𝔇𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥'𝔰 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔍𝔬𝔨𝔢

Through the Eyes of a Horcrux

Thomas Alexander Peverell. That was his name now. His real name. A name his mother had given him—a mother who had been strong, unyielding, and relentless in her beliefs. She had been the kind of woman who could inspire both reverence and fear. A far cry from the neglect and disdain he had suffered under the Orphanage, all because of that foolish woman, Merope Gaunt. And yet, he had spent an entire lifetime rejecting her, as though he could reject her blood running through his veins.

He had hated her, blamed her for his pain, and yet it was another woman entirely who had brought his downfall. The foolish, idiotic choices of his past self still baffled him to this day. How had he convinced himself to believe in a prophecy so glaringly self-fulfilling that even a child could see its flaws? Worse still, how had he brought himself to point his wand at a child barely old enough to walk?

The memory of that night was fragmented, but certain moments were seared into his mind. The tiny house in Godric's Hollow. Lily Potter standing in front of the crib, her emerald eyes blazing with defiance. And then, the curse. The sickly green light of the Killing Curse exploding out of his wand. It should have been a triumph—a moment to cement his immortality. Instead, it became the greatest failure of his existence. The blood protection she had invoked, ancient and runic in its power, had sent the curse hurtling back at him. And in a cruel twist of fate, the Horcrux he had intended to create from her death had embedded itself in the scar on her tiny forehead.

From that moment, he had lived inside her.

At first, he had been dormant, a phantom consciousness trapped in the recesses of her mind. She was just a baby then—her thoughts incoherent and her magic barely a spark. But by the time she was three, he began to feel her more clearly. Her emotions filtered into his awareness, raw and overwhelming. And it didn’t take long for him to realize the grim truth: her life was a mirror of his own.

A magical child, unloved and unwanted.

He had felt every moment of her pain. Every lash of her aunt’s whip. Every burn from the stove when her small hands faltered. The blistering pain when a searing pan was smashed into her face for a "mistake." The suffocating darkness of the cupboard beneath the stairs where they locked her away like a filthy secret.

And he had done what he could. For the first time in his existence, he found himself trying to help another person. When her magic faltered, he lent her his own, mending her wounds in the dark and keeping her alive. It was a thankless task, but one he felt compelled to perform.

When her Hogwarts letter arrived, it was a moment of vindication. Not just for her, but for him as well. Freedom. A chance to escape the house that had suffocated them both. She was elated, practically vibrating with excitement as she clutched the letter to her chest. He found it… irritating. The joy was loud and all-consuming, and it made him feel things he didn’t particularly want to feel.

Then came Ollivanders. The wandmaker had peered into her eyes with an unsettling intensity, muttering about how her wand was a twin to another. His wand. He had felt her curiosity spike, followed by confusion and an almost imperceptible sense of fear. She didn’t yet understand what it meant, and he wasn’t about to explain it to her. Let her figure it out on her own, he thought.

He had hoped the wand connection would dissuade his present self—that fool—from pursuing her. But no. That version of him, hiding behind the back of a sniveling professor, had decided to hunt her down in search of the Philosopher’s Stone.

The first year was a test of patience. The traps set to guard the Stone were laughable. Devil's Snare? Chess? A logic puzzle? Had the professors conspired to create an obstacle course for particularly daring children? The incompetence was staggering.