That night, Harry dreams of a boy much thinner than him. He's older, but short, much shorter. His hair is not Harry's usual feral, mangled mess. It is something more contained and is shaved at the sides.

People are confused by him. He is, too, but he's much more respectable about it. These people would not the words common decency if they hit them in the face. He is forced into interview after interview -- interrogation, truthfully -- and speaks calculatingly around the truth. He fell through the Veil. He doesn't know what prophecy they're talking about. Yes, he's Harry Potter. Yes, he's sorry for lying. He was afraid, he lies. He was terrified.

He gathers the climate of what is going on and avoids certain topics -- certain opinions -- like the plague. He knows better than not to. Dark Arts and his personal involvement in them are a no-go. His politics are a no-go. His personal relations are a no-go.

Albus Dumbledore visits him at one point. He is curious. Wary. And borderline desolate. Every lie he tells is easily seen through and Dumbledore leaves more distraught than he entered.

Whatever person he'd hoped to find is not there. It is a feeling heavily returned.

What to do with him and Sirius is a heavily debated area of discussion. His own opinion on it is both not considered in the least and conflicted by himself. He wants to go home. He cannot go home. What else is there to do?

Some people want him dead. Some want him jailed and locked away -- and their prison, Merlin. He thought their conditions were bad. They are child's play when compared to literal, actual soul-sucking demons. Who cares about voter's rights when you are a husk of a person?

Others want him kept someplace safe until they can figure out how to un-switch this roo. He likes this one the best. Not that it matters (another thing that is hard to get used to. His opinion was valued and listened to before. Here, it's the word of a mere captive. The word of a fucking peasant.)

Mostly, he listens. He hears about his counterpart, an odd boy of fifteen that's safety is somehow a matter of national security. He hears about a Ministry drowning in public opinion and a Minister -- not a President, how queer -- who fumbles hilariously every decision he makes.

And, most importantly, most horribly, he hears about his lover.

He listens and does not like what he hears.

This world this not his. They think he is not a threat because he does not have a wand without even considering wandless magic -- and though it is a relief that he can use magic freely (semi-freely... he's too under surveillance to do anything dramatic), it's also alarming. This world uses wands. This world is full of fat asses. This world hates Tom Riddle. This world's Tom Riddle goes by Voldemort.

Whatever he's doing here... he wants it to stop.

In the morning, the dream will slip through Harry's fingers like smoke. He will wake with yearning both his own and not; desperation his own and not. Harry's had worse nightmares, but something about the faint imprint of these dreams feels worse.

They feel like something's big to come and he does not know what he's supposed to be preparing for.

...

Harry Potter fills his bowl of food densely. He's missed these, the Hogwarts feasts. The freedom and ability to eat as much as you want, whatever you want. He fills his oatmeal with peanut butter and cinnamon and sliced bananas and avoids the grossed-out looks of adults old enough to know better. They do not know what they are missing.

His body is a temple. Even if they think it a shack.

He gets no letter from Sirius. It's fine, probably. He's likely busy, or unable to send back a letter, if he's still in prison. There is no malintent. He's not being ignored. He is not hated and Sirius' well-being is assured by Tom's fascination with him.

He thinks these things to himself and, unsurprisingly, does not feel any better.

He does, however, get a letter from Tom. He'd have preferred to have been dropped off at Hogwarts and ignored from then on -- like how, as a child, he was shoved up into his cupboard and told to pretend not to exist. He can deal well with being ignored. Attention so focused on him... not so much. It is short and (grossly) sweet.

My Harry, dearest,

Thinking of you. I look forward to our time together.

Please read the press release.

Sincerely, yours truly,

Tom.

It is a letter one would send to their lover -- and that's great, except they're not lovers. Harry has never had a lover, never planned to get one. He is content, as is, to love only familiarly. And Tom... is content to try and change that.

And that 'my.' My Harry. It's worded so weirdly, too. Could he not have said "my dearest Harry"? It is uncalled for, given Harry's contempt for him, but at the very least it would not have been possessive.

Then there's his other line. The press release. What he's expecting, Harry isn't certain, but Harry asks Dumbledore for his copy of the morning paper because he cannot stand not knowing. If he mentions Harry, it is for the better of both of them that Harry knows.

The story told is clearly practiced. Harry imagines that same fake smile he gave Dippet given to the reporter, all lies and honey. He is ingenuine Harry wonders how he is ever believed. Harry figures he's biased. He knows too much to be ignorant.

Tom tells the reporter how the Veil was an Unspeakable project, having something to do with still unreleased details regarding the afterlife, gone horribly wrong. Science and magic are a tricky overlap and it is blatant someone made a miscalculation. That and a spell gone wrong sent Auror Sirius Black and Tom's personal advisor Harry Potter going in -- and a different Harry and Sirius coming out.

Updates on the Veil will come as the group of people working on it pleases.

He speaks a lot about Sirius. His family, his personality, his outfits, all gathered from Sirius' interrogation with them. The disregard for his privacy is casual and nauseating. But, curiously enough, he does not speak on Sirius' relationship with Harry... nor, at all, on Harry himself.

He says that if they have any questions about Harry, they will have to ask Harry himself, and, even then, he has the full and complete right to refuse to answer them.

Privacy. Freedom. Tom's gathered that Harry likes those, hasn't he? Giving Harry all but free reign when teaching, refusing to give out details to him to the press.. Harry supposes he is trying to be romantic. From anyone else, it almost might have been.

But Harry also knows Tom's moves here are deliberate. They are a genuine respect of Harry's autonomy, but they are also a play for Harry's affections. Tom asking Harry to read the press release is asking Harry to appreciate him, what he's doing. To fall for him, if Harry can believe that that's what he's going for.

Well, whatever. Harry will not appreciate an ulterior motive bare minimum.

Harry says, trying to keep his temper out of his voice, holding the paper out to return to Dumbledore, "Here. Thanks for letting me borrow this."

"Oh, no, my boy, you can keep it," he says kindly, familiarly. He's like that. Falling naturally into the role of a grandfather. "I've already read it. Fascinating story, isn't it?"

"Fascinating?" Harry rolls his eyes, poking angrily at his food with his spoon. "It's full of shit."

"You don't say."

Harry shoves a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth. "Hell yeah I do," he says, speaking around the food. Harry recalls how Tom called him childish and swallows spitefully before he continues. "I can just imagine his face. Smug bastard."

"You may say smug, sure," says Dumbledore. A twinkle of curiosity spawns in his eyes, of amusement. "But I would say smitten."

"Literally disgusting."

Dumbledore shrugs. "Mayhaps. But would you say untruthful? He had a thing for the Harry before you, too, you know."

"We're very different, him and I." Harry avoids his eyes. Dumbledore is Dumbledore, always prying. That hasn't changed, either. "Though I was told that rumour was -- how do you put it... unconfirmed. Pure speculation."

"Yes, it was," confirms Dumbledore. "I was friends with Harry, though, close friends... and he's not so much as avoidant to admitting the truth as Tom is."

Harry glances at him. He remembers Tom speaking about Dumbledore as if he is not a friend... as if he is insufferable. An enemy. "I wouldn't think Harry the type to be friends with you. Nor you the type to be friends with him." But I suppose I know neither of you as well as I'd like to, don't I?

Dumbeldore tilts his head. "Harry's politics were... a topic of discussion between us often. I understood, still, the merit of being friends with your political enemy." (He would, wouldn't he? Dumbledore and his direct connections to Dark Lords.)

Harry snorts then takes a small sip of tea. "Well, then you're exactly like Tom, aren't you? Cause he sees the merit in being lovers with someone very openly in opposition of him."

"You?"

"Me." He makes a face. "It's hard to tell, though, whether he's being serious. Maybe I'm just like... social inept at these things. But it feels like he's messing with me."

"I have seen Tom Riddle mocking and flirtatious... and, my boy, I promise you this is the latter."

Harry says nothing. He eats his breakfast methodically. Flirtatious. In love. Tom Riddle, Harry decides, should be associated with neither of those words. Hell, Harry's Voldemort would fucking faint. Harry's considering it himself.

Harry will do like Sirius requested: use it to his advantage. But he's also a boy with admittedly little patience for everything and that includes and is not limited to absolute bullshit -- and Tom Riddle reeks of it.

Sirius must forgive me, thinks Harry. He's not the one suffering for this plan of his.

"If you have any questions -- about anything, Harry," says Albus before Harry leaves for his first class of the day, "do not hesitate to come to me."

And Harry nods even though he thinks that any questions he really wants answered cannot be answered by this Albus. (Why didn't you tell me things? Did you know about Voldemort's soul? Do you regret how things have gone down? Should you?) But the gesture is kind. He has no qualms with him and is still conflicted about whether or not he should with his Albus.

And so Harry just nods. He will take every ally he can get.

...

Harry scans the curriculum -- former curriculum -- with a downright sour expression on his face. He's getting Umbridge flashbacks. All theory, all lies. All really fucking stupid.

It is like they are training a generation of wizards not to defend themselves. You will have no need to defend yourself in my classroom, haven't you heard? The real world is not a clinical environment but the real world, I assure you, I promise you, is not a violent threat.

God. It's the same shit, all over again. And this time, Harry's counterpart is the culprit. Comparing himself to Umbridge -- even loosely -- does not help his already growing frustration.

Harry drops the third year Defense textbook on his desk with a loud thud. "This," he announces clearly, feeling the vein on his forehead throb painfully, "is the most bullshit bullshit I have ever read."

There's scattered laughter, but it's kinda lagged, like they're shocked that he can say something funny. And hesitant... like they're not sure if they're allowed to laugh. He'll have to change that. He's a student, too, not a dictator.

"Actually," he says, standing up from his desk and walking to the front of it, "This whole situation is the biggest, steamiest thing of shit I ever did see. Y'all. I am fifteen. I have no idea what I am doing here, but, hey, I'm nothing if not an entrepreneur."

He sits on the front of the desk, legs apart, clipboard in hand. "Whatever he was teaching before, forget it. It's bullshit. I have learned more enthralling things when taught by actual psychos." And he's been taught by more psychos than the average person -- like... three out of five, four, if you count Lockhart -- so it's saying a lot.

Someone in the front row raises their hand slowly.

"What's poppin?"

They pale dramatically. "Er," he says nervously. " You taught this, sir, so... I'm not sure why you're saying it's... 'bullshit.'"

"I didn't teach shit, bro." And, quite frankly, he shouldn't be. But when you're the President, you can make anything happen. And anything... why, it's sure as hell happening.

"Our previous Professor was Harry Potter."

"Yea."

"And... President Tom Riddle introduced you as Harry Potter."

"Yup."

"And you're acting as our Professor."

Wrongly so. But yes. "That is correct."

"But you're not Professor Harry Potter?"

"Exactly."

They blink, baffled. "Alright, alright," says Harry. "I've an idea. I know none of you, and you all seem pretty confused -- which is fair. Can't blame you for that. So raise your hand, state your name, I'll mark it off my attendance list thingy," Harry waves the clipboard, "And you'll ask me any questions you have. Got it? Great."

Someone coughs and it echos loudly in the silence of the classroom. They're nervous. It'd make sense, really, that they'd be nervous -- from what Professor Snape said, it sounds like his counterpart is not the most forgiving man, even when regarding the smallest slights.

He's working against a sea of prejudices here. It is different than the ones he'd been working against before, in his own timeline... but you switch the names and places around, and it's the same old shit.

"Oh, yeah," he adds. He flexes his bicep. "Gunna put out a blanket warning here -- no commenting on my body. I see you guys eyeing me. I'm a normal dude doing normal dude things. I'm not gunna comment on your bodies, you're not gunna comment on mine. Fair, fair. Y'know, I've been confused by that part of your culture since I've been introduced to it. Calling people fat is an obvious insult, but it seems not a soul I've met so far has had a problem saying it to my face. What about the pretense of kindness? Or is that abandoned when talking to people of a lower status than you?" Harry rolls his shoulders. "But, yeah, whatever. A ground rule. Ask away, other than that."

Finally, a Ravenclaw in the second row raises her hand. Of course it is a Ravenclaw. Curious despite her fear.

"Name?" Harry asks.

"Sarah Goodwill, Professor Potter," she says, slow. Harry searches the list for her name and checks it off.

"Ask your question, Sarah. And, please, none of that 'Professor' shit. I am an actual child. I have no qualifications."

"Well, okay, then. What... what would you like us to call you?"

"Harry," says Harry warmly. "Just Harry. None of that Potter rubbish, either -- that's some Malfoy shit we ain't gunna get into."

Another hand goes up, quicker than before. A Hufflepuff. "So there's two Harry Potters? And I'm James. James Jordon."

"Yup. Pretty sure Tom said that when welcoming me, and in his thing this morning, but it sounds wild, doesn't it? Your reservations are... understandable." And frustrating (though he will never take it out on them, these children. He is not a monster. He is no Voldemort). Will he always be regarded as someone else?

"Zachery Smith."

"Tell me the tea, Zach."

"You're on a first-name basis with the President?" he asks, mocking. "What are you, lovers?"

Ever the charmer, Zach. "Absolutely not."

"But he sure sounded like he was gunna say you guys were engaged."

"What's your name, kid?"

"Kale Goyle."

"Well, Kale," Harry says sweetly, "He might have sounded like he was gunna, but he didn't, did he?"

"Seemed like he might've if you didn't interrupt him."

"Kale?" Harry says sweetly.

"Yeah?"

"I kindly request for you to shut the fuck up."

Kale blinks. Then bursts out laughing. "Professor Potter never would've said that," he says, chuckling. "Like, I'd be bleeding House points."

Harry shrugs. "I'm not a little bitch like him. I know it'll be hard to look past the counterpart you know," something I am discovering, too,, something I am finding just as hard, "but I'm not him. I'm much, much cooler, and it'll do all of us a little good to keep that in mind."

"I have a question, Harry," says another girl. She has black hair and a face best described as pug-like.

Harry smiles at the use of his name. "Sure. Name?"

"Pansy Parkinson." She points toward him. "What happened to your hand?"

Harry grins wryly, despite the familiar name. She's not being rude. He will save his anger for things worth being angry over.

He holds the palm of his hand out for inspection. It is covered in blisters, purpling and green. "Have you ever tried to fight a goblin, Pansy?"

Pansy gawks at him.

"Erm," says a Hufflepuff, third row. He has dirty blonde hair and wrinkles his nose while talking. "I don't think that was the hand-thing she was referring to."

"Your name?"

"Harry Goldberg."

Harry raises an eyebrow, eyeing his list. "Another Harry? Who woulda guessed... and what 'hand-thing' do you think she was referring to then, Harry?"

"The one on your other hand," he says. "The one with letters."

Harry pushes his sleeve further up his arm, covering I must not tell lies swiftly. "I don't know what you're talking about, Harry," he lies smoothly. Not that it's any of your business. My weakness, my body -- I wish you people would just shut the fuck up. But that's something I'd say to Tom, to Malfoy. Not to a child and certainly not to you.

"I'm Hannah Abbott. You mentioned Malfoy," pipes up one child. "You've met him? I didn't know people have had such adverse experiences with Draco..."

"Then you haven't been talking to the right people," snipes Harry. "And I've met another Malfoy, too, from my timeline. They're... similar, I'd say." Though it's like I gave him much room to be different.

"Timeline?" says one girl. "How can there be two timelines -- or two Harrys, for that matter? If there are two, there's certainly plenty more, according to Hugh Everest's parallel universe, and there should be no plausible way for them to ever interact." She crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm not buying it."

Harry taps his quill against the paper. "That's a good question, Miss...?"

"Granger," she says curtly. "Hermione Granger."

Harry scans his list, repeating softly to himself, "Granger, Hermione, Granger Hermione." He finds her name and perks up. "Ah, yes! Hermione..." He blinks. "Wait. Hermione? Hermione Granger ?"

"... Yes. That's my name."

"Like... the Hermione Granger?"

She bristles. "I wouldn't put it like that, but, yes. Sure. The Hermione Granger."

Harry's making a fool of himself, he's sure of it, the way his eyes are bulging out of his head, his jaw dropping to the floor. He's off the desk before he has time to think not to and approaches her quickly, accidentally bumping into a desk. "Sorry," he mumbles, quietly. His eyes are latched onto her.

She looks like the Hermione he knows -- and now that he's paying attention, she sounds like it, too.

Harry's heart aches.

He loves all his friends. He would kill and die for them and lead and be led -- but Hermione's different. He tells himself and others he has no bias within his Order... but it's a lie. He can't help it.

Hermione Granger is his best friend. There is no doubt about it. When the word comes to mind, she's the first thing to pop up.

And now a version of her sits in front of him, looking a few years younger, looking at him with no small amount of distrust.

Harry realizes he's just staring at her. In the middle of class. Like an idiot.

His face goes red and he backs up, bumping into the desk again. He laughs nervously and clears his throat, but he doesn't know what to say.

Hermione raises an eyebrow. "What? Did you know a Hermione Granger in 'your' timeline, too?"

"Yes," he says. His throat is suddenly dry. He had told Tom and Sirius that his friends could very well exist in this universe, but the idea that they do has not hit him until now. And it is hitting him hard. "Yes, I did. She was amazing."

"You're avoiding my question."

"I know, I know -- and, and I'm sorry, but I just have -- I have one thing to ask you, alright?"

Her eyes narrow further. "What is it, then?"

"Do you know a kid named Ronald? Ron Wealsey?" Neville's here, for sure, like Snape confirmed, and the idea of having all of his friends here would be a dream come true.

But there's nothing dreamlike about how the air in the classroom becomes a degree or two colder. It is more nightmarish, the way Hermione's suspicious demeanor stiffens further and people go silent. Horrified. These children look horrified.

Harry gets the irrefutable idea that he has said something wrong.

"It's obvious, sir," she says, snippish, icey, "that you're not Professor Potter, because even Professor Potter would not have demonstrated the pure audacity you just have."

Harry frowns. "Um," he says. "I'm sorry, I'm not sur--"

"Oh, I can tell. But I was under the impression that it was us students asking questions," she snaps. "Not you. "

"Yes, But--"

"But what? Are you telling me to do something? Because," she laughs, "I'm pretty sure that's only the authority a Professor would have over me -- and you're not a Professor, sir."

"You don't have to call me sir," he says weakly.

"Try and stop me."

Herry puts his hands, backing up until he reaches the desk. He sits back on it again. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm sorry. I don't know what I said wrong, but I know that I touched a sore spot and I'm sorry. Okay? My bad."

Hermione does not relax further. "Answer my question. You never got around to that."

"Uh -- right. RIght. And your question was... on the timeline thing, correct?" Hermione nods. Harry clears his throat. "Tom stated it in this morning's press release, but I suppose not everyone has gotten it... From what I gather, there's my universe and this one. They run paralle to one another." He sticks up his fingers to give a visual, then realizes that that's the way Tom explained it and puts his fingers down, making a face. "Both with a Veil, kinda acting like a gate between them. Me and my Sirius pass through the Veil the same moment this universe's Harry and Sirius do and -- vola! Switcheroo."

"Interesting," Hermione mutters. Harry notes with dull amusement that she's taking notes. "The magic of the Veil, then... it must be otherworldly."

"Not like we'd ever get to hear anything about it," mumbles another kid. To Harry's questioning look, he elaborates, "They've got it under lock and key right now. Only the President's top men have access to it."

Harry furrows his brows. "Huh," he says.

Tom. Trying to get me home or trying to keep me here? It's hard to say with you. You're trying to profile me, but I'm trying to profile you, too, you know.

Which one of us is having better luck, I wonder?

Harry shakes his head. "Okay. Next question?"

Someone asks him about those 'adverse experiences' he's had with Malfoy and Harry almost brusts with excitement. "I body slammed him oce," he gushes.

"You body slammed Draco Malfoy? "

"Absolutely! I've fought both of them, no regrets..." Harry smiles sharply. He shakes a fist in the air. "I've never lost a fight. Not against him, not against anyone."

He snorts. "I'd doubt that."

"Yeah? He had to regrow his arm bone once -- fucking sick, had to do that once, too -- while I only lost my two front teeth."

"We call that a lose-lose, Harry."

"As if." Harry Potter does not lose. "This universe's Draco Malfoy had some bullshit to say after I had been challenging his views, and--"

"So... you provoked him?"

Harry scoffs. "Y'all will do anything to excuse the actions of a rich man you like."

"Sure, but, like," he says, confused, "it sure sounds like you provoked him."

"I finish every fight whether I start it or not."

"That... is literally not what I asked."

There's laughter. Harry rolls his eyes, but he's glad these people know he is not the monster Professor Potter was. He's glad these people have the freedom to laugh.

The last name on the list is a posh boy, pointedly thin the way Purebloods are here. Pointedly thin in the way their body in part of their identity. So, of course, he's not one to shut up about it.

"Are you... actually strong?"

"The fuck you think, bro?" Harry flexes again. "I could crush your head between my thighs."

"Yes, so you've been implying, but, to steal a word from Granger," Hermione glowers and Harry gets the idea that these two do not get along (perhaps for good reason, from the looks from ti), "I don't buy it."

"I hate to be rude to a thirteen-year-old -- in my moral mode and all -- but I am this close. "

"This is basic biology," he says, condescending. "An excess of body fat does not increase your endurance nor strength--"

"This is muscle. I am a buff ass bitch. Like a jock but less sexist."

He rolls his eyes. "Right," he says, disbelieving. "Buff. Sure."

There's many reasons Harry does not throw hands. One, he doesn't throw hands with a child -- much less a child he has social standing over, however invalid that social standing is. And two... because he's learned that throwing hands about this issue shuts them up momentarily, but it does little to change anyone's mind.

He'd like to earn the trust of this class. To be proven not a liar would be useful when convincing them of other things. Like the fact that Tom Riddle and his oligarchy are full of shit.

So Harry says, "Do you wanna arm wrestle?"

The kid stares at him like he's said something absurd. Which is fair. Because he has. "Wha -- what?"

"Since you think I'm too fat to be strong." Harry holds up his arm. "Since you think I'm weak. If you're certain about that, then let's go."

He barks out a laugh. "You're not allowed to arm wrestle your Professors," he argues.

"I cannot express to you how much of a Professor I am not."

He makes a face, considering it, looking Harry over. Take the challenge, thinks Harry viciously. C'mon. You know you wanna.

A smirk overcomes his features and Harry knows he's got him, knows he's being underestimated, knows that he's reeled him in. "Alright," chirps the boy. He rises from his feet and practically skips down the steps. He grins. It is the grin of a boy who has always gotten his way -- and Harry's dead set on wiping it away. "Let's do this. Arm wrestle."

Harry hops off the desk and notes, dimly, people standing from their seats and moving closer. This is probably as close as they've come to having a practical demonstration in this class. Harry's glad to give them more than theory.

Harry clears his desk, moving everything to the side. He sets his arm on the desk, hand held out. Harry glances toward the back, grimacing when he notices Hermione is not even looking at them.

Harry moves his gaze back to the boy in front of him. He squeezes the fist in hand. "Someone give us a countdown."

"Three...

"Two..."

Hary's grip tightens. He sees one glimpse of fear on his face, but it is foolishly gone the moment it appears. "Three."

Harry's hand slams the other into the table the second it is called -- harshly, too harshly. Cheers break out -- incredulous laughter, some mocking, most just surprised it ended so quickly.

Harry winces at the boy's look of pain. "Sorry," he says.

He blinks at him rapidly, holding his throbbing hand to his chest. "But..."

"Here," says Harry. He opens the top left drawer to his desk, where he saw a potion before. "A potion, for the pain. I didn't mean to push it so hard, kid. It's just that," he shrugs, laughing. "I expected more of a pushback."

The boy takes the potion from his hand slowly, owlishly.

Harry smiles at him, then turns toward the crowd. "Okay, okay, that's enough. I know I'm cool as FUCK and now you all do, too." He pops his knuckles. "Back to your seats. You, too, kiddo. And... I really am sorry for hurting you. I intended to win. Not to maim."

He watches painterly as they return to their seats, whispering excitedly to themselves. He could see it, the appeal of a teacher, of watching these people grow up. It would be nice. It is just not for him. "Now that that's all cleared up and attendance is taken, let's get started." He walks up to the chalkboard. "We won't get too into detail for today -- being my first day, introductory, all that -- but I'd like to share something with you all."

(The way a father passes down an heirloom to his children -- the way James gave his life and his Cloak to him.)

Harry writes in chalk, slow, careful letters. "Today," he says, "we'll be discussing my very own strategical go-to." He sets the chalk down and states, proudly, "The James Formation."