Disclaimer: If I owned the fictional young man going by the name of Tom Riddle, I would keep him shackled to my desk and force him to do all of my Law School homework. Thus I would slowly but surely take over the world (of jurisprudence).

A/N: I am not dead. I meant it when I said this story would not be discontinued. I promised to finish it. I -will- finish. Might take a while, but I am a woman of my word. (usually-sometimes-on-occasion when I'm not distracted by ...oh shiny)

As the 0.3% of my readers who actually read these author's notes know, my life is not exactly as easy as it was back when I started this fic. Seriously, it escalated quickly. But that does not mean I will abandon it.

A heartfelt thank you to all those who have bothered writing me a note or mail or whatnot, it honestly means a lot to me that strangers would care enough to do that. Keep reviewing, I read every single one, and even when I already have lots of 'em, every new one means a lot.

Also, for all those who are at this point confused with the plot (there were a few desperate reviews trying to outline the plot so far and then staring at me with teary eyes, like, "did I get it right? Yes, no? I am not sure I understand!", I will have a small overview/simplification at the end of the chapter as an additional A/N.

And now, on with the story, for a slightly less plot-driven chapter, but one that sets the stage of a massive outbreak of plot in the next installment.

Chapter 46

Dumbledore's PoV

I've been often told that I tend to be a rather cheerful man, and ever the optimist. I suppose it is true. After all, it's mostly those who have become intimately acquainted with sadness from early on that understand the value of cheer. Still, as much as the time-traveler's words make sense to me, a part of me dares not believe them.

Could it really be as Harry says? Is Gellert still on our side?

On my side?

Is he simply behaving in the only way in which he could possibly fool and convince a Legillimens as powerful as that Voldemort? Is he carefully crafting genuine and persuasive memories to gain Voldemort's trust with?

Or was I, once again, a fool to so easily believe he would change for my sake? And naive to think he'd pick my company over his ambitions?

That his horrible choices had not come to represent him?

Hope is a double-edged sword, and it can cut its wielder as surely as it can cut their enemy. Besides, when I replay my reunion with Gellert in my head, it definitely feels too easy, too surreal to have been sincere; like one of these frivolous five-sickles-a-piece wizarding romances written by someone named Fiora Bellaflora or Verissina Emerald, where enemies of old fall dramatically into each other's arms, and three months later they have triplets, a white fence and a pet Hippogryph.

I never really liked those, though I might still have liked them a slight bit more than I would care to publicly admit.

So there I sit, still and in silent shock, whirlwinds of conflicting thoughts inside my mind and a half-eaten biscuit in my hand, when the young man grabs my shoulder and shakes me lightly. He is muttering something about a "a goddamn Snape maneuver".

"Hey. He's with us in this. I am sure of it, Albus. He didn't betray you in my timeline, not even after you had died, not even despite the fact you two never bridged your differences. It makes no sense that he would betray you now. Voldemort has nothing to offer him that he would be unable to obtain by himself," he says and stares at me with bright green eyes, full of astounding conviction.

He does have a point. And so, even though I am not entirely convinced yet, I feel myself giving in to my tendency to see the best in people. I finish my cookie thoughtfully (the soft raspberry jam topping is absolutely delicious), take a deep breath, and press both my palms against the table with purpose.

"We'll need a plan," I state. Across the table, the pale Slytherin seems as delighted as if he were a Weasley and I'd just announced the opening of the new Quidditch season.

The pensive silence of craftiness reigns over the living room for a few moments (and I try very hard to not think too much about Gellert, and betrayal, and whether or not, and if, and why, and how likely it is, how much percent, that he really did, and why wouldn't he after all, and...), with Harry scratching his badly shaven chin, and the younger boy staring back and forth between Harry and his own hands, torn between unhealthy excitement and much healthier concern.

"Well," Tom finally speaks up, in a slow, nonchalant and deliberate manner, and not without some amount of self-satisfaction, "they might have their hands on one of the Elder Wands, but we have two Hallows already the way I understand it, and there's a significant number of ways in which we are at an advantage. For one, I'm in a better position to understand this Voldemort than he is to try and comprehend me. He has apparently changed in a few decades much less than I have in a few months, and, if his clumsy attempt to tempt me with these dreams is any clue, he is not yet fully aware of how much I've strayed off his initial path."

Harry does not seem entirely swayed by his signature-twin's superficial show of confidence, and though he does smile fondly at Riddle's proclamation of how much he has changed, his gaze remains much more somber. Sometimes, and as unchild-like as the young Tom tends to be, the gap between their ages and amount of war experience really does show.

"I think he does realise that you have stepped far out of your original path, Tom. Maybe he feels that since you were so swiftly influenced by my intruding this timeline, you must certainly be quite malleable. That he can put you back on that path as surely as I've been trying to take you off it."

The boy's cool blue eyes flash with a strong dose of anger.

"I'm not malleable, Potter," he said, and in spite of the calm and polite tone of his voice, he did not quite manage to keep his retort from sounding a bit like a hiss. It is quite adorable, how he reverts to using surnames when he is displeased, I note, and I feel my lips twitch upwards, the hurt and confusion from Gellert's potential treachery not quite as obliterating as a few minutes ago.

"I made choices. Conscious choices," the Slytherin heir adds, enunciating each word with intensity, and their eyes meet and lock. I pour myself another cup of tea, add three sugar cubes, and sip quietly, fascinated by their interaction.

I cannot help but notice that, these days, every single time they speak with one another, every single thing they say is overflowing with either fierce sentiment or subtle implications, sprinkled with grandiose vehemence and at least half a denied love confession. It must be really tiring to speak in a manner so... furiously involved.

Reminds me of myself and Gellert, back in the days, how passionate we were about everything, how everything just seemed to matter more.

And now...

How much did that small nightstand really matter to him?

"That I do not doubt, my boy," I eventually decide to interfere. "I do also believe that we have an advantage. After all, we have one of the greatest powers in this world in our hands, a power that Voldemort does not have, and probably does not even understand."

Harry Potter looks distressed for a moment, and he grimaces sourly, glancing at me sideways. "Oh please Albus, don't say the damn power of love, for Merlin's sake!"

"What? Would I actually say something like that? Did I really get so soppy in old age? Sweet taffy treats, dear boy. I meant the magical signature-blending residue."

He offers me a wide smile of gratitude and relief.

Behind him, the disturbingly attractive teenager smirks a little, and, waving his hand around in a nerveless but frightfully and inexplicably graceful manner (Gellert, too, did that sometimes, so it must be a Dark Lord thing), he inquires "Well, should we not start planning our own moves, then?"

Tom's PoV

A few days after the Grindelwald incident, and my daily schedule has never been busier, for I am constantly engaged with the intricate politics of the wizarding world, the delicate dynamics of the Slytherin house, the mind-numbingly easy but compulsory Hogwarts courses, the training sessions with Potter and the daily meetings with him and Paddle-boar all battling for my precious time and attention.

Naturally, as tends to be the norm when the assistant professor battles against, well, anything, he does seem to arise victor more often than not, and I grudgingly realise that most of my time and attention does ultimately lay itself down at his feet, whether I want it to or not. Nonetheless, I cannot help but note the uncomfortable silences between us these days, as I have decided not to broach the subject of the earth-shakingly powerful Expecto Ager Curam that guarded me against Grindelwald, and he, in turn, has decided not to admit how evident a declaration of love it constituted.

Despite the slightly discomforting tension of a few undisclosed admissions hovering between us like invisible lapidopterons, however, I also find myself enjoying our simple training sessions a frightening lot, awaiting them eagerly and longing for the warm, wordless comfort of his presence and his affection.

Next thing we know I shall be enthusiastically fetching him his newspaper and slippers, wagging my tail, and then sitting by his toes to gnaw a bone.

Get a grip, Tom Marvolo Riddle.

If the threat of your foul corrupted and sadistic future-self strutting about your own time-space coordinates and seeking to destroy the things you've come to hesitantly albeit undeniably care about, as well as obtaining your very soul, is not enough to override this sensation of

comfort and growing familiarity and replace it with a sense of impending doom and peril instead, then your infatuation is reaching depths considered pathetic even by Hufflepuff standards.

And Hufflepuffs don't even have standards.

It is not exactly that I am unafraid of the menace of Voldemort, unaffected by the gruesome yet seductive nightly visions he sends my way, and unaware of the true profundity of the danger he poses. The truth is that I am, in fact, more than keenly aware of all of the aforementioned, and that there is a large, if temporarily supressed, part of me that is unfeignedly terrified of this twisted mirror vision of myself, and what his presence here could cost me.

It is simply that I...

"Hey. Been waiting?"

I turn my head slowly towards the source of the casual greeting, although the sound of his characteristically sure-footed steps and the rich, textured timbre of his voice have been more than sufficient to identify him, long before my eyes finally fall upon his stalwart form. He is leaning against the doorway of the empty classroom, raven-black hair framing his handsome face in intractable strands and jaw darkening with the slightest bit of stubble, his lips curving into a faint but cordial smile and the first button of the shirt beneath his open robes undone, revealing the slightest pale patch of skin, right at the base of his neck. A more distracting sight I could not imagine.

"A mere few seconds, really. How is our dear aging madman doing with the tracking of the second Elder Wand?" I ask in a mildly dégagé tone, hopping off the desk upon which I had been sitting quite languidly before, and taking a few steps towards the time-traveler, all while allowing my own carmine mouth to curve into a small, welcoming smirk.

"That woman from Algeria? False lead," he states and sighs, evidently concerned with our lack of progress, and the killing curse-coloured eyes under his bold brows wander pensively around the room for a few moments, before they finally settle upon my approaching figure, appreciating it politely but not entirely subtly.

He does not kiss me.

I suppose our ...relationship (not entirely the right word, I feel, but then again, I doubt the English language has one that would more appropriately describe whatever it is we have formed with one another) has not yet reached the point where we can simply greet one another with a hungry meeting of the lips, freely and naturally, not only because of our age difference, but, I assume, because of the general difficulty of our circumstances; and thus, instead of that, he simply places a hand to rest against my waist and melts his gaze into mine, smiling heatedly, an act I have learned to interpret as an implied kiss, one which will, unfortunately, have to suffice for the time being.

"Not good, that. If Voldemort beats us at the race to the second Elder Wand, then the Hallows shall be split fairly between our two... sides, and our advantage shall be substantially lessened, with only this signature bond of ours giving us any semblance of an upper hand."

"Yes. Which is exactly why we need to hone its usage as best as we can, Tom. It might end up being our only reliable weapon. And please, don't think to blame Albus. He is a brilliant man, and he is working hard on this. It's surprisingly difficult to find something when you have not the slightest idea where in the entire damn universe it could be," he observes dryly, and he takes a few idle steps around the vacant classroom before eventually dropping his aesthetically pleasant behind onto a half-broken chair.

I wait patiently -a trait I would have never guessed I would one day be able to exhibit even to the slightest degree- for him to finish his trail of unsaid thoughts, and subsequently, when he is up upon his feet again and his mind is no longer floating off to distant horizons, we train.

We get ourselves warmed up with a few simple spell drills, curses and blocks, hexes and shields, and soon we end up sparring casually with one another, using a vast variety of incantations, ranging from the occasional banal Expelliarmus to a few obscure and convoluted dark jinxes that, surprisingly, Potter does not seem to mind, since he firmly believes that magic is only ever as evil as its wielder.

And his opinions are actually rubbing off on me, I note, half-surprised.

Later, we train our ability to tap into each other's magical reserves, an action with which we have both, at this point, cultivated an incredible ease and familiarity, effortlessly using each other's magic as if it were our very own. And it is something which, to be perfectly sincere, feels unbelievably, shockingly intimate, sometimes more so than even the most passionate of kisses we have shared; an easy, unstrained sense of fundamental merging, a sensation that I doubt I could manage to convey even if I were to use the most impressively florid words in my prodigious vocabulary.

We then indulge in a few challenging exercises of spell combination, and though we have never again tried to do something as ambiguous as combining our Patronus forms ever since that rather discomforting Catoblepas we had once produced, I am definitely pleased to note that melting our respective shields into a single, broader one, or weaving together even our most potent offensive spellwork now comes as easily and unworthy of particular concentration as breathing. And I obviously mean to one who has no particular issues with their respiratory system, and is not currently suffering some manner of an anxiety attack, drowning or otherwise dying.

Follows a thorough workout of our subtle emotional link, the part of our residual signature-blending that allows us to sense something of the other's emotional state, if only the strongest and most prevalent of emotions, and if only in a fairly feeble and elusive way, and then we finally reach the peak of our training sessions, the intense, passionate sparring that is worthy of being called a magical duel.

He still defeats me, that thrice-cursed magnificent, war-weathered Gryffindor bastard. Every time.

Nevertheless, he does not do so with quite as much ease as he used to; these days I can make him sweat, and pant, and use feints and dives and tricks and silent traps, and generally the whole extent of his incredible magical arsenal as well as the full power of his natural resourcefulness, and Morgana, it does make me feel shamefully good to bring a flush to that rugged, charismatic face.

When I, inevitably, end up hit by the blast produced by the dispersion of my own Bombarda against his wandless wards (when in Salazar's beard did he even cast those, and how in the seven floors of Rowena's tower did I miss them?), he leaps swiftly to my side and offers me a hand, which I eventually take in spite of my ever wounded pride, for pouting and stewing in jealous resentment does not befit a young man of my grace and distinction.

"Damn, Tom! That was bloody brilliant! Coating that Lacarnum Inflamarae with a Shield Penetration Charm back there? You very nearly had me!" he exclaims with bright enthusiasm, and I inwardly remark that he no longer seems reluctant in the face of my growing power, that seems close to surpassing his own, or worried that his teachings might result in his own downfall; a vote of confidence that I am more than pleased to be receiving, even though I am still not entirely sure I deserve it, or ever will.

"Very nearly had you, huh," I coo temptingly and stand against him, still not having let go of his helpful hand, and now bringing my second one against the collar of his robes. "Oh, but I do have you, Harry. I already have you in more ways than you care to admit."

The wave of searing hot satisfaction I experience in watching his immediate and subconscious response of desire -pupils dilating, lips parting, breath deepening- is somewhat overwhelming, and I suppose I should feel some degree of guilt for venting the sting of defeat on him like that, by tugging selfishly at the strings of his want of me, but I don't, for it would require more of a conscience than I have yet managed to develop.

"Tom..." he exhales, one quarter a plea and three quarters a threat, his exquisite eyes flashing with simultaneous anger and desperation, and his jaw clenching with no small degree of frustration.

"Riddle! It is neither the place nor time nor is it..." he snarls this time, as my long fingers trail up the fabric of the shirt to reach for the delectably exposed skin at the base of his throat, and now his refulgent glare is sincerely furious, his lower jaw locking tightly into a position of barely restrained exasperation.

"Alright, I know, I know..."

I remove myself with deliberate slowness from him, a self-satisfied smirk still plastered all over my apparently entrancing face, and I sit myself upon a desk, crossing long legs as I fix an errant lock of hair that had been previously resting against my lashes.

"You'll be the death of me," he admits in a fairly quiet voice, but his mood seems lighter again, and the smile on his lips, as bittersweet as it is, is also warm, and comfortable. I suppose he has truly made his peace with this attraction of ours, finally.

"Can't believe you thought yourself heterosexual before this particular involvement, you know. Your libido, or at least the physical aspect of it, certainly does not seem to be the slightest bit hindered by my gender," I joke gently, and he throws one of these half-dark, half-soft and entirely unreadable looks my way, taking a shaky step back to rest his back against the cool, stone wall, and then chuckling, more to himself, I'd say, than to me.

"Yeah. Tell me about it," he responds, not without humour and yet more seriously than I had expected. "I should have noticed, really. Retrospectively, it was pretty darn obvious."

"I mean, for one, we once watched some Veelas dance, and while Ron was practically losing his head, I was barely even phased. And my first crush... A strong, lean, bossy Asian Quidditch player. Flat as a board, too. As close to being attracted to male qualities without buying a Freddy Mercury poster as one gets."

He laughs out loud to himself at that last remark, gaze wandering far away, in entertaining remembrance, while I, rather mystified, wonder what in Mordred's armour a Freddy Mercury is.

"And my ex-wife... Wearing skirts, blushing, writing poems, never even really noticed her. As soon as she puts pants on, starts playing sport and acting tough and whatnot, suddenly she was strangely appealing. Though I suppose there are many straight men who really do prefer a girl that's not a damn blushing maiden, so I could have still been straight at that point. The Draco thing, however? That should have really clued me in."

He pauses thoughtfully after that, callused fingers scratching against his chin and lips still twitching with self-effacing amusement, and my curiosity is piqued too strongly for me to resist asking, despite my tone of feigned disinterest. "Draco thing?"

"A Malfoy, in my year. You could say we were ...rivals. I spent almost an entire year obsessing over him, at some point, convinced that he had joined Voldemort's Death Eaters and stalking him to figure out what he was planning. It turned out I was right, about the Death Eater thing, and that he really was scheming, trying to help those arses find a way into the castle. But looking back at it now, I don't think that was the only reason I was obsessing."

"Later, in one of the battles that occurred on Hogwarts grounds, I felt curiously compulsed to save his sorry hide, and he consequently hopped camps, fighting loyally with us until Voldemort's eventual defeat. I was married at that point, though, and, well, it was a tough war, many casualties, and then the civil war broke out, and no one had the luxury to sit down and ask themselves why the heck they seem so concerned with some snooty little Slytherin prick."

Once more, his captivating eyes wander into the imagined distance, contemplating people that have not existed yet and now never will, and seeing straight through the age-old walls of the School or Witchcraft and Wizardry, into memories of a future forever lost to him.

I surprise myself at feeling a sudden, inexplicable stab of envy towards whoever it is that can make the green man so melancholic, but shove the sensation away in favour of a slightly snide remark.

"So, it would seem you have a type. Conniving Slytherings."

At that, he turns his head to me and unleashes a brief but loud roar of laughter, one that reveals his pearly teeth and a pair of faint dimples next to his arcing lips, making him look older as well as younger in perfect synchronicity, a bizarre effect I can't quite comprehend.

"I suppose you're right."

"Well, if so, then you are certainly fortunate. One could probably argue that I am the pinnacle of both of these traits. Conniving enough to stage a miniature political coup from the safety of my classroom, and Slytherin enough to be an actual Slytherin, by blood," I remark, my voice softly accented by impudent playfulness, as the rosy light of the now setting sun creeps into the room, framing both our forms in halos of apricot.

"I even dare speculate that, given these facts, I might be the man of your dreams, no?" I continue, but as soon as the supposed jibe leaves my lips and reaches my ears, I, to my abundant horror, notice that my words have come out in form of a reluctant question instead, one substantially more grave than I had consciously intended.

"Do you love me?" is, in essence, what I have just accidentally asked, and I stare at him half-frozen, in awkward recognition of my own reluctant inquiry, enraged at the pitiful antics of my subconscious mind.

He stares back, carefully and exhaustively examining my face, and if, perchance, he had not understood the real if unintended nature of my words at first, then certainly my expression of alarmed realisation cannot but have conveyed the inadvertent message.

Indeed, the light-heartedness on his features is instantly replaced with sobriety.

"At this point, you should not even have to ask," he replies simply, without embellishment, lifting his eyes to mine.

And there is an astounding plainness and a heart-breaking honesty in his somewhat hoarse voice that reaches out to me like a punch to the gut, forcing me to realise just how desperately I had wanted to hear him admit this ever since that accursed Ager Curam, how furiously I had needed this affirmation, and how, despite my own unwillingness to offer a similar declaration, and my own uncertain heart, I have been selfish enough to yearn for as much proof of his devotion as I could possibly get my hands on.

Will I ever be able to sincerely return such feelings?

To say such words with honesty?



I don't know.

I just don't know.

Unable to offer an adequate answer, I kiss him.

Suddenly, while my hands lock behind his neck and his around my waist, that overactive part of my daedal mind that is ever plotting, deducing, compartmentalising, conjecturing and hypothesizing, while idly pondering upon my aforesaid status as a heir of Salazar, stumbles upon the outline of a half-formed thought that feels somehow monumental.

Heir of Slytherin.


Potter and I, both descendents of the Peverell family.

Residual bonding.

Hereditary signature-blending.

"A relative," I interrupt the -admittedly tremendously arousing- kiss and abruptly proclaim, feeling vivaciously triumphant. "Look, we know that our signature blending is a residual effect of an older spell, passed on genetically, and resurfacing every couple of centuries, yes? So it would make sense that there would have been an pair of signature twins in the past, and that we would each be a descendant of one of them, and thus heirs to their magical legacy. And yet, Potter, we are actually both related to the same historical family known to have been carrying a signature-bond residue gene: the Peverells. That makes very little sense, unless..."

"Wait," he mutters, glaring at me, and I can almost feel the gentle humming of the gears inside his head turning. "Unless both of these supposed ancient bloodlines, the genes of the original twin, ended up blending within the Peverell family? And that would be how we could have both ended up inheriting a different side of the bond from the same family? That's what you are saying?"

I nod. "Well, one of us could have inherited it from elsewhere, I suppose, but you have to admit that it would make a whole lot of sense..."

"Wait, Tom, damn you! Not all of us are freakishly intelligent! So... that would mean that whoever Antioch's signature twin was, the wielder of the other Elder Wand, it is more than likely that he was also the man's relative."

I nod again, my smirk spreading as his dark eyebrows furrow in thought, and I finish off the flow of his deductions.

"And from what we know of this residual twinning phenomenon, it requires two time-wise coexisting males, who would most likely be both magically gifted, and probably have a close relationship. Therefore, if we look more extensively into the Peverell family tree for another male wizard who lived during Antioch Peverell's time, and exhibited strong magical proficiency, there would be a very strong chance it will have been the aforesaid twin, and thus the wielder of the second Elder Wand, which would also mean that by following his trail, we should be able to get a reliable lead to..."

A few minutes later, we are in Fumble-spore's office, and all three of us are speaking simultaneously in heavily excitedly tones, scurrying about the room in frantic paces, unrolling genealogical scrolls, spreading out maps and breaking yellowed tomes open, pointing things to one another, and occasionally yelping in jubilant discovery or elated understanding.

And finally, Myrmydon Peverell-Rafficini.

Who fits the profile as smoothly as I flatter Slughorn's ego, who was third cousin to the renowned Peverell brothers and apparently in very friendly terms with them (especially, some accounts in Laeticia Panini's 'A Detailed History of the Noble Houses of Italy' would suggest, with Antioch, though just how close remains a secret lost in history, even though rumours of a dreadfully unhappy marriage between him and his lovely Italian wife could be said to offer, indeed, a subtle hint), who was a Transfiguations' master of considerable fame and a more than passable duelist, who often visited the Kingdom of England on business, and who, curiously, died the very same year as our dear, enigmatic Antioch.

A few hours later, we are in Rome.

"This ice-cream is brilliant," Drab-galore mumbles.

Optional A/N for those who wish to freshen up their understanding of the main plot and are not just reading this because of the slash reasons:

So, many of you lovely readers asked me all sorts of questions related to Harry's or Voldemort's presence in the 1940-1 timeline, mostly summed up in "Am I understanding this right?". For you, without further ado:

What the hell has happened:

Voldemort is defeated a couple of years after Harry's Seventh Year, but, as in the original canon, the last fragment of his soul does not quite die, due to his strange bond with Harry, and he ends up in the "train station", that is, a state of limbo.

This place between life and death is also inhabited by future!Albus, who ended up there due to simultaneously dying and becoming Master of Death, therefore existentially confusing the universe. A round of applause, please.

Future!Albus realises that, even though future!Voldie is unable to escape limbo by himself, whoever next hops between timelines or does something equally weird will also come to pass through this place of limbo, thus creating an opening for future!Voldie to pass through with him, following the traveler's tail.

For that reason, when Harry Potter ends up in limbo himself, future!Albus grabs the opportunity to send him back in time, and specifically a time when another Voldie will be alive (past!Tom), as to ensure that:

Wherever/whenever future!Voldie ends up by following the traveler, Harry Potter will be there to defeat him, since he will,in this case, be the traveler.

Harry will enter the new timeline a split second before future!Voldie, and thus his severed twin-bond will attach itself to the resident Voldie it will find there, therefore bonding him to past!Tom instead, and making future!Voldie killable.

(Also, Harry's actions can not cancel his own birth, because he is no longer causally tied to it. He did not travel back in time within a specific timeline, as if with a Time-Turner. He actually stopped existing (went into limbo), and then started existing again elsewhere/when. So his initial point of entry in this timeline is no longer his birth. The cause-effect link is severed.)

Thus, now future!Voldie enters 1940, and, since allying oneself or inhabiting a 14-year old emo kid in a boarding school is terribly restrictive for a Dark Lord, he approaches Grindelwald instead of past!Tom.

Furthermore, it is still intentionally unclear for you dear readers whether he has simply allied himself with Gellert or is physically possessing him/sharing his body, and whether or not Gellert has been tricking us all along, or is pulling off a Snape. Harry seems to believe he's still with the goodies, and not the badies, and Harry has seen some shit, but you are free to believe what you want.

Though I'd agree with Harry if I were you. He's Harry freakin' Potter.

Also, now future!Voldie knows what Gellert knows, being a Legillimens, (who himself knows what Harry has said out loud, as well as what past!Albus has told him), so he has obviously found out about the twin Elder Wands, and whatnot. However, the dear reader does yet know just how much future!Voldie knows about the signature-blending thing.

It's very simple, really.