowed to a single bleak avenue. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, the sense of defeat bitter on his tongue. "Then ask your questions," Harry finally said, the words like gravel in his mouth.
Riddle came closer, his wand pointed at his forehead. "No, Harry. Judging by your reaction, I believe more direct approach is necessary."
Fear clawed at Harry's chest. He knew what Riddle was about to do. There would be no evasions, no careful omissions, or half-truths. Legilimency. Riddle would rip the future from his mind, tear through his memories with the voracity of a starving animal.
"You can't be serious," Harry said, his voice rising in panic. "You can't just break into my mind like that!"
Riddle's smile was cold. "I can, and I will. It is the most efficient way to get the information I need. And don't even think about resisting, Harry. It won't end well for you."
Harry didn’t even have a chance to prepare. He felt the invasion immediately, Riddle’s magic forcing its way into his mind with a ruthless efficiency. Harry’s natural instincts kicked in, and he immediately began flooding Riddle with an onslaught of mundane, inconsequential memories in an attempt to protect his most crucial secrets.
The Dursleys’ small, cramped house filled Harry’s mind, with Petunia’s shrill voice scolding him for some imaginary wrongdoing. He recalled the countless hours of drudgery, gardening, and cooking, hoping that the monotony would bore Riddle to the death. Harry mentally pushed forward images of tedious schoolwork, the scratch of quill on parchment and the dull thud of textbooks.
He even delved into the gruelling Quidditch training sessions, the wind whipping through his hair as he soared through the air, chasing after the snitch. His muscles ached with the remembered strain, and he could almost feel the sweat trickling down his back.
But Tom Riddle was not so easily fooled. There was a sharp, biting presence in Harry’s mind, cutting through the flood of memories with practised ease. Harry could feel Riddle’s frustration, his impatience, as he searched for something, anything, that would give him the answers he sought.
And then it happened.
A memory slipped through, a momentary lapse in Harry's concentration. It was only a flash, but it was enough. Riddle seized it — a sentence in neat handwriting. Hello Harry Potter. My name is Tom Riddle. How did you come by my diary? Harry's breath caught in his throat as he felt Riddle latch onto the memory, pulling it forward with a force that left Harry dizzy and disoriented. It was a pebble triggering an avalanche. Harry lost control of what he was showing. The distorted face of Voldemort on the back of Quiller's head, the cold, triumphant laughter in the Chamber of Secrets, the deadly duel in the graveyard — it all played out before Riddle's eyes.
Riddle’s rage growing, a storm brewing in the depths of his mind. The memories continued to flow, one after another, each one darker and more violent than the last. Harry’s conversations with Dumbledore about the Horcruxes, the prophecy, the knowledge that he, Harry, was the only one who could defeat Voldemort — it was all laid bare for Riddle to see.
And as Riddle delved deeper into Harry’s mind, uncovering more and more of his future, his rage turned into something else. Bewilderment. Confusion. A growing sense of dread as he realised what awaited him in the future.
Harry could feel Riddle’s emotions as if they were his own, the mix of anger and fear creating a chaotic whirlwind in his mind. And when Riddle reached the memories of the events at the Ministry of Magic, the death of Sirius, Harry couldn’t take it anymore. The veil, Bellatrix Lestrange's cruel laughter, a feeling of utter helplessness, death of Sirius — Harry felt the raw pain of loss all over again, the agony of losing his godfather.
And that’s when he started to fight.
With a surge of strength Harry pushed Riddle away, using every ounce of his willpower, every scrap of love he felt for Sirius, to put him out of his mind.
But the victory was short-lived.
Before he could catch his breath, Harry found himself slammed against the wall, Riddle’s hand wrapped around his throat. The grip was firm, unyielding, as Riddle’s eyes burned with rage.
"You dare to defy me?" Riddle hissed, his voice low and dangerous.
"I… didn't mean to," Harry whispered, his voice hoarse. He tried to pull Riddle's hand away from his throat. His head throbbed from the pain radiating from his scar. "It was… too much. The memories, the pain... I couldn't handle it."
"You think your pain matters to me?" Riddle sneered. "You think I care about your suffering?"
"I know you don't," Harry mouthed, fighting desperately for every breath. Bloody scar. Even now, in the past? "But– "
"I should kill you right here and now," Riddle hissed, his grip on Harry’s tightened. His other hand raised, the wand pointed directly at Harry’s chest.
Harry felt the cold press of the wall against his back. The room seemed to be spinning as he struggled to draw breath, his vision starting to blur at the edges. His terror was palpable, coursing through his veins, freezing him in place.
"Y–you can't k–kill me," Harry rasped, his voice barely audible as he fought against the pressure on his throat. His hands clawed at Riddle's wrist. "I– I took an oath."
"Oh, the oath," Riddle sneered, his grip not loosening in the slightest. "Yes, I remember. But do you really think that's enough now?"
Harry's heart pounded in his ears, his lungs screaming for air. He had to make Riddle see reason, had to make him understand.
"I showed you everything," Harry gasped, his vision darkening. "I– I let you in my mind."
"And what a delightful journey it was," Riddle said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Harry felt the pressure on his neck ease just enough to drag in a shallow breath, a bitter mercy. "To see my future laid out before me, my plans in ruins, all because of you."
"I didn't– I didn’t want this," Harry choked out. "I didn’t choose to be your enemy."
"But you are," Riddle hissed, his face inches from Harry’s. "You've destroyed everything I've worked for, everything I am."
"I ... obeyed. And you swore you wouldn't kill me until.... until..., " Harry hoarse out with the rest of his strength.
"You think that changes anything?" Riddle growled, his voice laced with venom. His grip tightened once more, a warning. "You think that because you swore an oath, I will just forget the future you’ve shown me? The ruins of my plans, my legacy?"
"You... you can't kill me for your own mistakes. This... it's not fair."
And then, suddenly, the pressure on Harry's throat eased, and he was gasping for breath, sliding down the wall, his legs unable to support him. Trying to ignore his headache, he looked up, expecting to see fury on Riddle's face, but instead, he saw a calculating coldness.
"No, I can’t kill you," Riddle admitted darkly. "But I can make you wish I had."
And with these words he pointed his wand at Harry once more that night.
"Legilimens."
Harry tried to resist, to close his mind, but Riddle was relentless. He bore down on Harry's mental defences, breaking through them with a force that left Harry breathless. And then Riddle was there, in Harry's mind, searching for his deepest, most painful memories.
With the skill of a trained predator, Riddle focused on the first memory; the night Harry's parents died. Harry suddenly found himself there, a toddler again, in his cot when the door to his room opened. He saw his mother, her face terrified, begging Voldemort to spare him. He heard her screams, felt her despair. Then a green light, a cold laugh and she was gone.
Harry felt like he was being torn apart from the inside, the pain excruciating. He could feel his mother's love, her sacrifice, and it hurt. It hurt more than anything he'd ever felt before.
But Riddle didn't stop there. He dragged Harry from this memory to another, just as painful. Sirius, his godfather, falling through the veil in the Department of Mysteries. Harry could hear his own screams, feel his own helplessness as he realised Sirius was gone. Gone, and it was all his fault.
But Harry had no time to grieve, no time to wallow in self-pity. He was forced to watch helplessly as his mother screamed for Voldemort to spare her child and take her instead. The chilling, high-pitched laughter of Voldemort echoed in his ears as he saw the green flash of the Avada Kedavra curse strike down his mother. The memory shifted, but not before Harry heard his own infantile cries pierce the night.
Ministry of Magic again. He saw his godfather laughing and dueling fiercely with Bellatrix Lestrange. Their wands clashed in a fierce dance of light and power. Then, in agonising slow motion, Harry watched as Sirius was struck by a curse that sent him flying through the mysterious veil in the Death Chamber.
"NO!" Harry screamed, trying to run towards him, but his feet were rooted to the ground.
Just as quickly, the memory shifted back to Godric's Hollow, to the chilling laughter of Voldemort, and then back to the Department of Mysteries, to the echoing silence after Sirius's fall.
Harry felt each change like a physical blow, his mind reeling from the pain of reliving these traumatic memories over and over again. His heart ached and every fibre of his being screamed in agony.
"ENOUGH," Harry roared mentally, on the verge of madness. "Stop it! STOP IT NOW!"
But Riddle wouldn't stop, he wouldn't let Harry rest for a second. He dragged Harry back to the memory of his parents' death, forcing him to relive the moment again and again. The green light, the cold laughter, his mother's lifeless body.
And then back to Sirius, the veil, the heartbreaking loss.
Back and forth, back and forth, until Harry thought he would go mad from the pain, a relentless assault on his senses. He could feel his body convulsing, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. He was dimly aware of his own screams, the tears streaming down his face.
And then, as suddenly as it had started, it stopped. The memories faded, leaving Harry broken and breathless on the floor, his body shaking and his mind reeling.
Riddle was standing over him, his breathing quick and ragged, but the expression on his face unreadable as he looked down at the boy he had just broken.
"Remember well this walk down memory lane, Harry Potter," he said icily. "You may have defeated me in the future, but here, now.... Here you are mine, at my mercy. And every defiance will have its price."
With that, Tom Riddle turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing quietly behind him.
Harry curled into a ball. His mind was a storm of emotions, a maelstrom of grief, guilt, and helplessness. For a long time he just lay there, too exhausted to move, too overwhelmed by the pain to even think. He had never felt so helpless, so mentally drained.
So defeated.
o.O.o
The first light of dawn crept through the dirty, fog-laden air of London, casting a muted glow across the roofs and streets. The city, still reeling from the war's devastation, lay quiet and still, its wounds hidden beneath a blanket of snow. From the spacious windowsill, Tom Riddle observed the world outside, his sharp sight taking every detail. His usually pristine appearance was marred by the night's events, his hair dishevelled and his clothes slightly crumpled. Yet, his eyes, cold and calculating, showed no sign of weakness. They were the eyes of a predator, assessing his next move.
Snowflakes danced in the morning air, a deceptive facade of calm. As if in contrast to the awakening brightness outside, the room behind Tom was plunged into shadow, the massive dark wood furniture barely visible in the faint light of the early dawn.
Meanwhile, Tom's thoughts were swirling with a tumultuous mixture of anger, disappointment and unwillingness to accept what he saw in Harry Potter's memories. The once bright and unobstructed path he had imagined now seemed full of uncertainty and obstacles. The knowledge that he would be defeated was a bitter pill to swallow, a deep wound to his ego. And as if that wasn't enough, Voldemort, a name he had once aspired to, was now a source of revulsion. The snake-like features, the red eyes, the grotesque manifestation of a soul torn apart too many times — it was all but repugnant. How had he allowed himself to be reduced to such a state? How had it happened? How had the brilliant, invincible Lord Voldemort, the figure he was destined to become, been defeated by a mere boy?
It was unthinkable. Humiliating.
Tom’s eyes flickered with a multitude of emotions as he thought of Harry Potter. The boy who lived, the boy who defeated him. The very same boy who now lay unconscious in his apartment, completely at his mercy. A cruel smirk played on Tom’s lips as he realised the power he held over his greatest prophesied adversary. He could do anything he wanted to the boy, and no one would be able to stop him.
The taste of power was sweet, and it soothed the sting of his wounded pride. He revelled in the knowledge that he would be able to bend Harry Potter to his will, that he had the power to control the boy who had dared to defy him. It was a small consolation, but a consolation, nonetheless.
Tom would use him, mould him into a tool for his own purposes. And when he was done with him, when he had squeezed the last drop of usefulness out of him, he would discard him, leave him broken and defeated.
However, even this thought could not completely dispel the disgust he felt at the memory of his future fate.
Tom’s fingers unconsciously traced the windowpane, the cold biting at his fingertips. He made a silent vow to himself. He would not become that monstrous caricature, that laughingstock. He would be different, wiser. His rise to power would not be marred by the same mistakes. He would harness the dark arts, yes, he would hone his skills to a razor-sharp edge, but he would be smart about it, more cunning. He would not let the darkness consume him, as it had consumed Voldemort.
Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the city in a blanket of white as Tom lost himself in his thoughts. He could feel the power coursing through his veins, the dark magic he had mastered over the years. But he needed something more, he needed something more to reverse his fate.
He had been given a second chance, a chance to change his destiny, and he would not waste it. He would learn from the mistakes of his future self, forge a new path, a more suitable one.
His mind whirred in action, plotting and planning, as he considered his options. He would not allow his quest for power to blind him, to lead him astray. He would learn from the mistakes of Voldemort, and he would rise to power in a different way.
His eyes traced the outline of the shattered city, taking in the stark contrast between the purity of the snow and the devastation it covered. He realised that power was not just about destruction and fear. It was about control, about bending the world to your will without it realising it was being bent.
And as for bending to one's will....
Harry Potter, his unexpected pawn, would play a crucial role in his ascent. Tom knew he could not underestimate the boy, not after what he had seen in his memories. But he also knew that Potter was now bound to him, his unwilling ally in the game of power.
Not just a pawn, not just an unwilling ally, but a liability. Not just a boy who lived, but a boy who knows too much.
Far too much.
Harry Potter knew Tom's all plans, his ambitions and, most importantly, he knew of the Horcruxes. The very essence of Tom's quest for immortality, his protection against death, was now an open book to Potter. And that was something Tom could not allow. He would have to find a way to neutralise the threat, to make sure the boy knew his place. He would have to act quickly, decisively. The Horcruxes would have to be protected, hidden where Potter could never find them.
And then he would ensure his silence. Fortunately, there were many ways to do that.
With a final, determined glance at the city below, Tom Riddle slid off the windowsill and turned back to the room, his mind set, his purpose clear. The game was on and he was ready to play.
But first he had to deal with Harry Potter.