They say the past is a place you visit, not a place you stay. But I have already lived there so long; I don't think I'd recognize the present if I tried. Every memory feels sharper than it should, every moment louder than it was, and you, Tom, you're everywhere. In the shadows, in the spaces between thoughts, in the cracks I've tried to fill. I often ask myself if you ever think of me, Tom, do you still think of me, or I'm just another name you've left behind?

_______

The mornings at Hogwarts were filled with the surging in the corridors, the hurried breakfasts, and a preposterous and uncanny feeling of being observed by others, especially by one student, Tom Riddle.

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Professor Slughorn gave his lecture on advanced potioneering; he and Hermione were sitting on the Gryffindor side, quill and parchment in hand, and Draco, across the room, on the Slytherin side. They shared most of their classes with the Slytherins, and sharing classes with them meant every moment felt like a game of cat and mouse. And the cat's name was Tom.

From the moment they had entered the room, Riddle's eyes had found them. His gaze was not loud, nor like a stare that one could rebuke or ignore. It was quite the opposite, it was unconcealed, but lingering just long enough to be noticed before he returned his attention to the lesson. But Harry felt the same stillness, the same quiet, almost predatory curiosity, as if he were trying to bore through the hidden essence of their being with his gaze.

His scar didn't hurt, but he felt as though an invisible force was pressing against his thoughts, and Hermione too; every look Riddle gave them seemed to have a warning about it, as if he knew they were not at their ease; it was not paranoia—it was instinct.

She scratched on her parchment with her quill to take notes, her writing clear but hurried, her jaw tightening with Professor Slughorn's every word. She knew the answer to every question he posed, she could practically recite the textbook by heart. And yet, she stayed silent. She had to.

It was maddening.

"Mr. Ponty," Professor Slughorn said with a cheerful voice, "what do you think would be the best base for a memory draught?"

Harry was frozen, his mind blank. Hermione trembled and almost resented herself for not answering when she knew very well the answer. She could even recall the exact page in Advanced Potion-Making where it was detailed. But she couldn't afford to draw attention to herself; not in front of Riddle who sat a few seats away, his black eyes only rarely looking up, but darting between them whenever he thought they weren't looking.

But before either of them could respond, Riddle's smooth voice filled the room.

"That would be Jobberknoll feathers, Professor," he said, his tone confident but unassuming. "The properties of the feathers enhance memory recall and retention."

"Precisely, Tom, precisely!" Slughorn beamed. "As always, an excellent answer."

Riddle's lips lifted in a faint smile, Harry bit his lips, Hermione's quill snapped. Naturally, Riddle had to answer, as if he could not stand it that anyone should be able to prove his worth before him, and what was the worst, it was by such things that Slughorn loved him.

Riddle's gaze briefly turned to Hermione; she was silent, her breath shortened; had he noticed her anguish? Did he sense the answer she had been desperate to give but hadn't dared to speak aloud?

Hermione redoubled her efforts and forced herself to slowly breath, it was what she had feared, the attention they attracted, the shadow looming over everything they did.

Harry scowled beside her, his hands clenched under the table, he was not as good as her at hiding his emotions. Draco, who was on the other side of the class, kept his eyes fixed on his parchment, but Hermione saw the tension in his shoulders, the rigidity of his movements; the oppressive presence of Riddle was perceptible, even from a distance.

She had always prided herself on being the smartest in the room, but here, she couldn't afford to let herself shine. Not when every move they made was being watched.

Professor Slughorn moved about the room, his jovial instructions punctuated by the occasional reminder to "watch your stirring!" Draco Malfoy found himself paired with none other than Abraxas Malfoy; a coincidence that felt more like a cruel joke. 

A bubbling cauldron lay between them, laden with a cloying aroma, not dissimilar to that of asphodel fumes. Draco busied himself slicing moonstone, his movements sharp and precise. He wouldn't even meet Abraxas's gaze, in case he broke out into another session of interrogation. 

Brilliant, he thought wryly. Pair me with the one person who looks like me, talks like me, but would probably hex me on the spot if he knew the truth. Fate really has a sense of humour.

Abraxas, for his part, worked in an irritatingly composed silence. He didn't rush, didn't fumble; he moved like someone who had never known failure. 

Finally, after several minutes of quiet observation, he spoke. "Not a bad hand for potion-making, that is," he remarked in a monotone, yet curiously engaging way. 

Draco didn't look up. "Thank you," he mumbled but did not show any sincere gratitude to the speaker in the uttered words. 

"You remind me of someone," Abraxas continued, his voice more pointed now. "There's something familiar about you." 

Draco's jaw tightened, though he kept his expression neutral. "I get that a lot," he said flatly.

Abraxas smirked softly, but there was a sharp edge to it. "Not surprising. Pure-blood families tend to have that effect. You said your name was Milfoy?" 

Draco's slicing pace faltered slightly, but he struggled to maintain his level voice. "That's right." 

"I can't say I've heard of it. Where's your family from?" Abraxas pressed, his gaze sharp. 

"Not around here," Draco replied with a casual shrug. "We prefer to keep to ourselves." 

Abraxas inspected him briefly and nodded, apparently pleased. "A wise policy. In this reality, there is no acceptance for those who flaunt what they can't protect."  

Draco resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If only you knew. "Right advice," he replied with a tone dripping with sarcasm.

Abraxas didn't seem to notice the sarcasm. He resumed to stirring the cauldron, his thoughts, however, wandering to the look upon Draco's face, just exactly where Draco eyes had been looking. Draco realized, too late, that he'd been staring at Tom Riddle. 

Riddle was sitting a couple of tables over, somehow just as commanding as ever. He did it all with a practiced ease, his dark eyes never leaving his potion, his body graceful and methodical in motion. 

Seeing him, with his group of followers adhering to him, caused a tight knot of nerves producing in Draco's stomach. 

Abraxas chuckled, the sharp edges of his face smoothing into a funny air of amusement. "Ah," he said, his tone conspiratorial. "Riddle." 

Draco snapped his gaze back to the potion in front of him, his hands tightening around the knife he was holding. "What about him?" 

Abraxas's smirk deepened. "You were staring. What do you think of him?" 

Draco hesitated, his mind racing. What could he say that wouldn't give himself away? That he was afraid of the man who would later become the Dark Lord? That he already knew just how dangerous and destructive Riddle could be? 

"He's... impressive," Draco said finally, his voice carefully measured. 

"Impressive," Abraxas echoed, a faint laugh in his voice. "That's putting it mildly. He's brilliant. Charismatic. Ambitious. Everything a true Slytherin aspires to be." 

Or everything I've spent the last year trying to survive, Draco thought bitterly. "He's certainly ambitious," he said aloud, his tone neutral. 

Abraxas closed in, and his tones shifted to a conspiratorial whisper. "You'd do well to get on his good side. Riddle's not the type of opponent you want," 

Tell me something I don't know, Draco thought, though he forced a faint smile. "I'll keep that in mind." 

Abraxas's gaze lingered on him for a moment longer before he returned to the potion. "You've got potential, Milfoy," he said, almost absently. "But ambition alone won't get you far. You need allies. People you can trust." 

Draco couldn't help the bitter laugh that escaped him. "Trust," he repeated, the word tasting foreign on his tongue. "Right." 

Abraxas raised a brow, intrigued by his response. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

Draco shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Just that trust doesn't come easy. Especially not here."

There for a short time Abraxas kept his mouth shut, his keen eyes boring into Draco as if trying to solve some kind of puzzle. He finally nodded once, slowly, as if Draco had just passed some kind of unspoken trial. "You'll learn," he said quietly. "Slytherin's not for the faint of heart." 

Draco did not reply and his mind was lost in the muck that he was stuck in. He maintained a steadfast fixed stare at the vial but the weight of Abraxas's words, and the reality of the truth of his words, pressed down on his back. 

-

After class, Harry and Hermione packed up their things quickly, eager to slip out unnoticed. But Riddle, as always, was a step ahead. He walked in a non-hurry-quick but determined way towards them as they reached the corridors.

"Ponty, Greene," he said in his smooth, warm, pleasant voice, "I thought I'd introduce myself properly. Tom Riddle, Head Boy."

Harry gripped his bag tightly and forced a slight nod. "Harry Ponty. Nice to meet you."

Riddle's dark eyes flicked between them. He was studying them like a puzzle he couldn't wait to solve. "I understand it can be difficult adjusting to a new school. If there's anything you need, please don't hesitate to ask. We're all here to make you feel at home."

"That's very kind of you," said Hermione, without conviction.

"Not at all," said Riddle, and his smile broadened a little never reaching his eyes, "Hogwarts thrives on unity. I have always found it... fascinating to meet new faces."

Harry felt sick to his stomach. There was something unnerving about the way Riddle spoke, his polished words flowing over an undercurrent of power. He felt Hermione's shoulders tense beside him, and his hand itched for his wand, but he held it still, knowing that he could not risk any rash action.

"We'll keep that in mind," Harry said curtly, not wishing to play into Riddle's charade.

Riddle's gaze lingered on Harry for a moment, his smile unchanged. "Good, I'll see you both around," he said, turning back to his friends, who were waiting nearby, looking disdainful to hostile. Abraxas Malfoy was openly sneering, Avery's cold eyes were following Harry and Hermione's every move, Lestrange was grinning, as if daring them to say something, and Rosier's quiet gaze was unreadable.

"We need to be careful," said Harry, glancing over his shoulder. "Really careful. He is definitely watching us. And the way he talks, it's as if he was trying to... untie us. It's creepy."

"Understatement of the century," replied Hermione in a low voice.

-

The first week passed in a haze of tension. Each class that they shared with the Slytherins felt like walking on a tight-rope. Hermione, couldn't help but answer questions, which only seemed to intrigue Riddle more. Harry did not speak too much to avoid striking and standing out. And Draco very subtly appeared to fade into the background, but Riddle's gaze followed them round, quiet, like a persistent shadow.

On the evening of their fifth day in the castle, Harry and Hermione, who were on their way to dinner, ran into Draco, whose pale face was flushed and breathing shaky, as if he had just run.

"Finally," he murmured, looking over his shoulder with a nervous edge, "I thought I would never have a moment alone."

Harry asked, furrowing his brow. "What's going on?"

Draco made a desperate check along the corridor, his gray eyes darting around at once, as though expecting something to leap out at him, then turned towards Hermione with a wink of irritation on his face, "Riddle's friends," he hissed. "They have been hovering around me since the moment we entered the hall; they are constantly watching me and smiling, as though I were some stray dog they want to catch; I don't get a moment for myself."

"Why are they so interested in you?" Hermione asked in a sharp voice, already in a hurry to unravel the implications.

"The first night we were here. Riddle tried to read my mind. " Draco hesitated, his eyes darkening.

"He is already a Legilimens?" Harry voice came out as a sharp whisper, and his blood ran cold.

"Of course he is," said Draco, his voice cutting but frightened, "and he's strong, I felt the magic trying to pierce me." Draco reached into his shirt, and pulled out a small, ornate necklace. "This stopped him, my mother gave it to me, it blocks Legilimency. He couldn't break through, but he knows, he knows I blocked him."

Hermione exchanged a worried, pale look with Harry. "We're not prepared for this. If he's already trying to read your mind, he'll target us next. We can't risk him finding out... anything."

"Great," muttered Draco, stroking his hair, "So he's suspicious of me, and you two are next. Any brilliant ideas? Because I don't fancy waiting around for him to try again."

"We need to talk to Dumbledore. If anyone knows how to protect us, it's him," Harry muttered, and his expression and shoulders became lopsided.

"Dumbledore?, we haven't seen him, he's scarcely ever been in; all that keeps me going is thinking that he is working on a way to send us back. Please tell me you've heard something from him." Draco laughed bitterly.

Harry shook his head "Nothing yet. He hasn't said anything."

"Nothing!? He's the only person who could actually fix this, and he hasn't found anything yet? Fantastic, so we're stuck here, being hunted by a teenage Dark Lord, and you expect me to just keep waiting? I'm this close to throwing myself off the Astronomy Tower."

"We'll find out a way. All we need is time." Hermione's face softened, though her tone was still firm.

"To wait?!" Draco snapped, "Time is the only thing we don't have. Riddle is already suspicious and his friends are already circling me like vultures, if they figure out the truth, we're all dead. And you want me to be patient!?"

"Draco," Harry said, stepping closer, "Believe me, you're not the only one afraid. If we stick together, we have a chance. If we splinter apart, we're finished."

His jaw tightened and, for a moment, there was a look of argument about it; then he exhaled, still clearly frustrated. "Fine," he muttered, "but if Dumbledore doesn't come through soon..."

"We'll keep pushing," Hermione said quickly. "We'll find a way to talk to him again. In the meantime, don't let Riddle or his friends see you crack. He feeds on weakness."

"Oh, don't worry, I know that well" Draco suddenly let out another bitter laugh. "And I'm a Malfoy. I've faked smiles since the day I was born."

The dread of their position was weighing on them more heavily than ever, and the corridor seemed to grow darker every minute. The three of them fell into a heavy silence, and their voices faded into the dimness of the corridor.