#rmoy

For Harry Potter, of course, the switch was embarrassingly effortless. Ridiculous, really, even by his standards.

It had been a normal night.

Harry’s bedhead was mashed into his pillow while Ginny fiddled with his shirt buttons. A steamy make-out session, shorter than it deserved to be, had ended with them passing out together because they could—because they had all the time in the world. No dark lords, Malfoys, or meddling relatives.

Harry remembers fiery red hair and softened eyes. He closes his eyes, dreaming of a kaleidoscope of colors—red, green, orange—some his own, some not, some drifting to another plane entirely. A different person, it seems.

All Harrys and Ginnys and Toms and redheads and green-eyed boys and orphans carry memories with them. Each memory takes a different shape. Harry resonates with them, his own soul (a complicated matter, as his mind healer could attest) clutching onto a stone. A stone that links Harry with… well Harrys.

Thus begins what historians would later dub the Multiverse Switch of One Harry James Potter.

His consciousness wandered. The switch happened so seamlessly, so effortlessly, that Harry didn’t even realize it until he opened his eyes.

The bed felt the same. The smell of Ginny’s perfume still lingered. But something was different.

The fabric of his being had shifted subtly

The room had cream-colored walls instead of maroon. Windows framed with delicate black iron instead of dark wooden panes. And the bed—it was enormous, like three beds combined into one ebony frame.

“Fuck me,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

“Harry? Are you still up there?” The voice jolted him from his thoughts. He froze.

It was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to be ready, so his hand darted toward the wand on the nightstand. The holly wood felt warm in his grasp, its familiar weight grounding him. Magic coursed through his veins like an old friend saying, I’m here. You’re not alone.

He forced himself to stay calm. His heart pounded as the voice called again, closer now:

“Harry? Are you even awake yet?”

Focus, he thought, forcing himself to breathe. He couldn’t afford to panic. Not yet.

The nightstand tipped, dislodging a loose book. A single document slipped out, fluttering to the floor. As Harry bent to retrieve it, his gaze caught on the photo that slid free.

The photo knocked the air out of him. Two men grinned back at him, one unmistakably himself. The other—dark-haired, sharp-eyed, and alarmingly young—was Tom Riddle.

The voice called again, deeper, closer, more insistent:

“Darling.” Heavy footsteps hit the mahogany floor. “Didn’t I tell you to get dressed?”

Tom Riddle. Alive. Young. Human. His dark robes were pristine, his brown eyes softer than Harry had ever thought possible. But it was unmistakably him.

Harry’s instincts fired before his mind could decide what to make of it.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Tom ducked, crashing into the wall with all the grace of a startled first-year. A picture frame tumbled to the floor, shattering on impact.

“Expelliarmus!”

The spell was surprisingly tame—too tame. Harry deflected it easily, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

The room felt smaller now, the air tighter, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Harry didn’t tremble. He refused to. But as he locked eyes with Tom Riddle, saw the confusion and something else—something too human—on his face, a cold realization settled over him.

And if that wasn’t enough to shatter Harry’s sanity, he didn’t know what would.