In His Image ── Tom Riddle.

XIV. Fate.

Actually, after he read that letter that appeared out of nowhere — like it had fallen from the sky — and finally discovered he had a sister and something bigger than himself he didn't yet understand, it didn't make him feel better. It wasn't something natural he found out, it was like a punch to the stomach, one of those that leaves you breathless and with a dry mouth. His chest felt too heavy, as if each beat was trying to crush him from inside. He tried to imagine looking at the Dursleys, trying to face them with the same indifference as always, but he couldn't.

Every glance from them now seemed suspicious, loaded with lies that Harry was beginning to notice. And the truth, or rather the lack of it, hurt more than any punch Uncle Vernon had ever thrown. He knew they had hidden everything, lied about his parents, about the accident, about the sister. Every piece of his life had been a false construction, and Harry felt the anger growing like a fire trapped in his chest.

He became quieter now, and the Dursleys noticed. Every step he took in the kitchen or hallway, every simple gesture, like grabbing a plate or sitting at the table, they seemed to measure every reaction, as if they feared any spark of intelligence or emotion might escape from inside him and reveal what they knew. They knew, Harry could feel it, that he had read the letter, that he had understood something — even not everything. That he knew something, that he found answers. But they couldn't prove it.

Harry curled up more in his cupboard and tried to calm the whirlpool of thoughts: the sister he never saw, the strange school with the funny name, the man with the long name — Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore — who appeared in that letter and spoke of magic as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He didn't even really know what magic was. He thought it could be a hat trick, some kind of adult joke, or something impossible that no one could really do. But the way everything fit together... the feeling that he wasn't alone in the world, that there was someone out there who belonged to him, who was waiting, made his head spin in a different way. It wasn't just confusion; it was anxiety and hope mixed, a mixture Harry had never felt before, but that left him completely out of control.

He murmured to himself, almost without realizing:

— My sister... where are you?

The voice came out trembling, filled with a mixture of hope and pain, echoing in the cramped walls of the cupboard as if trying to cross the wood and reach something he had never seen, but felt so close. Harry felt each word like a thread piercing his chest, squeezing his heart, causing a pain that was at once sharp and strangely comforting. It was as if that small question carried the whole weight of a lifetime of abandonment, lies, nights of fear and loneliness, but also the spark of something he didn't even have a name for — the promise that there was someone there, someone who belonged to him as much as he belonged to her.

He had no idea what she would be like. Maybe she had hair as black as night, or eyes that reflected light in a way no one else could understand. Maybe she was tall, or fragile, or had that way that made anyone stop and not want to look away. Harry knew nothing, but the need to see her, to touch her, to feel her presence as if the whole world finally made sense, was overwhelming. He could feel her name pulsing in his mind, Merope, repeating like a mantra, as if saying it could summon the sister near, and each syllable was filled with love and urgency.

The desire to hug her, to say he was sorry for the lost time, to make up for every moment of abandonment, throbbed in his bones. Harry imagined what it would be like to have her by his side, hear her laugh, hold her hand, maybe even play something simple, things he never had the chance to do with anyone else.

His chest ached with the intensity of that unknown love, and he realized, with silent shock, that he was willing to do absolutely anything to protect her, to find her, to keep her safe. He already loved her with an irrational force, a love that didn't need shared moments or memories, just the certainty that she existed, that she was real, that she belonged to him as much as he belonged to her.