Harry walks down the Great Hall, Tom Riddle with his hand on his muscle at his side. Eyes are latched to them. That Harry can work with. People look at him all the time. He is Harry Potter, after all, the born again celebrity. He has been regarded with praise he both did everything to get and did nothing to. He has been regarded with hatred in the same light.

Harry Potter knows how to handle fame. He also knows how to use it to his advantage.

He watches them back with a barely contained grin. Watch me and like what you see. I dare you. "So," he whispers to Tom, "How would you describe the Defense curriculum? On a scale of Albus Dumbledore to Dark Lord propaganda. Cause if it's the latter..."

Umbridge's face comes to his mind and Harry suppresses a shudder. Blood quills and theory but not practice... it's ideal, for raising a generation of weak, complacent wizards. Harry is neither of those things. It will be hard to pretend. Harry suspects he won't.

Tom tilts his head. "You have a Dumbledore, too?"

"Oh, yeah, big time."

"What do you think of him?"

"Hard to say," answers Harry, vague but truthful. He loves Dumbledore in the way younger siblings love their brothers too old to be raised with them. They look at them and think they must know them -- really cannot buy or believe anything else -- but the truth is he has lived much more life than him and is not always interested in sharing. "Though what isn't hard to say is what you would describe the curriculum as, on a scale of Albus Dumbledore of Dark Lord propaganda."

Tom's grip on his arm tightens slightly. "I get it, dear, I do, but it's irrelevant, really."

Irrelevant to a rich man is what they do not want you to know. "So that's a Dark Lord leaning answer, then?"

Tom sighs. "You tire me."

"Glad to hear it. I consider it an active goal, actually."

"You can teach whatever you like, however you like. That is the privilege I am granting you."

Harry blinks, almost stopping walking but quickening his pace before he stumbles. "You're joking," says Harry. Tom Riddle does not give freedom. He walks with his hand on Harry's arm like a dog collar; a clear claim.

Harry Potter is a threat. Tom knows this. Tom is not stupid enough not to care.

(But he is foolish enough -- and maybe (just maybe) he's just enough in love, too.)

"If things get out of hand, I'll have no choice but to reassign you."

"Of course," Harry scoffs.

"But," says Tom, "other than that, consider the curriculum now your own."

And though it is an offer with restrictions... it still seems one too good to be true. "Why?"

"You like your freedom, don't you?"

And isn't that a wild (impossible) idea? Tom Riddle caring about what Harry Potter does or does not want ? (It is a lie, Harry's sure. It must be. Tom is just as much a charmer as he is a liar.) But before Harry can respond to Tom's ever building case of contradictions, they arrive at the Staff Table.

Tom releases his arm -- finally -- and straightens his robes. He pats Harry's shoulders and says, quietly, cheerfully, "Keep pretty, watch your mouth, and you'll be a-okay."

Harry gapes at the word pretty but Tom isn't looking at him anymore. Fat, thinks harry, but pretty. What fucking taste you have, Tom.

Tom turns behind him, facing an old man that Harry doesn't recognize but who Tom appears to know quite well. "...and I'd like to be the one to make the announcement, if that's alright, Dippet?"

"Oh, yes! Of course, Tom, I completely understand."

Tom offers him a smile -- oddly enough, Harry notes, not at all like the ones he aims at Harry... not at all genuine -- and then turns to the crowd, the ever hungry for knowledge students Harry will get to teach and maybe, hopefully, change.

(Harry wonders if Hermione is in that crowd. Or Ron, or Neville... His heart aches and he ignores it.)

Tom speaks, his voice louder than usual, Harry suspects a voice amplifier charm, "Hello, students and faculty of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry! I have a very exciting announcement to make. I'm sure you're all aware, well aware by now, that former Defense Professor Harry Potter -- and I do say former; you'll see -- has been absent. And I'm sure you've heard the rumours. Worry not, I will summon a press conference as soon as I can to address them -- BUT, in the meantime, I mean only to inform you all that Professor Potter is out, and Professor Potter is in."

"You worded that too conflictingly," says Harry, arms folded across his chest. "And I'm not a Professor."

Tom's smile tightens. He says, quiet, "Look pretty, Harry, it's not that hard for you. Look pretty and shut up, mhm?" He continues, louder, "He is at liberty to answer all questions regarding his identity as he sees fit. I do ask you respect his privacy regarding the ones he doesn't."

Harry rolls his eyes. "That's rich coming from you." Tom and consent are not exactly synonyms.

Tom wraps an arm around Harry's shoulder. "AND I would like to make a VERY exciting announcement. The former Harry Potter and I had dabbled in the past -- and the press has been hounding me, always, about my love life. Hound no longer!"

"Do not say what I think you're saying." But Tom does not (despite what he says) unconditionally care about what Harry wants.

"Harry Potter and I are eng--"

Harry pushes him away, grabbing Tom's wrist tightly in his hand. He glances around them. Too many people. Too many children, able and willing to believe whatever this too-trusted man tells them and Harry will not become another lie. "What are you doing ?" hisses Harry.

Tom blinks, that innocent expression on his face that fools everyone from this world (but Harry is not from this world). "Isn't it obvious?"

"You're lying ," Harry accuses.

"How else will people know you're off-limits if it is not proclaimed?"

"I'm not off-limits." He's his own person. He decides his boundaries and limits and none of them are Tom defined.

Tom smiles condescendingly. "Of course."

"Listen," Harry says seriously. He grabs Tom's other wrist in his hand. "I need you to listen. This is terrible."

"Do not all great romantics do terrible things for love?"

"Not to the person they love!" Harry snaps. He adds, quietly, "And you don't love me." He doesn't love him because he has known him for four days. He doesn't like him because people like Tom do not know how to love.

"What else would you call this, Harry, my affections?"

Attempted ownership. Obsession. An obsession with the mystery of Harry; the factors yet undetermined; Harry's counterpart and how they do not look the same, or act the same, but close enough. But Harry does not say that because Tom does not want to hear it. "I don't want this. If you love me, then act like it. Listen to me. I don't date. I love in a lot of ways... but not romantically. And I need you to trust me on that."

There is the unspoken rule here. That what Harry gets he will give. This is not like when he offered a kiss for a goodbye to Sirius. This is real. And Tom, thinks Harry, is not stupid enough not to know that,

(Trust me once... and I will trust you just a little more.)

(Harry Potter likes his freedom.)

(I will appreciate privileges granted that you revoke.)

Tom swallows. He says, something in his voice sounding a little too thick, too... (grossly) infatuated, "Okay." He announces, "Harry Potter and I are funding a new program for anti-paparazzi celebrities. That is all. Thank you."

The Great Hall bursts into somewhat confused and somewhat engaged applause and Harry smiles weakly to the crowd. Harry mouths, to Tom, Thank you.

And Tom softens. Just a little bit. He looks like he has just had a great idea and (no great idea of Tom's is a good one for Harry) this time... it doesn't seem so bad.

Tom shakes hands with the Headmaster -- Dippet, Harry catches -- and then looks like he wants to kiss Harry goodbye. He restrains himself (like he has done before... like how Harry continues to appreciate, despite himself) and instead gives Harry a pat on the arm. "We'll keep in touch," says Tom softly.

He walks down the space between the Ravenclaw and Slytherin table and does not look back.

...

He fucking loves food. He'll never get over that, never be ashamed of that, and sees no reason to. As a child, the worst punishment (worse than when Dudley would break his glasses and then beat him more when they fix themselves... worse than when Aunt Marge said When there is something wrong with the bitch, there is something wrong with the pup and everyone around him acted like he was supposed to just take that) was starvation. Proper nutrition was a gift then because it was sparse, and it is one now because it's not.

Chicken. Steak. Potatoes, asparagus, cornbread, bell peppers, tacos. If there's a god it is FLAVOR.

And the people around him do not seem to get that. He sees Professor Trelawney -- looking too sophisticated to be the batty but familiar crazy lady he knows -- cut the breading off her porkchop with a knife and mutters to himself, "Downright blasphemous."

But these people and their eating habits, normalized disastrously disordered, are the least of his problems, which, right now, he has two of. One of his left, the other on his right.

Because he's sitting smack dap in the middle of Severus Snape and Albus Dumbledore.

Albus is, revealed from idle conversation, no longer Headmaster. He's a Professor, teaching Defense, and younger. Much too young. Taking the great out of his great grandfatherly look.

Albus keeps trying to draw him into small talk and Harry keeps shoving food into his mouth to avoid it. He wants to scream and shout and demand answers out of this man who has none. Why didn't you tell me anything? Why did you let me fight, let me leave (lose)? I trust you. I am on your side and my side never loses and is never wrong so why are you acting like I am the enemy?

Is...

Is it (and here is a terrifying thought) because you know? About Voldemort, his soul, me?

If you knew, why didn't you tell me? I would have liked to know. I would have liked for you to tell me.

But this man is Dumbledore. He's just not the Dumbledore Harry knows -- though he's sure there are striking similarities, of course there are, there must be.

This Dumbledore cannot answer his questions. There is no need to ask them.

And on his other side his other big, fat (skinny) problem is Severus Snape. Harry actually thinks he would love it if he started snapping about his father (which Harry thinks is a compliment), his insolence, his arrogance, like the Severus he knows and loves to hate. Like this, Harry's Voldemort is terrible but he is his Voldemort; predictable. Known. And isn't there a saying about the devils who are strangers and the ones who are friends?

Of course, Harry's not that lucky. He's a Potter! Like father, like son!

Harry Potter is not lucky and so Severus Snape is trying to talk to him and he is being polite about it. "It is a wonder to see you again. There was worry you'd never return."

Worry? WORRY. Severus snape has saved Harry's life time and time again for reasons Harry does not care about or understand or care enough to understand -- and those actions are distant. Severus has saved his life but he has never worried for it.

"I'm not actually the Harry you know," grits out Harry. He swallows the food in his mouth and avoids eye contact.

"I've gathered. I am allowed, however, to remain hopeful, if that is not a crime."

And Harry would very much like to scream that YES, it is a crime. It's a crime to have the same face of the man who has provoked him and then been mad that he reacted. It's a crime that the man beside him is not the one who mocked Neville until he cried and then got hexed by Harry because Harry Potter is not and will never be passive.

It's a crime. It's a borderline felony.

Harry Potter bites his lip and then bites his sandwich. Self control. Hermione talks about it a lot. He knows it's best to listen to her.

"What is your age?" asks (pesters) Snape. "You look... mature. But not old."

Harry resists the urge to answer "Nunya" or "Suck my momma's toes" because he has the idea in his head not to prove Tom right. "I'm fifthteen," says Harry. He pauses. "Almost sixteen."

Snape makes a face. "And you will be teaching? What a choice," he drawls.

"I have some teaching experience, I'll have you know." Not as much as Tom's obsessed with telling people he does. His Order does not count for much. He's hardly even sure it counts.

"I'm sure you'll be fine." Snape has doubts and yet believes in him. The only people who have ever had this much faith in him are Sirius and Hermione and comparing them to SEVERUS SNAPE leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "Harry Potter always was a natural."

A natural. Those words. Coming from Severus Snape's mouth. Is Harry Potter having an aneurysm? Is this what psychosis feels like? Harry's pretty sure this is what psychosis feels like.

No need to linger. If he lingers he might go insane and an insane soldier is a dead one. Harry clears his throat. He gulps down half a glass of pumpkin juice and reminds himself that violence in broad daylight is generally frowned upon. That's probably one of those 'out of hand' things Tom was talking about. "What was he like? The one before me."

Harry's got a few good guesses so far. Someone thinner than him, Darker than him, the very brand of person Harry despises. One conversation with him would probably have Harry throwing hands. No friend of Tom Riddle is a friend of Harry's and that's a principle he will stand and DIE by.

"A fan," Severus says lightly, "of more corporal punishment."

And Harry thinks the air in his lungs freezes and he is eight years old again.

A fan of more corporal punishment. Uncle Vernon used that term because when dealing with people like him (the wrong sort of fucking people, didn't Harry get the memo?), that term is a good thing.

Harry Potter is not an abuser. He is violent and angry and righteous and he loves as strong as he hates and he may not be Light but he is not Dark. He is not an abuser. He is not a fan of corporal punishment.

But the Harry potter here... and the Harry Potter now at his home is not like him.

Harry Potter says nothing. He sets his fork and knife on the table and stares blankly at the tablecloth.

I am fiftheen, Harry reminds himself. I am fifthteen years old and almost sixteen. I am strong and a threat and a danger and nothing can hurt me if I do not let it. I do not lose. I am not eight years old.

The mantra does not revive his appetite. Severus Snape notices his difference in demeanor. Eventually, he stops trying to make conversation.

...

In Harry Potter's second year, Neville is crying. He's just broken his arm after his first attempt at broom flying.

He's being taken to the nurse. Draco picks up his remberball and is tossing it around like it is a toy and not a birthday present for a boy Harry cares for very much. Like it is worthless. A joke.

(Harry's not fucking laughing. Malfoy's face is thinner and paler but when he squints his eyes, Harry only sees Dudley.)

"Watch yourself, Malfoy," says Harry.

"Defending the squib now, Potter? Couldn't be surprising, with company like yours. Blood traitors and Muggleborns."

"Better company than you," snaps Harry. He takes a step forward, holding out a hand. "Give it back."

Draco hums, tossing it to his other hand. "I don't know, Potter. I don't think I want to."

He grabs his broom and rises up in the air and taunts him. "Come and get it, Lion," he shouts, dropping it. "If you're so brave. "

Harry takes to his broom without thinking (or with limited thinking... his heart is something bigger than his head and that's why Hermione is so important) and catches it with skill beyond his years.

He thinks all the while that James would be proud.

Afterwards, Harry understands that whatever makes James proud would make Severus spin in his grave. He's never gotten why Severus gets off of having a rivalry with a kid twenty years younger than him, but whatever. That's none of his business, not his problem, and makes no difference in how Harry responds; with equal if not greater force.

Snape wants him expelled. It's funny, that one moment of fear Harry has. This place is his home and these people are his friends (soon to be his family) and he will not be orphaned again.

But that day Harry learns there is friends and enemies and family and, now, allies. People who are on his side. Professor McGonagall takes him to Oliver Wood. He knows he will never come to love these people... but that he doesn't have to. Sometimes 'like' is enough.

...

The tables are soon cleared and teachers file back to their classrooms. Dippet approaches him. "So glad to have you on the team," he says, cheerful, sticking out his hand. "I've heard so much about you."

Not enough. Still, Harry shakes his hand. "It's a pleasure," says Harry. It's not. Nothing about this has been. Hogwarts was his home and now it is a prison; a series of targeted tragedy after targeted tragedy.

"You'll start teaching tomorrow; give you time to settle in and such before throwing you into it. In the meantime, Severus Snape -- not sure if you've heard of him; he's the Potions Professor; quite the profession -- will show you to your room," says Dippet.

"Uh," says Harry. "No -- no, that won't be necessary."

"Oh, don't be so humble!"

Harry's not being humble. He's actually busy being sick to his stomach. "I'm not on the grandest of terms of him."

"Ah -- bad first impression, eh? Don't worry. He acts mean, but he's a softie once you get to know him."

"Severus and softie are not words that belong in the same sentence."

Dippet laughs like Harry is joking. Severus appears at his side -- walking so silently it is like he glides along the floor; some things never change -- with a blank face. He's good at that, suppressing his emotions outwardly. While Harry is at the mercy of his heart (acting angry while he is angry; punching what he does not like), Severus thinks himself the master of his.

It is not charming. Emotions are not weakness like love is not a weakness. Harry would know; he's controlled by both and there's not a doubt in his mind that he's strong.

Severus bows to him and Dippet slaps Harry on the back, saying, "Happy to have you here, Harry."

He leaves. He has thrown Harry to the sharks (shark) and can just... leave.

Harry stands there stiffly staring at Snape. No public violence. Too bold, too unlikely to be able to swept under the rug.

But in private.

In private, with someone in a higher social ranking than him, it's free game.

"Come," drawls Snape and turns on his heel.

Harry takes a deep breath. Harry then follows.

...

Later that night, settled into his room, surrounded by fineries too exaggerated to feel natural, Harry Potter will grapple with the guilt building in his chest. How do you deal with the terrible actions someone else committed but are associated with you? Is it even possible? These actions are not his but they are almost his--

... And almost is not enough to be okay with it. Harry's moral foundation comes in a variety of shades but where it stands, it does not budge.

His name is tainted. His face was plastered on a doppelganger and set loose and now Harry, Harry is paying the price.

He wonders how the other Harry is handling this and hopes, vengefully, it isn't well. Imagine being a fucking villain and everyone knows you as a hero. The thought is almost funny enough to make him feel better.

He sets his feelings aside and opens the drawers of his desk. He slips off the robe -- the memory of Tom slipping off of him, too, that man who is evil but soft for him, for this idea of Harry he's built up in his head and is constantly building off -- and settles in the chair with a heavy sigh.

Is Sirius dealing with this, too, or is he alone? Was the Sirius here a monster, too, or is it that Potter fucking luck?

Well, Harry supposes. There is only one way to find out. Sometimes, what you want to know, you ask.

He takes out a quill and a piece of parchment. He still has Sirius. And it is time to write him a letter.

...

"You shut down there," says Snape, walking in front of him, leading him to his room. "During breakfast."

Rude. Harry cannot go one interaction with a stranger without getting studied. He is not an exhibit. He's a person and would appreciate being treated like one. "Yeah. And?"

"And it is an odd reaction. Considering who you are. Who we are."

Who Harry is? Snape has no idea who he is. Comparing him to Snape is insulting. It's disgracing. "Don't be so fucking arrogant, Snape. It doesn't suit you."

Snape stops in his tracks. He turns halfway, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "There it is again," says Snape. "That venom."

"Yes, well," Harry laughs. "I'm not whoever you think I am."

"You're not Harry Potter?"

"I am," says Harry, shuffling. "Just a different one."

"Different how?"

Like it is any business of his. "Different like I think teachers are in no position to administer corporal punishment. "

"Huh," says Snape. He turns back around. "You never acted like it before. In fact... your actions proved the opposite."

Fucking terrible. A fucking terrible, unfair thing to say, to imply. He wishes he was dumb enough for it to go over his head, but it doesn't take a genius to catch the innuendo. "Are you saying I hit children ?"

"Yes. I'm saying you have never had an issue with it before."

"I am not," Harry says, laughing, "the kind to abuse a child. I am not him."

"Well, seeing Riddle's face, I can't help but think you don't have an issue wth hitting ."

Harry rolls his eyes, huffing. "That's different."

"No. You know what's different? You. " Severus faces him, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Coming in here. Acting like things set in stone and inherent are weird or wrong or somehow disagreeable -- we were fine with this, Harry. With enforcing discipline. With violence. We did it and we did it together."

"I didn't do shit, bro."

Snape stills. "No," he says at last. "No, you didn't."

(Some things, they are on the same page on.)

Snape turns again and begins walking. Harry speeds up a little to keep pace. "So. We were friends?" Disturbing. Though it looks like a likely possibility at this point. Right hand man to Tom Riddle and friend to Severus Snape. Harry could not imagine a worse counterpart.

"You could say that," says Snape. "Though it was not us, was it? It was me and someone else. You were never in the equation."

Harry snorts. "My Severus would be losing his shit over that." He pauses. "He might be." He envisions Severus staring blankly at the Other Harry at he explains that no, he's not a child, yes, they are besties. He's not crazy or lying.

"I am losing my shit over this , I assure you."

"You don't look it. But," Harry rolls his shoulders, "I guess you never do."

"It is a terrible idea. Letting you teach." Finally, his true feelings; not veiled by his affection for his Harry. Hatred is refreshing.

"I could not agree more." Harry won't let a little thing called being unprepared stop him. He never has before, and that's always turned out great.

(Well. Expect this time.)

"And yet, you're to teach."

"I'm to do a lot of thing, Snape. I'm not to stop at teaching. " Lesson plans are already forming in his head and they're good, juicy, rebellious shit. Even without magic, he's a threat. Tom's men had stated that, haven't they? It's a theory and Harry plans to provide proof.

"Ambitious," notes Snape. "You're a Slytherin, then?"

Harry fakes a gag. "Don't insult me like that."

"You are more like him than you think," says Severus. "You aren't him; aren't a copy. That much is clear. But... there are some striking similarities."

Stealing Harry's words. "Didn't I just say not to insult me?"

Severus snorts. He stops walking. "I hope never to have to work with you," says Snape. "And I hope you are to disappear. I hope my friend returns."

"On the same page about some things, I suppose."

Snape places a hand on the wall. "Tackle Heir," he says. The wall opens up and reveals what Harry assumes is his new room. "That's your password. Remember it. I might not have the heart to remind you later."

"Generous." Harry sticks out his hand. "To never talking to each other again?"

Snape eyes him, like Harry's hand (blood) is dirty and he will get whatever Harry has on him just by touching him. But he shakes Harry's hand firmly and repeats, "To never talking to each other again."

Harry releases his hand and begins to walk into his before pausing. It might not be the best idea to ask Snape... but, "Wait."

"I thought we were never talking to each other again," deadpans Snape.

"I just..." Harry takes a deep breath. He swallows. "I need -- to know, okay? There's this... kid, a friend of mine. Is he here? Neville. Longbottom."

"Oh," says Snape, a sly smile breaking out on his face. "Longbottom, yes, the... potions prodigy. Quite the shame, how he turned out--"

"I didn't ask your opinion on him ," snaps Harry. His heart beats too loudly. He's trying to remind himself that the best course of action with Severus -- with any people like him, who think the only way to treat a child is without kindness -- is avoidance. He hates him. Does here and did there. If Harry leaves him alone Severus will return the favour.

Punching Snape will be rewarding. Deserved. But Hermione's voice floods his head and the knowledge that Neville is here, his friends are not all away should be enough to quell his rage. It needs to be.

"Some kids, do consider, need a certain type of discipline. Longbottom is a prime example."

And Harry knows what that MEANS and he hates it and-- "Shut the fuck up," spits Harry.

Harry hears his heart in his ears. His head throbs and his mind refuses to stop, calm down, consider what the BEST COURSE OF ACTION IS, like how a Christian would forget what Jesus would do when fucking the devil. He's hurt Neville, thinks Harry over and over again.

He's hurt Neville.

My friend. He's hurt my friend -- and Harry knows avoidance is the best course of action and what Hermione would suggest but Harry doesn't listen to her sometimes and the best course of action is not often the most satisfying.

"Harry -- my Harry, our Harry -- knew that too," says Snape. "When dealing with Neville, there's only so much you can do."

Harry would never hurt Neville. Would never abuse a child but that Harry is not this one, despite their striking similarities, and this one? This one hurt a child.

This one hurt Neville.

Harry's fist swings at his head -- shut up, shut up, I am not like him, I am not a monster -- and Snape catches it with his hand. Harry strains. With gritted teeth, he spits, "You're terrible. He -- he was terrible. What similarities do you fucking see ?"

It's one thing to assume Harry is like his counterpart. It's one thing to be physically violent with students. It's one thing that this Harry was physically violent with students. It's one thing to be physically violent toward fucking NEVILLE.

And it is another thing to put it all together.

Snape squeezes his fist once. "This one, for example."

Harry sputters. "Like this is the same? Like we are the same?"

"Violence for me but not for thee, correct?"

Harry does not answer that this is not about violence but about love and power dymanics and friends because he is a Gryffindor. He solves some problem with his fists and all with his heart. He uses his free hand and sucker punches Severus right in the gut.

Severus curls over on himself.

Harry takes the moment to walk into his room and place his hand in the air. He states the password and the walla materializes into place again.

He knows three things for sure. This is no way to never talk to Severus Snape again. And that next time, they're both not to stop at talking.

And that Harry has no problems with it.