Chapter Text
Harry came to in increments, a fading scream of anguish still echoing in his ears — it sounded vaguely like Hermione — and a pounding headache threatening to split his skull in two. He cracked his eyes open, only to squeeze them shut again as sunlight seared into them.
Oh, his head. What the hell happened to his head?
He groaned, lifting a trembling hand to clutch at his temple. Dear Merlin, it felt like he’d downed a barrel of firewhiskey and then been trampled by a herd of hippogriffs.
Every inch of him ached. His whole body throbbed like a bruised fruit.
With effort, he forced his eyes open again and froze.
The room around him was massive. Lavish. Ostentatious. It was so nauseatingly opulent that it felt like a physical strain on his already aching eyes. Honestly, this could rival the rooms in Malfoy Manor. No, he’d go as far as to say this one room alone could put the entire Manor to shame.
But as Harry swept a discerning gaze around, something felt off. Despite the extravagance, the space was utterly void of character. Too clean. Too curated. It reminded him of a showroom — a place meant to be looked at, not lived in.
It left him strangely cold.
“What…” he breathed, disoriented.
Where was he?
Only then did he take proper stock of himself and promptly gaped.
Merlin above. What the hell was he wearing ?
His hands grasped at the fabric draped over his chest — sleek, impossibly soft. Midnight-black silk that shimmered with hints of moonlit blue under the dim light. It felt like water between his fingers. The kind of luxury only the privileged could afford. The kind he’d never worn in his life.
But more importantly — far more disturbing — was the lack of scars on his bare forearms.
His breath caught.
Something was very, very wrong.
It sends him into motion almost instantly — he stumbles out of the ridiculously oversized bed and its equally extravagant sheets, heart hammering, mind racing. With shaky, unsteady steps, he crosses the room in search of a mirror.
He finds one—tall, gilded, and absurdly ornate — and comes to a dead stop.
That… that can’t be him.
Surely not.
With a trembling hand, he reaches up to brush the underside of his chin. The other hand follows, fingertips pressing into his cheeks. He watches the skin dent under the pressure, watches as his hand trails down the length of his neck.
A cold, leaden dread settles low in his gut.
A stranger stares back at him.
The man in the mirror shares his coloring — raven-black hair and striking green eyes — but the resemblance ends there.
This face is unfamiliar. Ethereal. Soft. Beautiful in a way Harry has never associated with himself.
The skin is pale, no, translucent — like porcelain kissed by moonlight. He can see faint blue veins beneath the surface, delicate and threadlike. It’s the kind of skin untouched by hardship or sun. A face that screams pureblood aristocracy.
Sharp, arched black brows frame impossibly long, feathery lashes that cast shadows over those vibrant eyes, high cheekbones flushed with a natural rose-petal pink. Thin, supple lips tinged with the color of wine or blood.
But what stops him cold, truly unsettles him — is the absence.
There is no lightning-shaped scar above his brow.
The mark that had followed him since infancy, the one that had defined him, cursed him, shaped him… gone.
And not just that. Every other scar — the burns, the slashes, the lingering marks from creatures and curses and close brushes with death — gone.
Erased.
Wiped clean like they’d never happened.
Only flawless, unblemished skin stares back at him.
No. This isn’t right.
This isn’t him.
Because whoever this is… whatever this is… it can’t be Harry Potter.
Not when he’s never looked like that.
And it’s only then that the memories rush back.
Like a bomb detonating in his mind or like being struck by a Cruciatus Curse at full force.
A cascade of images slams into him — a violent torrent of memories flashing too fast to grasp. His head screams in protest, pain blooming behind his eyes like fire. He hisses and clutches his skull with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut as if that might stop it.
It doesn’t.
An amalgamation of scent and sound engulfs him: the acrid stench of burning, the sickening sweetness of scorched flesh, flashes of colored light—spells cast in every direction—illuminate ruined structures and collapsed walls. Fallen bodies litter the blood-soaked earth, limbs twisted, eyes forever open. The sky above is red, choked with smoke, smeared with ash and fire.
It claws at his senses — and he wants, for one horrific second, to gouge his own eyes out just to make it stop.
Screams — high and low, human and inhuman — echo in his ears—cries of the dying, the pleading, the terrified. Spells shouted in panic and rage from both sides blend into a cacophony that drowns his thoughts. The sounds of mercy begged and denied loop endlessly, echoing through the hollows of his skull.
And then—
That laugh.
Cruel. Cold. Sibilant.
Voldemort.
His voice slithers across the battlefield like poison smoke, thick with triumph as he revels in the devastation of Hogwarts. Chaos stretches before him like a canvas, and Voldemort paints it with blood.
He crows his victory for all to hear — as his sycophants close in — vowing to destroy the Order of the Phoenix, to crush the trembling, terrified student soldiers forced to fight in a war of not their own.
How had everything gone so wrong, so fast?
Harry’s knees give out.
And as he crumples to the floor, the most devastating image of all takes shape behind his eyelids:
Ron.
Lying deathly still, sprawled across the rubble-strewn ground.
Eyes wide and unseeing.
A soft smile frozen on his face.
He had thrown himself in front of Harry, taken the Killing Curse meant for him.
Bellatrix Lestrange had cast it with a shriek of glee, and Ron had smiled as he died.
Harry hadn’t even had time to scream.
All he could do was watch.
And then he’s standing over Bellatrix’s pulverized corpse — his chest heaving, hands shaking as his wand points toward her, his vision blurred with tears. The world is a ringing blur.
And when he lifts his gaze, Hermione is kneeling over Ron’s body, sobbing in raw, agonized anguish. Her scream cuts through him. Tears his soul open.
“Harry Potter…” comes a voice.
Voldemort.
A hiss — almost intimate — brushing against his ears like a gentle caress.
“Such violence… such anger…” There was sick delight in his voice — a silken purr that made Harry’s stomach churn. “I always knew you had it in you to be cruel,” Voldemort said, almost fondly. “To destroy. Just like me.”
“Shut up!” Harry snapped, voice cracking under the weight of emotion. His hands trembled at his sides, clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white.
Voldemort chuckled, slow and deliberate. “You and I aren’t so different, Harry—”
“ We’re not the same! ” Harry roared, the words ripped from his throat like fire. His whole body shook with fury. Tears streamed down his cheeks, hot and blinding.
Ron… Oh, Ron…
He was so sorry.
Harry vaguely feels someone shaking him, desperately, insistently.
“Harry… Harry… Harry…”
He hears Voldemort croon his name like a lullaby, and he clenches his eyes tighter, digging his fingers into his scalp until pain blooms across his skull.
“— Harry ! Please ! Master Harry!”
His eyes snap open as he gasps sharply, chest heaving.
A house-elf kneels before him, clutching the crook of his arms with trembling hands. Its wide eyes are glossy with panic.
“W-What?” Harry croaks, blinking down in confusion.
“What’s be wrong with you, Master Harry? Ipsy be calling you urgently!” The elf cries. “Master Harry must be getting up! Master Gaunt be coming — and furious!”
Before Harry can respond, the elf squeaks and vanishes with a pop—
BANG .
The doors fly open, slamming into the walls with a deafening crash.
Harry whirls toward the sound—only to freeze.
A man stands in the doorway.
Tall. Immaculately dressed. Impossibly handsome. Power radiates off him in cold, invisible waves — sharp and suffocating, like the air before a lightning strike.
And he looks exactly like Tom Riddle.
No ashen, corpse-white skin. No slitted red eyes. No serpent-like flat nose.
This was no Dark Lord.
This was Tom Riddle at his most dangerous — human, whole, alive.
And utterly furious.
Harry could feel it — the pressure in the room shifting, magic rippling like heat off asphalt, rolling off Riddle’s body in a storm of barely contained rage. His pale hand was clenched white-knuckled around a crumpled newspaper, veins taut beneath flawless skin.
“Have you lost your ever-loving mind , darling?” Riddle — or Voldemort? — seethed, his voice low and venomous.
Harry blinked. “What?”
Riddle's expression twisted. " What ?” He repeated with a sneer. “That’s all you have to say for yourself?”
He stepped forward, each movement precise, predatory.
“After the embarrassment you caused me — publicly — when I explicitly told you to cease this childish behavior…” He hissed through gritted teeth. “And you go and do the exact opposite ?”
Harry flinched as Riddle flung the newspaper at his feet. It hit the floor with a snap.
"Read it," Riddle growled.
Harry stared at it, unmoving.
Across the front page, in shimmering, animated color, was a photograph — one he wished he could burn from existence.
A live photograph of him—or at least, the body he currently inhabited. Reclining in the lap of an unseen man, the figure’s face buried in the curve of Harry’s neck. One hand slid possessively down the open back of his silk shirt, fingers gliding along the exposed line of his spine. The other hand gripped his thigh firmly, intimately.
The image shifted on loop. Over and over.
Harry felt sick.
Not just in his head, but in his body—deep, crawling disgust rippled under his skin like something alien. As if even the body knew this was wrong. As if it were revolting from the memory it supposedly belonged to.
His stomach twisted. His skin crawled.
Then his eyes locked on the headline:
HARRY POTTER-BLACK-GAUNT CAUGHT WITH MYSTERY MAN
Affair Scandal Shakes Elite Circles – Trouble in Paradise?
Has the golden marriage begun to tarnish?
Our readers will recall the spectacular union two years ago between Minister for Magic Tom Riddle-Gaunt and Harry Potter-Black-Gaunt— the heir to the prestigious and impossibly wealthy Potter fortune.
Touted as the most politically advantageous match of the decade, their marriage has been the centerpiece of every gala, fundraiser, and social column since.
But new photos raise questions about the couple’s stability and Harry’s loyalty.
Captured at what sources claim is a “private gathering,” Harry Potter-Black was seen in a compromising position with an unidentified man.
Is this the beginning of a fall from grace? Or has the young heir always had a rebellious streak hidden beneath all that silk and silver?
There were so many things Harry needed to unpack from just this alone. For one, what a mouthy surname he has; it’s practically word vomit at this point. But second, not only did it confirm that yes, this body was actually Harry Potter — shocking, really — but that he was somehow married to Tom Riddle.
And not Dark Lord Tom Riddle.
Minister for Magic Tom Riddle.
Nope, he’s absolutely not doing this right now. That is the least of his worries currently, when it seems like his body is trying to revolt.
There was a deep burning of shame and fear that threatened to consume him whole. Despite not having lived it, not even knowing when or how it happened, Harry’s body responded as if it remembered. As if the skin still recoiled from the ghost of hands, the weight of that moment pressing down like a phantom bruise.
What did this body… this other version of him… actually experience that night? He staggered back, breath shallow, heart hammering like a hunted thing inside his chest.
“I—I… no-that’s not—” he stammered.
“Not you?” Riddle’s voice was a blade, deceptively soft as he stalked forward. “Do you take me for a fool , darling?”
His eyes blazed, and Harry barely had a second to react before Riddle’s hand seized his face, cold fingers digging into his cheeks, forcing him to look up.
“You’ve done nothing in these two years but humiliate me,” Riddle hissed. “Public outbursts. Private affairs. Constant, scandalous idiocy. You drag my name, my image, through the gutter.”
Harry's hands flew up, grabbing at Riddle’s wrist on instinct. But it was like trying to move iron. No matter how hard he pushed, Riddle didn’t flinch.
“Let go!” Harry growled, cheeks distorted beneath the grip.
“What good is aligning with the Potter name,” Riddle went on, “if its heir acts like a drunken, attention-starved whore?”
His voice was ice, but his grip burned.
“Bastard!” Harry spat, shoving at him. “I said, let go !” His fists pounded uselessly against Riddle’s chest — solid and unmoving. “How fucking dare you!”
Riddle’s patience snapped.
“ You don’t get to yell at me !” Riddle bellowed, his voice curling into a sibilant hiss, eyes flaring with fury. “If you want to spread your legs for every pathetic man desperate enough to touch you— go ahead .” His tone was cold and measured, but crackling with restrained violence.
“But at least have the decency to be discreet,” he sneered. “Instead of whoring yourself out for the press to gawk at. Like some common harlot, dragging my name through the dirt. Tarnishing everything I’ve built.”
Finally—finally—Harry managed to tear himself free, wrenching Riddle’s hand off his face. He stumbled backward, landing hard on his knees.
They locked eyes.
While Harry’s glare burned, Riddle’s was worse.
Just contempt. Disdain. Like Harry was nothing but shit on the bottom of his shoe. And yet… beneath the fury in Riddle’s eyes, Harry caught something else. Confusion. A flicker. Small, but real. As if Riddle didn’t know what to make of him, like something was off, like Harry wasn’t behaving the way he was supposed to. But whatever that confusion was, it was quickly drowned beneath the rising tide of anger.
“I’ve had it with your tantrums and outbursts,” Riddle clipped, each word cold and precise. “Either learn to keep your lustful indulgences behind closed doors, or I will lock you in this house like the dog you clearly are.”
Harry snarled, trembling with fury. “What a piece of work you are, Riddle.”
His anger blazed like wildfire—but beneath it, his muscles trembled. Afraid. Reacting not to his will, but to its own muscle memory. Instincts that don’t belong to him. Forcing his rage into something tangled, confused—a war between fight and flight. It was infuriating!
“I should be the one saying that,” Riddle murmured, leaning down, voice a poisonous whisper against his cheek. His eyes gleamed like onyx. “Tell me, how hard is it for you to not spread your legs, hmm? Are you really that desperate to always be filled?”
Harry's stomach twisted. Rage surged up like bile. How dare he? How fucking dare he speak to him like this?! And past his confusion, past the horror of being in this mess, Harry found himself furious for this version of himself. Clearly, this Harry was stuck in a loveless marriage with a man who treated him like garbage. Who cared what this version of him had done? Nothing justified this. Fuck Riddle, honestly! “Fuck you,” he spat, every word laced with loathing.
“I’ll have to decline,” Riddle said airily, straightening with deliberate, mocking grace. “I don’t make a habit of bedding things that come too easily .” Harry clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms. “Regardless of your misbehavior — and your attitude now,” Riddle went on, voice returning to a cold, calculated tone, “you should be grateful I’m letting this slide.” His eyes swept over Harry as though assessing a disappointing asset. “But make no mistake—” he continued. “My patience isn’t endless. And I’m growing tired of you.”
Harry flinched — an aborted motion, shameful and unbidden — when Riddle's hand neared his face again. He instinctively shut his eyes, every nerve tensing, only to feel a caress. Gentle. Almost… affectionate.
It made him feel ill. The shift was dizzying — from venom to softness, like flipping a coin. It left Harry disoriented, sick with the whiplash. “Like I told you,” Riddle murmured, kneeling beside him, breath ghosting over his skin, “at the beginning of our marriage. All you have to do is smile and look pretty on my arm. And live your life quietly . Is that really so hard to do?”
Harry could only glare at him, baffled. What the hell was Riddle getting at? Honestly, he’d almost prefer the snake-like monster Voldemort once was. At least that version of him had been cruel in a way Harry understood. But this? This Riddle was not predictable.
Not by a long shot.
“I’m already gracious enough to let you keep your sordid affairs and carry my name,” Riddle remarked coolly, “despite being so clearly lacking… and undeserving of it.” His words slid over Harry like ice water. “The least you can do is act like a competent partner.”
Harry wrenched his face away from Riddle’s grip, rage boiling in his chest. “Then divorce me,” he snapped. “If I’m so unworthy of your perfect name, then let me go. I’m sure you’ll have no shortage of desperate idiots willing to throw themselves at you.”
Riddle laughed. Smooth, condescending, utterly unbothered. “Divorce?” He echoed, voice honeyed with mockery. “Sweetheart, how can you even mention divorce when you were the one who threw yourself at me? So incredibly besotted with me that you practically begged me to marry you?”
Harry gaped.
And to his utter disbelief, Riddle even had the nerve to look sympathetic. Head slightly tilted, brows drawn in concern. It was so deeply patronizing Harry could’ve screamed.
There was absolutely no way he—Harry James Potter—would ever throw himself at Tom Riddle in the name of love.
That’s—
That’s completely absurd!
What did this version of him even see in Riddle?
“Please,” Riddle said, voice cooled to something frigid and condescending, “you were well aware of what you were agreeing to when you entered this marriage with me.”
He stepped back slightly, smoothing his sleeve like this was a business meeting and not a gutting. “You were not to expect a loving union. You knew I had Draco—”
“Draco Malfoy?!” Harry sputtered before he could stop himself.
The words left his mouth like a gunshot, and Riddle’s eyes narrowed immediately.
Shit.
Brilliant, really. Why not just tattoo I’M A BODY SNATCHER across his forehead?
But come on—Draco Malfoy?!
“Yes,” Riddle drawled, and there was a pause, a shift — as he studied Harry more closely now.
Too closely.
Harry felt a sweat bead at his temple. He’d already slipped up too much. And if Riddle really looked—if he figured out he wasn’t his husband—
No. He couldn’t let that happen.
“You’re having an affair, too!” Harry snapped, scrambling for footing. “You’re no different than I am! Don’t sit there and act so self-righteous when you’re just as—”
“We are not the same, darling.” Riddle’s voice was a hiss, low and sharp.
“The difference between you and me,” he continued, stepping closer again, “is that I am discreet. I do not embarrass myself in front of the press, nor bring shame to the Gaunt name. Are you not a pureblood? How can you be so different from Draco?”
The words landed like knives.
Harry’s breath caught. His lips pressed into a thin, furious line, but his eyes burned—fucking traitorous body. Why was it reacting like this? Why did his chest ache like that?
He almost pitied himself.
Because this version of him clearly loved Riddle.
And that made him furious all over again.
Riddle wasn’t worth love. Not this cold, cruel thing in front of him.
“Perhaps I’ll consider divorce,” Riddle added airily, “once you’re no longer useful.” His voice was light, almost musing. “But despite your… many shortcomings, your name still carries weight. That, at least, you’re good for.”
“Do try to mind your manners next time,” Riddle drawled, eyes sharp with disdain. “Though it seems like a lost cause anyhow.”
Before Harry could even think of a scathing retort—something, anything—Riddle was gone. Sweeping out of the room in a whirl of tailored elegance and calculated cruelty.
The silence that followed was deafening. Harry stood frozen for a beat.
Don’t cry, he told himself. Don’t—don’t do this.
But it was too late.
His chest heaved as he hunched in on himself, shoulders shaking. Tears burned behind his eyes, stinging hot and sharp, and spilled down his cheeks as he clawed at his chest—trying to tear the feeling out, this horrible, hollow ache that wasn’t even his.
“Stop,” he gasped between shuddering breaths. “Just stop—please—he’s not worth it, for fuck’s sake!”
Sobs racked his frame. He could barely breathe.
“How can you love him?” He choked out. He hated this. Hated the tears.
A faint pop echoed through the room. Harry barely registered it. “M-Master Harry…” He turned his head slightly at the trembling voice. Ipsy stood near the threshold, her small hands wringing the hem of her apron with nervous energy.
Her wide, round eyes shimmered with unshed tears as she looked at him—at the sobbing, trembling mess he’d become on the floor. “Oh, Master Harry…” she whispered.
She scurried over on uncertain feet, her hands warm and calloused as she cupped his face, gently trying to wipe away the tears streaming down his cheeks. Her sniffles joined his shuddering breaths, quiet and earnest. “Ipsy not understanding…” she whimpered, voice cracking. “Why Master Harry does things to upset Master Gaunt so…”
“Ipsy knows how much Master Harry loves Master Gaunt,” she sniffled, still wiping at his damp cheeks. “Master Harry always be doing things that make Master Gaunt angry… Master Harry must be better. From now on, do better. That will make Master Gaunt less angry.” She nodded, as if repeating something she had convinced herself of a hundred times before.
Harry didn’t even have the will to argue. What was the point? He just knew no matter what he did, no matter how quiet he was, no matter how well he behaved… Riddle would always find a reason to be unhappy with him.
“Ipsy,” he murmured, his voice hoarse as he tried to gather himself.
“I’m tired.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “But it’s only morning, Master Harry! Master Gaunt not like when Master Harry lazes—”
Fuck Master Gaunt.
“I’m not feeling well,” Harry said instead, softer this time.
Ipsy hesitated.
Her little hands trembled at her sides. Harry could see the war playing out in her—between her obedience to Riddle and her instinct to comfort him. The guilt curdled in his stomach.
“O-Only for a short while, Master Harry,” she said at last, wringing her apron tightly. He offered her the gentlest smile he could manage. “Thank you, Ipsy.” And just like that, her face crumpled. More tears fell, fast and hot, like his gratitude had shattered something inside her, and he winced.
He let himself be guided back to the bed, limbs heavy and sluggish. Ipsy’s small hands were surprisingly firm as she helped him climb under the lavish sheets. “Master Harry rest only for a couple of hours,” she whispered, gently pulling the covers up over him. “Ipsy come wake Master Harry then.”
“Yes,” he murmured, eyes already fluttering closed. “That would be great, Ipsy…” His voice trailed off, barely audible. The silk sheets were cool against his skin.
Everything ached. He still needed to figure out a way back home. God, his head hurts; he doesn't know or remember how he came here. Did he… did he die during the war? Just thinking about it was making him feel anxious.
But for now… just for now… he let sleep take him.
–
As Ipsy promised, she awakens him a few hours later. Harry drags himself out of bed and eventually finds himself in the dining hall, having what amounts to a very late breakfast in the middle of the afternoon.
The meal is extravagant, plated with meticulous care, but he barely tastes it. He sits alone at one end of a long, gleaming table. The cavernous room around him is deathly quiet, the only sounds being the faint clinking of silverware against porcelain.
He glances around as he eats, taking in the pristine décor — dark polished wood, heavy drapes, delicate crystal fixtures. Like everything else he’s seen in this house, it resembles a showroom more than a home. A place built for appearances, not for comfort. Not for living. It’s beautiful, don’t get him wrong. But nothing about it feels loving.
At times, Harry used to imagine what his future might look like — and it never looked like this . He had hoped to marry for love. Someone he could be vulnerable with. Someone who saw him for who he was — not Harry Potter, not The Boy Who Lived, but just… Harry. They’d have silly arguments over how to fold laundry, who forgot to buy bread, maybe even argue over pet names. But at the end of the day, there’d be love. Real love.
He always imagined a cottage or maybe a small, cozy home—something with mismatched furniture, laughter echoing through the halls, the scent of dinner in the air, and soft jumpers left draped over chairs—a home filled with warmth, noise, and life.
He used to wonder what it might be like to have children — to hear the pitter-patter of small feet on creaky floorboards, the shrill laughter of joy. A cookie-cutter life, maybe. But his own. Something real.
A family.
That dream used to feel impossible… until Hogwarts. Until Ron and Hermione. Until he finally learned what home could be.
So now, sitting in this hollow, sterile manor, Harry wonders how this version of himself survives in a place like this.
The mansion was silent.
Not the peaceful kind of silence, but the type that settled too heavy on his skin—cold and stale.
Harry’s feet made no sound against the polished floors as he wandered. Portraits lined the hallways, but their frames were empty. He spotted vases filled with perfectly arranged flowers—so perfect they had to be enchanted. Bookshelves stood proudly with immaculate spines.
It was lifeless.
He hadn’t seen a single soul since morning. Besides Riddle—if that even counted. And Riddle was nowhere to be found now, either.
His thoughts drifted back to Grimmauld Place. Even at its worst, it had character. The groaning stairs, the moth-eaten drapes, the scent of age and magic clinging to the walls. Haunted, yes—but it had a soul.
This place had none.
There was no joy here. No warmth. No family portraits or mismatched furniture. No worn cushions or crooked picture frames to suggest anyone actually lived here.
Harry ran a hand through his hair and stared out the tall, arched windows. The garden below was immaculate—blades of grass trimmed to identical height, hedges sculpted to geometric perfection. Not a single thing was out of place.
At some point, he sat down on one of the divans in the drawing room, the upholstery stiff beneath him. His mind drifted, as it often did lately, to the version of himself who’d lived here. He wonders how he stood it—this cold, empty life, this strange, loveless marriage to a man like Tom Riddle.
The Riddle Harry knew was a monster—a complete madman who had long lost the intellect and rationality he once so proudly upheld. But this one… After reading through the Daily Prophet more carefully to get his bearings in this world, Harry discovered a few unsettling things. For one, he had apparently been involved in many—many— salacious and scandalous affairs over the span of a year and a half, all ruthlessly covered by the press.
But what unsettled him more was Riddle himself. This version wore power like it was perfume—subtle, refined, cloaked in civility and elegance. He had passed numerous bills that had slipped quietly under the public radar, and yet, if one looked closer at the fine print, it was clear they disproportionately favored Purebloods. Harry would be a fool to think that made Riddle any less dangerous. Absolutely not. Without a doubt, this Riddle had to be just as cruel as his counterpart—only far more calculated. And this Harry had married him willingly?
Harry still couldn’t make sense of it. Tom Riddle was—well, objectively—an extremely attractive man. Charismatic, elegant, charming when he wanted to be. The kind of man who could win over anyone with a smile, with that carefully measured warmth that wasn’t really warmth at all. It was manipulation in silk gloves. And Harry would know.
He’d fallen for it once—before he knew any better.
But that’s beside the point.
The point was: there couldn’t possibly be any version of himself—any timeline, any reality—where he would willingly marry Tom Riddle.
That’s ridiculous!
Even in this world, where Riddle wore politics instead of snakeskin, where his power was velvet-gloved and wrapped in civility, he still reeked of control. Of cruelty dressed up in pretty words. No matter how soft-spoken, how well-dressed, how refined he seemed—it was all a mask!!
And this Harry—this idiot—had looked at Tom bloody Riddle and thought, Yes. That’s husband material.
NO!!
Harry gripped his head, fingers fisting in his hair. What was he thinking?! If he could meet this version of himself, he’d grab him by the shoulders and give him a good, hard shake. Why Riddle? Out of everyone? What had he been thinking?!
Harry likes girls! Girls! What does it matter if he thought Cedric Diggory was easy on the eyes, or that Viktor Krum had great shoulders, or—even Riddle had cheekbones sharp enough to commit a crime with? That doesn’t mean anything!
Just because he wears glasses doesn’t mean he can’t see when someone’s attractive! A guy can appreciate another guy’s looks without making it weird!
Agh!!
Harry doubled over, burying his face in his hands with a silent, desperate scream. Then he sat up straight again, grabbed one of the stiff decorative pillows from the divan, and promptly attempted to suffocate himself with it. Maybe if he died here, he’d snap back to his original world.
God, please. Stop giving him your strongest battles. He is not one of your strongest soldiers.
The sound of the door creaking open had him bolting upright, tossing the pillow aside like it had personally offended him. His breakdowns were for his eyes only.
The person who stepped into the room came to an abrupt stop. The pleasant look that had been on their face dropped like a lead weight. Harry, already bracing for it, watched as they took in the sight of him and immediately curled their lips like they’d stepped in something foul.
Okay… rude. But this is a joke, right?
Because that was definitely Draco Malfoy.
Although—Harry squinted. For some insane reason, Malfoy looked... pretty. Not just normal pretty. Ridiculously pretty .
What the hell? Was he part Veela or something in this world?
“Potter,” Malfoy said, tone clipped and voice full of elegant disdain.
“Malfoy,” Harry deadpanned right back, trying not to look like he’d just tried to asphyxiate himself with a cushion.
Please, he begged the universe silently. I’ve only been here for like five hours. Let me breathe. Is that so much to ask?
“I see you’re not a miserable, sniveling mess after getting reprimanded by Tom—as usual,” Draco sniffs, stepping into the room like he owns it. Harry arches a brow, mouthing Tom in disbelief. Oh. Oh . So Riddle hadn’t been lying about them being together.
There was a sour taste crawling up his throat at the thought.
“Of course,” Harry says lightly, straightening with a serene smile. “Why would I be?”
“Why would I be, he says,” Draco parrots with a scoff, expression twisting with theatrical disbelief. “Because you’re a dithering fool who clings to Tom like a shadow, that’s why. Always underfoot. Always causing scenes. You don’t know your place, and you continue to act out like the embarrassment you are.”
He crosses his arms, gaze sweeping over Harry with the faintest curl of disgust, as if he were appraising a knockoff painting hung in a gallery by mistake.
“I genuinely have no idea how Tom puts up with you. Potter-Black name or not—you’re a disgrace. To him, and to your so-called legacy. It’s a wonder to think you and I even come from the same circle.”
Draco pauses, eyes narrowing with sudden glee. “Surely your parents are disappointed in how you turned out—mediocre in magic, and average at best in everything else. The only thing going for you is your appearance,” he adds, mouth curling deeper into a frown, like even that compliment left a bitter taste on his tongue. “If I were Lord or Lady Potter, I wouldn’t even be able to look at you without shame. Who’d want a child so painfully mediocre they could pass for a squib?”
Woah , Harry thinks, okay. Fuck you, Malfoy. That’s a bit much.
But—damn it—a part of him latches onto the words.
Lord and Lady Potter?
Does that mean… he has parents here?
He blinks, heart skipping strangely. What were they like? Was this version of Harry close to them? Did they know what kind of marriage he’d ended up in?
He cuts the thought off sharply. Not now. He can spiral over that later.
Right now, someone’s got to defend this Harry—and that someone is apparently him.
Because seriously: Who even says that to someone?
Harry blinked slowly, lips parting in disbelief. Then he laughed—short, dry, and completely humorless.
“You know,” he said as he rose from the divan, smoothing down the front of his shirt with slow, deliberate hands, “for someone who claims to be so far above me, you spend an awful lot of time sniffing around someone you consider beneath you.”
Draco’s expression froze. His arms uncrossed, hands twitching at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to ball them into fists or draw his wand out and hex him.
“Excuse me? Who do—”
“No, I’m talking now.” Harry’s tone sharpened. He stepped closer, the polished floors echoing faintly beneath his feet. “You walk in here acting like I’m some stain on Riddle’s perfect little image. But let’s get one thing straight—no matter how disgraceful or pathetic you think I am… who’s married to him, Malfoy?” He tilted his head, watching as the flush crept up Malfoy’s neck.
“Who wears the ring? Who’s legally bound to him by name, magic, and law? Who’s the one he chose to stand beside in public, even if it’s all for show?” Draco opened his mouth, but Harry pressed forward with a sneer curling his lip.
“Exactly. I am. Not you.” His voice dropped, thick with scorn. “You’re not his partner. You’re his… kept mistress. Tucked away neatly when it suits him.” The words hit exactly where Harry wanted to land.
Draco’s face twisted, the arrogant veneer slipping.
“And you call me pathetic?” Harry laughed again, louder this time. “You can say whatever you want about me—unworthy, scandalous, a walking embarrassment. But at least I have the self-respect not to be content as someone’s second choice. Their dirty little secret.”
“You bastard—” Draco’s voice cracked with rage, but Harry didn’t stop.
“Tell me,” Harry continued coolly, eyes gleaming with scorn, “when you crawl into his bed… Do you pretend he’s your rightful husband for the night? Only to be left cold and alone the next morning, while he returns to his actual spouse?”
Draco’s composure shattered. “If anything, you’re the mistress!” He shouted, voice cracking with fury. “ I was supposed to marry Tom—until you came along like the simpering little wench you are! I don’t know what you did to make him agree to it—what tricks you pulled—other than the families behind you and those damn Wizengamot seats you hold! There’s no way he could ever truly love you when he loves me!”
The room went silent. Heavy. Suffocating.
Harry stood motionless, pulse pounding in his ears, heart hammering against his ribs. His fingers curled tightly at his sides, nails biting into his palms.
Fuck everyone, honestly.
A dull ache bloomed in his chest—an ache that didn’t entirely feel like his own. It rose like a phantom from deep within the skin and bone of this borrowed body, a mourning and yearning he hadn’t earned—but still felt. A hollow ache that whispered, I wanted to be loved. I tried to be loved.
Harry gritted his teeth. Because once again—just like always—how lovable he was seemed to be measured only by what he could give. A name. A seat. A title. Never for being Harry.
“Right,” he said at last, voice low and bitter, shaking with something too raw to name. “Because of course—I must’ve bewitched him. Because there’s no possible way Tom Riddle would choose me unless I tricked him. Or he stood to gain something.”
Draco’s jaw clenched hard, his nostrils flaring. “You did trick him,” he hissed. “You don’t deserve him.”
And that—well. That’s where Harry had to disagree.
He didn’t know much about this world. Not yet. He didn’t know what this Harry had done, who he’d been, or what had driven him to marry Tom Riddle of all people.
But what he did know was this: wherever that version of himself had gone—however he had lived—his emotions, his instincts, his heart had remained. And right now? That heart was screaming.
Maybe… maybe that was the worst part. That even if this marriage had been built on nothing but power and political gain, somewhere along the way, someone—this Harry—had still dared to hope. Had still longed for love.
And maybe… in that, they were far more alike than Harry wanted to admit.
His thoughts were abruptly snapped back to the present as Draco’s voice rose again.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Malfoy hissed, eyes narrowing, “or why you’re acting like you’ve suddenly grown a backbone. Did you hit your empty head on something? But don’t think for a second you can get away with speaking to me like that!” He stepped forward with a sneer, all righteous fury and wounded pride. “Just wait until Tom hears about this. Then he’ll really give you something to cry about!”
The threat was so reminiscent of “ Wait until my father hears about this!” that Harry—despite everything—actually laughed. It was a sharp, almost incredulous sound.
“Go ahead,” he said, still chuckling. “Flounce off to him, throw yourself in his arms, sob about how mean I was to you.” He looked Malfoy dead in the eye, “I don’t care.”
Draco stood rooted, shaking with incredulous fury. His face was a mask of outrage, but behind it was a crack of disbelief as if he couldn’t quite fathom that Harry Potter had dared to talk back.
And maybe Harry would regret this later. Maybe Riddle would hear about it and turn this whole encounter into a fresh hell. But right now? He didn’t give a single, flying damn.
That spoiled little brat deserved to be knocked down a peg or two—and Harry wasn’t about to apologize for it if, evidently, Riddle came around demanding it.
“Be grateful I don’t Crucio you where you stand for your insolence,” Draco hissed through clenched teeth, trembling with rage. Then, with all the dramatics of a stage actor playing a scorned lover, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. Harry rolled his eyes as the door slammed behind him.
“Good grief,” he uttered, slumping back onto the divan. His head lolled against the backrest, eyes flicking to the ornate ceiling. “What the hell is my life right now?” He mumbled to no one, dragging a hand over his face.
It was barely midday, and already he’d had a fight with Tom Riddle, an existential breakdown over his displacement and the world with everyone he loved that was forcibly left behind, and a verbal sparring match with Draco Malfoy.
Can it get any worse?