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1
As Luna distracted Harry's well-wishers with a cry of, "Oooh, look, a Blibbering Humdinger!" Harry waded through the confused crowds without interference, his eyes searching for the two people he wanted to see most: Ron and Hermione. He saw everyone—Neville, Ginny, Mrs. Weasley, the Malfoys—except for his two best friends, and belatedly he realized that Ron and Hermione must have left for a quiet corner of the school. Their kiss flashed in his mind, and Harry blushed as he thought about what they could be doing now.
He passed knots of fervent families and threaded himself against the walls to avoid detection. Finally, he left the Great Hall and found himself in the small first-year waiting room he had last entered seven years ago. Harry took the Cloak off and sat on one of the benches against the wall, ones he had been too nervous to rest on in his first year. Dumbledore's words flashed in his mind, always keep your Cloak with you at Hogwarts, and Harry silently told the image of Dumbledore, it's all okay now. The battle was over, and Harry could put down the Cloak and rest in one of the most peaceful places in the world.
As Harry walked up to the Gryffindor Tower, he had the sudden urge to see the Half-Blood Prince's textbook one more time. Severus Snape—and Harry's still blood rushed from residual anger and hate when he thought his name—had been a complicated man. Harry hated him, and yet wasn't allowed to hate him; for all his faults, Snape had been loyal to the end. Without his efforts, Voldemort may have killed Harry long ago. Harry felt a begrudging gratitude towards him, combined with ever-present animosity. He didn't know what he would do with the book—burn it? Thank it in place of its owner?—but he needed to see its cramped, girlish handwriting, to see that Severus Snape had been a man (a man in love with Harry's mother) once instead of a Merlin-damned martyr.
Harry took a turn from the Tower path and headed to the seventh floor, dragging the ash on the floor with him. The rational part of his mind told him the room must have burned down by now, and as Harry jogged closer to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy, who was still trying and failing to teach trolls ballet, his pessimistic theory was evidenced by the fact the door to the Room hadn't vanished when all its inhabitants left. Harry's heart fell. Crabbe's Fiendfyre room must have been completely broken with room.
Just in case, he grabbed the broomstick he'd left by the door and pushed the door open. The flames still flared, but they were no worse than when he had left. No, they were exactly the same. How was that possible? Harry didn't have the time to wonder. He jumped on the broom and flew past what had once been an enormous stuffed troll, took a left at the notorious Vanishing Cabinet, and flew all the way to the back of the room, where flames had yet to reach. The acid-burned cabinet was already half-open, as if waiting for him. He reached inside to grab the book, thanking fate that it was only marred by some blown-in ashes. Harry didn't have time to yell before the cabinet sucked him into itself and sent him careening through time and space.
2
Down the rabbit hole Harry's body went, and although Harry wasn't conscious of a moment of it, his body would remember its bruising adventure for another month.
Had Harry been in his right mind when he woke up, he may have found it ironic that he had beaten the greatest dark lord of all time, only to fall prey to a seemingly innocent Vanishing Cabinet. However, Harry woke up with a blinding headache and a sense of overwhelming wrongness. The bed he was in was too hard to be his Gryffindor Tower canopy bed, and the sheets were too rough to be the ones lovingly cleaned by house-elves. He opened his eyes to the wooden walls of a Leaky Cauldron guest room, familiar after his stay in the Leaky Cauldron the summer before his third year. Holding only the bare necessities (a mirror, dresser, bed, chair, and table), the rooms were all similarly plain. Harry got up off the bed and dressed himself in the robes on the chair, then headed downstairs.
"Thought you'd never wake up, boy!" announced Tom the barman from behind the counter, waving Harry to a bowl of porridge on one of the tables. "Eat up, I set a warming charm for you."
"Thanks," Harry muttered, digging in. "How did I get here?"
Tom paused in the cleaning of his glasses. "You don't remember?"
Harry frowned and picked at his food. "I was at school, in the Room of—er, in a room, and I fell through a cabinet?"
Tom laughed. "Of all things to get into, a Vanishing Cabinet? Well, I'll just firecall Headmaster Dippet, shall I?"
"Excuse me?"
"Armando Dippet? Hogwarts Headmaster? You're English, are you not?"
"Y-yes. Armando Dippet is Headmaster?
Tom nodded. "Yes, though he's too old by far to still hold the position. It's almost time for him to retire. He deserves a vacation after looking after the brats for so long. Do you want the paper? It has the recent Quidditch game scores."
Harry took the paper and almost dropped it when he saw the date: 6 October 1944. "Is this today's?"
"'Course it is. You've knocked your head a bit hard, should I take you to St. Mungo's?"
"No, no." Upon further notice, Harry realized Tom's family must have a tradition of naming their sons Tom, because although this Tom looked eerily similar in face and age to the Tom Harry knew, he was the Tom from later in the twentieth century. "Can you tell me where you found me?"
"Just outside, up the shop's back alley, on the wizarding side of course."
"Thanks."
3
After going outside and carefully observing Tom's back alley, Harry decided he was cursed to live in interesting times. There was nothing special about the alley. Nothing that hinted it had ever been used for anything other than a handy apparation point. Nothing that could tell him how to get back to his own time.
"Accidentus undous!" he tried, absently waving his wand. "Timeus reversus!"
Nothing happened. Harry was stuck in the year 1944.
4
At the very bottom of his pockets, Harry found two Knuts, which he then exchanged for a hour-long refilling ice-cream cone at Florean Fortescue's ice-cream parlor. The parlor looked like it had in Harry's third year when he had sat on its too-high stools (that had changed now) doing summer homework.
For the first time in his life, he could sit in the middle of Diagon Alley without being gawked at like a circus display. Forty years later and one day ago, Harry was the most important person in the world. He was nobody now, in a way he hadn't been in years, and he wasn't sure if he liked it better this way. He had no money (Knuts were useless), no friends, and no home. And worst of all, he couldn't get back to his own time. He had a deep mistrust of the Ministry, so he couldn't ask them for help. He knew no one in this time period except Tom, who had taken him in out of kindness and pity, and Voldemort, who was somewhere between the ages of ten and thirty.
What should he do? He could live as Horace Slughorn did, move around from Muggle house to Muggle house while its inhabitants were on vacation. Or as Sirius had: live in a cave and on rats. Neither lifestyle suited him.
He wanted to yell, to scream, to go to Dumbledore and ask for help, to find the Burrow and hide in Ron's future room. He was tired of the never-ending war. For once, he thought that Voldemort was dead forever, and now Harry was—
In a perfect position to change the future, Harry realized. Sure, Hermione had said that time travel was dangerous, and that time travelers had a high chance of going mad, but it wasn't like Harry was likely to run into his younger self. Not in the 1940s. All he had to do was destroy Voldemort's horcruxes (he couldn't have too many at this time) and find... find something to do for the next fifty years.
Once his ice-cream cone finished refilling, he tipped his head to Fortescue (who was alive) and imagined the graveyard Voldemort had portkeyed him to in his fourth year. He brushed away the momentaneous fear and focused on the scene, not the people. With a twist, he apparated away.
5
The graveyard wasn't as frightening in broad daylight, Harry reflected. It was a small, quiet place, clearly meant for grieving families to relax. Harry couldn't sympathize—he'd never be able to, not here, where Cedric died—but he could appreciate its quiet beauty and the smell of nearby fresh flowers. He had last been here fifty years later, when the town had dried up and the people moved out, and the cemetery had gone to ruin. Now, the graves were well taken care of.
He stopped at the grave of the first Tom Riddle, but didn't stay. He had a job to do.
The narrow, woody path to the Gaunt shack was noticeably less used, and Harry stumbled over a few above-ground tree roots before he arrived.
The shack had a chimney. Smoke rose from it. Harry stopped outside the house.
"That's bloody not possible," he muttered. Morfin was imprisoned, the Riddles were dead, Voldemort wouldn't set foot in the place... Was the smoke caused by some unlucky Muggle squatters? They had no idea what dangers lay under the floorboards.
He rammed on the door. "Hello? Anyone in there?"
The door opened with a screech and the ugly face of Morfin Gaunt emerged from inside. "You want something?"
"I was looking for Merope Gaunt," Harry improvised.
"She's dead."
"I see. You're Morfin? I thought you were in prison?"
"Dumbledore got me out, good man he is."
Harry remembered Dumbledore saying how he found Morfin innocent of the murders. He left Little Whinding without the horcrux. Voldemort hadn't left it in the shack yet.
By that point, it was getting dark again, so Harry apparated to Diagon Alley, visited Tom's pub, looked at him with a mournful expression, and slept in one of the spare rooms. Perhaps he didn't need to be the Boy Who Lived to get favors.
6
Of the five places Harry applied to for work, only one Diagon Alley shop called him back for an interview: Borgin and Burkes. One of their employees had recently disappeared, and Mr. Burke needed to quickly fill the spot. Luckily for Harry, this was also the current workplace of Tom Marvolo Riddle.
Mr. Burke had a large, beefy face and a moustache Uncle Vernon would have been envious of, Harry thought with distaste. It looked like Mr. Burke also shared dislike of Harry with Uncle Vernon, since he seemed distrustful of everything Harry said.
"Do you have any records of former employment?"
"No sir."
"Dou you have a criminal record? In England or anywhere else?"
"No sir."
Mr. Burke puffed his breath. "Fine. I have a position open. Mondays, Tuesdays, and Wednesdays at seven on the dot. Part time. We'll see about more later. No promises, either."
"Yes sir."
"Now," he said, leading Harry out of the office, "this is your new coworker, Tom Riddle. Tom, this is Harry Potter."
Tom Riddle looked familiar, but not familiar enough. He didn't look like Voldemort, but he didn't look like his diary self, either. He was a little taller, a little more mature, hair less slicked back. Harry inwardly groaned. Riddle had already made his first horcrux, maybe even the next few. He was out of luck.
"Any relation to the Potter family?"
"Nope, Muggleborn."
Riddle's expression showed thinly veiled disgust. Unfortunately for Harry's employment and spying opportunities, so did Mr. Burke's. He must have assumed Harry was pureblooded. Thankfully, Burke soon shook off his prejudice.
"As I was saying, your shifts coincide, so you should become great friends by the time Tom leaves for his trip," Mr. Burke announced. "Well, I'll leave you two boys to it." He turned around to leave.
"Mr. Burke, if I could please have a word with you?" Riddle called to his back. Mr. Burke waved his hand to call Riddle over without turning around. For a moment, Harry was sure Riddle would do something to the store owner (hex him, tell him off, announce he was beneath him), but the moment soon passed and Riddle molded his face into what Harry assumed was his 'I want something from you' expression. Riddle quickly walked off and Harry was left alone behind the counter.
Borgin and Burkes circa 1940 looked the same as it had around 1990. Harry didn't know whether it was because of a strict adherence to pureblood custom (change was evil, therefore muggle pens and notebooks were banned even though they were easier to use) or laziness and ineptitude. From what Harry had gathered in the interview, Burke left most business decisions to his accountant, Barny, and the shopkeeping to employees. Burke occasionally came over to haggle over object prices, Harry surmised, but didn't seem to really do much. Borgin was on an extended vacation.
Curious and a little worried about what Riddle was saying, Harry put his ear to Burke's office door.
"Mr. Burke, in my interview, I asked to work my shifts alone. I've been having family issues with my father, you see—" Harry choked at Riddle's skill at lying. "And I'd feel awful if poor Mr. Potter had to deal with me in a gloomy mood all throughout his shifts. Is there any way we could work this issue out? Maybe Mr. Potter and I could work different shifts? I'm sure he and Mr. Stezzle would get along better than he and I," Riddle argued. Harry wondered if he was giving Mr. Burke the same innocent doe eyes Slughorn had fallen for.
"Tom there really isn't anything I can do. You've been having trouble finishing your organizing in time for the next shift, and I've had complaints that customers sometimes couldn't find you. I'm sure you and Harry will get along just fine. Off you go."
"Could one of the other shopkeeps not take his hours?"
"Tom my boy, you were Head Boy at Hogwarts! You should take this as a good opportunity to get to know a peer. Even if he is a Muggleborn."
Sensing the conversation was over, Harry quickly ran over to the counter. He stooped down, ostensibly looking at the items below the counter that had yet to be priced.
The door to Burke's office slammed open.
Riddle slowly walked over to him. Harry decided to try extra hard not to anger him, as his pleasant expression was missing. "I head something by the door," Riddle said.
"Did you, Riddle? Strange objects you sell here." Harry stared him straight in the eyes. They looked a lot alike, he decided. Light eyes, dark hair, not wimpy but not extremely square jaws, thick eyebrows. Of course, Riddle made his appearance look good as well, while Harry didn't remember the last time he'd brushed his hair.
Riddle's face smoothed. Harry wondered if his ability to hide his feelings was a talent or a skill. "You know, we've gotten off on the wrong foot, Potter. If we're going to work together, we should do it on good terms."
Harry nodded. "Yes, yes. Good terms." What did good terms mean to a crazy person? As long as Harry didn't anger Riddle, Riddle wouldn't try to murder him again (and for the first time). He didn't think he and Riddle could work together even if Harry only needed the secrets of Riddle's horcrux locations.
7
The next day, Harry awoke early, ate a quick breakfast with Tom and his wife, and headed to Knockturn Alley. His body protested horribly to the effort—he had spent half the night researching time travel at Flourish and Blotts—but he knew he needed the fresh air to wake himself up. Riddle arrived before him and flipped the sign to open.
"So...what should I do?" Harry asked.
Riddle handed him a dark, damp rag. Harry wondered if any dirt would actually show up on it as he cleaned. "Clean."
"What am I supposed to clean? Floors, windows, objects?" He refused to feel like an idiot with his question, because the entire shop was a little off. Maybe it was the low lighting, or maybe shops were normally dirty at the end of the week, but Borgin and Burkes was on the grimy side.
"Objects."
Harry noticed Riddle didn't tell him to be careful, even though he noticed the objects lacked the later Do Not Touch signs. Maybe too many people had unthinkingly touched the objects, whether they were shoppers or unknowledgeable shopkeeps.
He picked up a seemingly innocent green orb. "Can't these things be cleaned with magic?"
Riddle just about glared him to death, but didn't seem as daunting as he had when Harry saw him in second year. Maybe that was because he was older, or maybe because he had defeated him once already. He could do it again, Harry was reasonably sure.
"Muggleborn here," Harry added, to be helpful.
"Most magical objects are impervious to magic. And if they aren't, they're just as likely to absorb your spell along with attacking you to get the rest of your magic as they are to fling your spell back at you."
Harry blinked. "You're very knowledgeable about these things, Riddle." In hindsight, of course he was: Riddle had wanted to be the DADA teacher at one point not very long ago.
Riddle snorted and ignored him for the rest of their four-hour shift.
8
The next day, Harry brought Riddle cookies courtesy of Tom's wife. After picking at the cookies, which turned out to be dry, Riddle didn't seem any more eager to divulge the hidings spots of his horcruxes, and Harry didn't feel any less disgust at playing nice with his parents' murderer.
In the next four hours, he was turned green, shrunken, and almost defenestrated through the shop's window. Later, Mr. Burke came in and told Harry it wasn't required for him to clean the shop's merchandise, as some of it was very nasty, and that he should go help Riddle over at the counter.
Riddle smirked and Harry seethed.
The day after that, Harry didn't bring cookies and Riddle still smirked. Harry was quickly finding that a handsome smirk was Riddle's default expression.
9
"My uncle wrote that you visited him," Riddle began, absently turning the pages of his book. "He said you were looking for my mother."
"Oh," Harry said. "I found a book that belonged to a Merope Gaunt. Thought I might return it."
Harry wasn't a Slytherin, but neither was he a wet behind the ears first year—he knew there was something wrong with Riddle starting to talk to him all of a sudden, and looking at him with that calculating expression. And it wasn't just Harry's overly developed paranoia of scheming Slytherins talking.
Later, the realization hit Harry like a pile of bricks: Morfin Gaunt was still imprisoned, and the horcrux was in the shack. Riddle was sane enough to guard it with his junior Death Eaters, this time.
Riddle treated him differently from then on, like Harry was a subject to be watched, to be studied. Somehow, his stare didn't bother Harry. That was the first sign of trouble.
10
Riddle and Harry's partnership was slow in success, mostly because they had little common. They had different interests:
"Do you like magical objects? Borgin and Burkes has a reputation for having the best and rarest magical objects in Knockturn Alley."
"Dark artifacts, you mean."
"All kinds of magical objects. Dark objects are illegal, as you know. Are you interested in dark artifacts?"
"Only from a theoretical standpoint. I really needed to get a job to prove to prove to my friends that I wasn't being a lazy waste on the government. And I couldn't do Quidditch all day, so here I am."
And different friends:
"My lord Riddle there was this man and he—" the boy stopped, looking wide-eyed at Harry.
"Get out, Philpott. I'll contact you later."
The boy left in a hurry, a terrified expression on his face.
"Did he just call you my lord?" Harry asked with a snort. Riddle was barely twenty; had the megalomania started so young?
And different levels of education:
"That letter, it was addressed to Voldemort. Flight from death, right?"
"You're very good with languages, to recognize it so easily."
"Nah, my friend was just a really big extracurricular Latin nerd, so I picked it up from her."
"It's actually French."
But eventually, they came to a tentative truce.
11
But eventually, they settled into a friendship. Riddle still hadn't divulged his horcrux locations, but Harry made do with what he had.
"Good morning, Riddle!" Harry called into the empty shop. He heard a crash from somewhere beyond his line of sight, but ignored it and settled into his spot behind the counter. Riddle's book lay in sight, and Harry began reading from act two of The Tragedy of Hamlet, Wandmaker of Denmark. Funny, how Harry had started reading more here than at Hogwarts. Riddle was so scholarly that Harry wanted to catch up to him.
"Bloody Hand of Glory," Riddle muttered. "Why didn't you reply to my owl?"
"I couldn't, I don't have an owl, remember? Yours flew away."
"Get one."
Harry remembered Hedwig, white against the dark night sky, falling to her death. "I had an owl, once, named Hedwig."
"Queen Hedwig," Riddle said putting down his book and looking at Harry with a speculative expression. "That's the first time you've talked about your past."
Harry looked away and folded his hands. "Tom, can you tell me about Queen Hedwig?"
"The goblin queen in the early sixth century," Riddle began, climbing up on the counter to sit. Harry's eyes were drawn to his legs—Riddle wasn't wearing robes for once—and wondered if it was a gesture calculated to seduce. Tom Riddle was good at seduction.
Harry Potter was easily seduced. His eyes traveled down Riddle's legs as they swung, up and down, up and down. When he looked up again, Riddle was smirking.
Later that day, Harry bought another snowy owl, and named him Lochlainn after Hedwig's king.
12
Harry knew he was getting too close to Riddle, but who could he go to? There was Dumbledore—not yet great Supreme Mugwump, Minister favorite, destroyer of evil. Had he even defeated Grindelwald yet? Harry didn't know. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see Dumbledore. He could meet with him (a redhaired, young Dumbledore, he imagined) but to announce he was a time traveler... What would Dumbledore do? Harry had no comfortable pincushion of being Dumbledore's favorite, now. How would he explain why he waited before going to Dumbledore? Harry didn't know the reason himself.
And most worryingly, he wasn't sure he wanted to leave Riddle. He knew he was in trouble. Riddle was handsome and dangerous, and Harry was attracted to danger like Luna's Blibbering Humdingers were to students.
13
"Tom, I want you to visit Hepzibah Smith again, for that goblin-made armor…" Burke called from behind his office door. "Be sweet with her!"
"Yes sir," Riddle said.
Something tickled in Harry's mind—five hundred Galleons, he feels it is more than fair, roses, smiles, the locket and the cup. Harry's blood went cold. This was the day. He turned to Riddle, who was sitting so innocently and reading his favorite book. Somewhere along the line, it had also become Harry's favorite book.
"If you kill her, I'll stop you," Harry promised, staring darkly at Riddle. He had gotten caught in Riddle's web, a juicy fly, invited to dinner by a fellow fly in disguise, but he could maneuver in the web. Just one spell, and…
Riddle didn't try to deny anything, but he looked a bit confused. He didn't know, not yet. "I hope you're not trying to reform me," he said instead. Suddenly, he was too close to Harry. Close enough to touch him. Close enough to kill him. Harry said nothing, and Riddle continued, "because if Albus Dumbledore himself has failed—"
"Are you admitting you're in need of reform?" Harry would be the first to say Tom Riddle needed reforming in every possible way and they both knew it.
"Sometimes," Riddle answered.
Something inside Harry warmed. Maybe he really was changing the future if he could get Riddle to understand he was wrong. Maybe, just maybe, he could change Voldemort.
14
Riddle came back late that night, and came into Harry's permanent bedroom at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom and his wife had all but adopted Harry as their own. They weren't the Weasleys, but Harry was beginning to love them as well.
Harry looked up from his book when he heard the noise.
"I didn't kill her," Riddle announced, and Harry broke into a wide smile. He got up from the desk and walked over to Riddle.
"I knew it, Tom," he said, still very relieved.
Riddle's expression fluttered for a moment, and Harry thought he was reacting to his muggle name, but then Riddle stepped closer, leaned down, and pressed his lips to Harry's. It was a calm, calculated gesture, so different from Harry and Ginny's first kiss, but it fit Riddle and Harry's relationship.
Riddle was a tad taller than him, and Harry was forcibly reminded of his kiss with Cho, who had been taller than him before his growth spurt. This close, he felt Salazar Slytherin's locket in Riddle's pocket. He traced it with one hand, the other behind him, keeping him upright against the desk. If he moved his fingers just a bit, they would touch Snape's textbook. The book had become a comfort for him, and so far removed from his former life, his anger at the dead man who wrote in it had dissipated. It was the closest thing Harry had to a reminder of his home, but even that was a misnomer. Slowly, 1940s Diagon Alley had become home for him.
The locket and the textbook: two eras in Harry's life. And now, he was beginning another.
"I'm leaving to Peru," Riddle said, leaning back from the kiss. Harry nodded and thought of the twins' Peruvian darkness powder, and wondered for what it was originally used for in Peru. Riddle had all he wanted from England. "Will you come with me?"
Harry didn't know if Riddle was capable of love. Certainly he wasn't capable of all-encompassing, brave-hearted Gryffindor love. But if Harry went with Riddle, he could temper him. He could teach him love, teach him how to enjoy love. Maybe, Riddle would be calmed enough for Dumbledore to accept him as the next Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. But that wasn't important, not anymore. All Harry wanted was Tom Riddle, as stupid and simple and complicated as that was. For once, he was enjoying his life. To hell with the future. The present was clear, and Harry was happy.
"Yes."