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Chapter Text

Tom woke to see Death staring back at him.

Cold breath blasted his skin with the stench of summer rubbish. Tom’s stomach twisted in on itself and his heart raced. He couldn't tell if the rattling breath was his own or if it was coming from the maw under that gaping black hood. 

He heard his own teeth chattering.

Somebody whimpered nearby. Tom wanted to tell the creature that he did not want to die, obviously someone else was there who would be weak, easy prey.

Lord Voldemort did not beg for anything, and he would not negotiate with Death. Tom straightened his spine against the icy ground, wishing he could remember the moments leading up to this mess. His numb fingers groped for his wand in the damp grass.

Then Death retreated from him, releasing its hold on his lungs. Tom looked up at the full moon nestled between scattered stars and swore to magic herself that, should he survive this, please and thank you, he would spare the next blood traitor he met.

Despite having studied healing magic, he could think of no spell to make his stomach stop churning. His thoughts felt unnaturally sluggish, and he'd rather have his own faculties back instead of having to think at pace with the rest of humanity.

The pressure crushing Tom's chest lessened. The clouds above shifted, painting the night silver. He propped himself up and looked for Death.

A herd of Dementors stared back at him from the depths of their hooded rags. They were floating through the thick fog, stark black against the solid white reflected by the ice creaking underneath them. Though he was freezing cold and wet-robed, Tom was on solid ground at least. 

It was impossible to tell how many Dementors there were, only that their presence was making his thoughts ooze. The air stabbed at his lungs, cold and sharp and insufficient. Before, Lord Voldemort had intended to make a pact with the beasts, but now he wanted nothing more than to raze them and all of Azkaban to the ground. Tom could hear his blood raging through his veins. He pushed himself to his knees and spat out a Lumos , though it was Fiendfyre he wished he were casting instead.

A soft glow greeted him, like a firefly in the grass. Tom reached out and crushed his hand around the wand, scowling when the magic shimmering within the wood wasn't his familiar yew-and-phoenix.

Still, it would have to do. Tom raised it against the pressing darkness, brightening the spell. "Begone," he said. He listened to his pulse pounding in his head; weak, human, spitefully mortal. Nearby, something howled.

Tom glanced at the full moon—surely that hadn't been as close as it'd sounded? 

Rightfully intimidated by Tom's anger, the Dementors were drifting away, mist closing around them as if they'd never been there at all. 

He could feel the pressure of the creatures lessen as they flew across the lake, accompanied by the creak and crackle of the ice melting in their wake. 

Turning to the side, Tom tried to spit out the taste of rot and Dementor.

He almost choked. Lying right next to him was a corpse. Tom couldn't recall having murdered this one, but he knew the memory should be returning to him shortly.

He couldn't recall exactly how he'd come to be lying on the grass surrounded by Dementors, either. Which was much more problematic than the corpse, because Halloween had been a new moon, and sans Dementors it was entirely too warm for November. Something clenched in Tom's chest, a writhing certainty that things had gone terribly wrong. He needed to get to the heart of this before someone might suspect Lord Voldemort's weakness.

Tom knelt beside the corpse, searching for clues. Silver eyes stared blankly past him, as if looking for the constellations behind clouds and fog.

The man had clearly been a Black, though Tom couldn't place him. A bastard, perhaps? The corpse's robes spoke clearly of his disgrace. Tom shoved the cold, stiff body onto its side and helped himself to the trinkets in the man's pockets, then took the man's wand for good measure. Besides that, he was dead and there was no useful information to be gained.

The howl sounded again. Tom climbed to his feet, wand raised. Homenum revelio.

Two figures were approaching. Tom turned towards them, satisfied to recognise that his magic marked one of them. Likely his Death Eater was coming to report the day's events. Spelling the dirt off his robes, he stepped beyond the reach of the lake water threatening to lap at his feet.

Tom had gotten out of worse situations than a spotty memory and a missing wand. Lord Voldemort would come out of this stronger, mightier, even greater than before.

"Harry!" Albus Dumbledore's voice called out from the fog. 

Tom flinched. Caught wrong-wanded and barely recovered from the Dementors' presence, he knew he was in no state to face that man. This was a wretched night to be testing the efficacy of his Horcruxes, yet Tom saw no way to avoid a duel for his life. He raised his borrowed wand, magic building in his fingertips.

There was an outcropping of rocks nearby, but Lord Voldemort did not hide. Perhaps Harry was there, quivering in fear of the Dark Lord. 

Tom hoped not. The revealing spell had shown only two living humans besides himself. The Black corpse, bastard or not, couldn't have been named something so mundane. If Dumbledore thought Tom had killed Harry, he'd be much more aggressive in his casting.

Two figures were stepping into view, mist clinging to their forms like a perverse embrace. If Tom were to cast Avada Kedavra now, he wouldn't know which one to hit, and if he waited another moment he'd entirely lose the element of surprise.

Reaching through his bond to the Death Eater for an instant, Tom poured pain and terror into it. If only his man would collapse, distracting Dumbledore, Tom would gain an extra second.

Neither fell. Albus Dumbledore and Severus Snape came out of the fog like figures from a bad dream.

To Tom's mortification the spell he cast wand was a simple Expelliarmus, as if he were a schoolchild. Dumbledore's mouth fell open as his wand sailed into Tom's open hand. An impressive catch.

"Potter!" Severus' shout had Tom looking around in alarm. Potter? Hadn't he gone to kill the Potters last night? But there was nobody sneaking up behind Tom, nothing more dangerous than the small waves that had ruined his boots.

Meanwhile the greatest threat, Dumbledore himself, was standing right in front of him. Tom would make Snape pay, once he found his way out of this situation. Regardless of Tom's fondness for the young man, his potion-maker would be just as capable if he were missing a few digits.

Albus Dumbledore pried his wand back from Tom's fingers. "Harry, my boy," he said, looking directly at Tom. Surely the Headmaster hadn't always been so tall? "For a moment, I thought—"

The man didn't finish his sentence, realising the futility of his own cognitive weakness. 

Harry Potter? Tom looked down at his robes. Hogwarts robes with a Gryffindor crest sewn on. 

Of course. There had obviously been an incident involving polyjuice. Tom nodded firmly, considering the implications; he had significantly less than an hour to leave the Headmaster's company. "Yes, sir." The feigned deference felt like venom corroding his tongue. "Perhaps we should go, there are Dementors nearby."

Severus was muttering something unintelligible over the dead Black, before he levitated the man and nodded back the way he and Dumbledore had come. "Lupin will still be nearby."

Albus Dumbledore forced Tom to walk beside him, making it impossible for him to cast anything else at the man. The moon lit their way to the glittering castle, and even in his hurry the sight of her made Tom's heart clench. Albus shone beside him like a silver beacon while Black trailed after them in parody of a kite. 

Tom was reminded of the orphans heisting cloth scraps during their field trips to the beach, colourful specks tethered against the grey sky.

xoxox

Poppy Pomfrey huddled Tom into one of the infirmary beds alongside a ginger grimacing in his sleep and a buck-toothed girl who really needed to be cursed silent before Tom 'accidentally' lost control of his wand.

Albus Dumbledore stood before them, a curious gleam in his eye as he listened to the girl wax on about the innocence of Sirius Black. Tom barely heard her, he had no interest in schoolyard spats. Something niggled in his mind about Sirius, surely the corpse by the lake had been much older than twenty, but Tom had bigger worries. The Black's innocence in whatever he'd been accused of didn't matter now that he was dead. 

While murmuring perfunctory agreements, Tom let his mind comb through the possibilities of how he'd landed in some Potter child on Hogwarts' grounds. The thought was glorious even though the tactical advantages he'd intended were entirely unclear. If this was an assasination attempt, it should have been much better planned, but being thrust in medias res was exhilarating.

"Perhaps more than one life can be saved tonight." Dumbledore said suddenly. "Five turns should do it, Miss Granger." Then he stepped up to Tom and patted him on the shoulder, throwing in an honest-to-Merlin wink.

Tom stared, certain that the man was mad. Even Tom's wildest dreams couldn't have conjured a situation like this. He nodded, Dumbledore had to believe Tom would play his part, or rather Harry Potter's part. It couldn't be long before his skin began bubbling back into his own familiar form. 

He'd attempt this plot another time having made better preparations, but for now Harry Potter was welcome to have his inane schoolboy life back.

The wand, though, Tom decided he'd be keeping; it was delightfully eager with a fiery spirit. Now if only he could recall why the name ‘Harry Potter’ sounded so familiar. There shouldn't be a Potter at Hogwarts this year, he was certain. The family was known for its poor fertility, a stark contrast to the Weasleys.

When Dumbledore finally departed Tom could feel his skin crawling with urgency; the seconds before the potion wore off had already been stretched thin. He reached for his jacket, quite ready to make his excuses—when Granger pounced, wrapping the chain of a time-turner around their necks.

A time-turner on a child; Tom had murdered for less. "Where did you get that?" he demanded, even as the world was whirling around them.

"Your cloak, Harry," Hermione whispered when they arrived in the infirmary, rays of sunlight slanting through the windows. 

Tom felt like his navel had been turned inside out. The world had gone mad, surely children didn't deserve rare magical artefacts.

"Let me see." He reached for the gold around her neck.

"It's spelled to me, I can't take it off." She batted his hands aside and ignored the fire in Tom's eyes. "Look, I'll show you later Harry, but we don't have time now."

Upon the girl's insistent whispering he began patting his pockets, startling when he found a sheet of sheer spun magic. It puddled through his fingers like woven water. Granger wrapped them in its shimmer of invisibility and fabulous workmanship. 

Tom decided the cloak and the wand would have to suffice as trophies for now. He'd get that time-turner the next time he polyjuiced as Harry Potter. 

Granger had been leading the way towards the Great Hall, set on some mission. "Professor Dumbledore said two innocent lives, he must have meant Buckbeak too, come on Harry!"

The speed at which she spoke reminded him of Bellatrix, though of course Bella would never dare pull him behind the groundkeeper's hut. Of course, Tom was only following her because it was the direction he'd intended to go already.

She slowed when they moved into the Forbidden Forest, its shade thick with insects and heat. Granger settled on a treestump, ignoring the threat of moss staining her robes. Inexplicably, she seemed entirely content to wait.

Tom cast a Tempus. How long had it been since the Dementors? But there was no chance he'd be waiting with Granger anyway. "It would be prudent to split up. Divide and conquer." Tom flashed her a smile, the kind that used to make women do whatever he wished. It translated just as well to Harry Potter's face. 

"Alright," Granger said. "But we can't be seen. Professor McGonagall said that'd drive me mad."

Even her own teachers had deigned the girl infirm, weak. Tom nodded, eager to get away. "I could go eavesdrop in the Shrieking Shack."

"How will we save Sirius, Harry? Professor Dumbledore said two innocent lives ."

She was delusional. Sirius Black was likely on auror duty in Knockturn, under Moody's watchful eye. But even if some convoluted chain of occurrences would lead to the Black blood traitor dying in several hours, that was hardly Tom's priority. "The Headmaster's plan will reveal itself later, I am certain." Of course, that implied the old man had cogitated a workable plan at all.

Tom nodded at her and walked deeper into the forest, hurrying towards the edge of the school wards. It was high time he returned to his usual perspective; this schoolchild he was wearing was terribly short-sighted, not to mention short. Little Barty would be waiting in Lord Voldemort's Manor like a golden retriever. He'd be able to remind Tom where the missing time had gone, just like he always did.

When the next tree tried to trip him as he passed, Tom slashed through its roots with a snarl. He ignored the way the forest was murmuring its discontent. If the plants didn't want him to blast his way through the underbrush they should bloody well get out of the way.

"Halt."

Whirling, Tom drew his wand on the centaur. If the beast were to fire that arrow into him, she'd be long dead by the time he finished bandaging his wound.

"You do not belong here."

"I'm simply passing through."

Her hoof pawed at the ground. She glanced at the red sunlight setting through the leaves. "Two comets collide tonight. You are out of time, young one."

"As I said, I was just leaving. If you don't mind." Tom made sure she understood from his voice that he did not care about her minding, regardless of her status as Fate's chosen Watcher. He didn't turn away though, not while that arrow was aimed at his throat.

The centaur hummed, unaccustomed to human thought. "You do not belong here, and yet here you are. A moon circling a planet, breaking into orbit around a star. Leave now in peace, human. We will be following your journey in the night sky."

"Right." Tom stepped onward, certain that the edge of the wards was just beyond the next copse of trees. 

"That way is not yours, interloper. You have an appointment with the Sisters Three tonight."

Fate, Destiny, Prophecy, the women who wove the tapestries of life—he'd never heard a centaur speak so clearly. Like a light switch, Tom's emotions flipped to a burning fire, there was a shiver running up his spine. He stepped back the way he'd come, wishing he'd summoned a broom earlier to spare him the trek ahead. "Thank you. Good evening, centaur." It wouldn't do to leave Fate waiting.

He did not lower his wand and she did not lower her bow all the way to the edge of the forest. Tom stepped from the trees feeling wrong and right warring in his chest. Lady Magic, it seemed, hadn't decided just yet. 

"Farewell. Do not enter our woods again."

Tom nodded at her and forced himself to turn away. 

The walk, her words, it had set his thoughts rushing from river to waterfall, and down a very, very long drop. 

Another Tempus showed that over an hour had passed in the forest, which made at least two hours since he'd woken up at Hogwarts. Tom knew neither polyjuice nor spell could cause this long-lasting an effect.

He knew of no Potter currently at Hogwarts, and Sirius Black was supposed to be a young man rising through the Ministry ranks.

Two comets collide tonight. You are out of time, young one.

In search of answers, Tom disillusioned himself and walked towards the Shrieking Shack.

Chapter Text

The house's walls were made of wooden slats with plaster crumbling off it. Dust pressed into Tom's lungs, making it difficult to breathe.

Over the course of half an hour, Tom had watched three adults and three children misidentify the right person at whom they should have been pointing their wands. The revelations poured like ice water down his spine, a series of truths that shivered in his bones. Tom repressed the cough building in his throat and listened.

Sirius Black was an animagus. Canis fidelis, loyal beyond reason to a godson that barely knew he existed.

Peter Pettigrew was also an animagus, Rattus vulgaris, loyal only to himself.

Lord Voldemort had attempted to murder Harry Potter thirteen years ago and died, vanquished like a hero struck down by lightning. Tom wanted to reach out and crush Pettigrew's skull in his hand. He most certainly didn't want to think about what it entailed, that he had been discorporated while creating the seventh partition of his soul.

Fifty years ago, even Slughorn had agreed that seven was the strongest magical number. Yet when Lord Voldemort had gone forth to kill the infant—why had he wanted to kill an infant? —he'd ended up losing over a decade of his life. If only Tom could remember that October night more clearly. That night, and the months leading up to it…

The prophecy, hadn't there been a prophecy? Lord Voldemort was the most powerful man in all of Britain and yet he felt disgusted by his own flailing thoughts.

Then Severus burst into the scene, a welcome diversion to the mould pressing against Tom in the alcove from where he was watching Harry Potter's world fall apart.

Granger disarmed the man. Tom was going to shake her when he next saw her, what had she been thinking, disarming her professor? 

While the rest of them were distracted rehashing the same argument as before, Tom poked his wand through the crumbling remains of the wall to cast a few healing charms at Severus. The man had hit his head on the way down, but it was nothing the right spells wouldn't fix. 

As the crowd finally filed down the tunnel back to the castle, Tom listened to a cloying moment of bonding between Potter and Black, his stomach clenching at the implication that his magical guardian might end up being that blood-traitor. He knew sometime soon, Black and Potter would be diverting from the path. 

Hidden under a set of strong spells and the cover of darkness, it was easy to sense the familiar magic that covered Potter's scar like a caress. There was something there, Tom knew, but he would have to stun the boy to get a better look.

When the full moon came it was a relief, a breath of fresh air marking the moment this silly mission in justice turned to delicious chaos. Tom had gotten most of the answers he could for the moment, even if none of the points connected properly yet.

He followed after the boy in whose body he had taken residence, making sure to dodge out of the way of the werewolf galloping towards the forest. The centaurs would take good care of it, perhaps shoot an arrow or two through that mangy fur. 

Two comets collide tonight. You are out of time, young one.

Out of time, indeed. Tom watched the Potter boy collapse at the edge of the lake, his godfather just out of sight.

"Harry?" Granger burst out from under the invisibility cloak when he almost tripped over her.

Tom stared bluntly at her as she tried to catch her breath. She didn't seem open to receiving criticism on her treatment of her professors at that moment.

"Harry, do something!"

What, exactly, did she think he should do? They watched as a bank of mist uncurled across the lake, Dementors drifting along lazily.

Granger was shaking Tom's shoulder. "Professor Dumbledore said we could save Sirius. But I don't know how!" Her whisper was so intense that she was spitting. Tom wiped the side of his face, looking around. 

Potter was kneeling beside Black, half-hidden behind an outcropping of rocks. The boy's wand was sparking impotent white whisps as he cried for a Patronus that wouldn't come.

The mission was to save Black, not Potter. Tom emptied his pockets out onto the grass, searching for inspiration. A penknife, a spare wand, a key—a small potion vial?

Tom sniffed at it. Draught of Living Death. He recalled the way Dumbledore had leaned in to pat his shoulder, that twinkle, that wink.

The headmaster's plan was for Tom to fake a death? How—

"Give me the cloak." Tom yanked it from Hermione's unresisting hands, breathing a little easier when the Dementors' pressure couldn't reach him underneath it. He took the potion and ran for where the two figures lay, huddled and waterlogged on the grassy shore.

Sirius Black had been cold and stiff when Tom had found him. Like a corpse , not the living shell a man kissed by Dementors should have been. 

Potter didn't even notice that Tom was there, eyes staring blankly at the Dementor bearing down on him. 

A Dementor was leaning over Black, too, but Tom shoved it away. "Piss off," he said, and pressed the uncorked vial to the man's lips. Within seconds Black went still. The Dementors seemed to collectively shrug, turning the brunt of their power onto Potter instead. 

Tom knew from his Hominem Revelio that he and Granger had been far away by the time Potter was well and truly kissed. He raced back to where he'd left her on the lakeshore and pulled her away from the school.

"I saw—" she murmured, barely noticing the roots that her clumsy feet were tripping over. 

"Quite," Tom replied, stopping within sight of the groundskeeper's hut. "We shall wait here."

"I saw it, you got kissed!"

"I'm obviously alive and well. I saved Black, did you at least manage the same with the Hippogryff?"

From the forest's depths, they heard a howl.

Tom raised his wand and withdrew from the shade of the trees at forest's edge. The dark felt entirely unwelcome, and he didn't want the werewolf to sneak up on him.

Granger followed suit. She wouldn't be much use against a full grown werewolf, but she'd make a good diversion. Tom decided to tolerate her for the time being.

"Nobody can survive the Kiss." Granger's eyes were boring into the side of Tom's face. 

"I'm obviously the exception." The wolf howled again, closer now. "We need to go." He strode for the groundskeeper's hut.

"You're not Harry," Granger said. "I know Harry, and you're not—" the girl choked over a sob, accusation burning in her voice.

He looked back at where she was still standing, moonlight shining on the tears running down her face. "I assure you," Tom began, certain that Potter's friends were as malleable and daft as the lions on their robes, "I'm perfectly fine, you're being unrea…"

There was a mangy grey werewolf prowling out from the treeline. If Tom were a better man, he'd call out to warn her. 

Lord Voldemort was many things, but he'd never once been accused of being good . Wand raised just in case, he watched as Granger turned just in time to see the jaws clamping down on her own shoulder. The thump of her form falling to the ground echoed with finality.

The werewolf's snarling was unnerving. Tom took advantage of the way it was dithering over the kill, nothing like its sire, and backed the last few paces towards the cottage door. Granger didn't even scream, her hands reflexively pressing against her wound. She'd even dropped her wand. Bellatrix would have been bored by this one, but Tom wasn't ready to look away.

An arrow shot out of the forest, hitting the werewolf squarely between the shoulder blades. The beast yelped, claws scratching down the girls chest as it turned.

Tom saw a glint of gold chain and a jolt of green magic covering both Lupin and Granger in a sphere of eerie light. For a second Granger's eyes met his.

Then the green imploded, leaving nothing behind but a glowing imprint in the wet grass.

At the edge of the forest, one of the centaurs nodded towards Tom. Her words echoed in his mind: You do not belong here, and yet here you are, interloper. 

He swore to Lady Magic that his appointment with Fate better be over, because his adrenal glands could really use a rest.

Two choices swam before him: return to Dumbledore's school, or make his way into the world beyond Hogwart's gates. When he left he'd have to break the trace, which would mean travelling as a muggle at first. Then there would be a search party; he wasn't just some orphan now, and little boys didn't fare well in a world filled with the worst kinds of people.

Dark Lords didn't do well in a school full of children, either, but Hogwarts was blinking at him with her familiar lights. 

A warm bed beckoned. Tom would leave the next day, he decided, with a packed lunch, a travelling bag, and a supply of potions stolen from Severus' stores. He hadn't forgotten his promise to torture the man a little. Returning to the school was the sensible choice.

Dumbledore would have no excuse to regard the Gryffindor Harry Potter with suspicion. There was no reason why Lord Voldemort wouldn't be mastering this situation also, like he had everything previously in his life.

Sighing, he wrapped his new invisibility cloak around himself and traipsed back towards worn stone, warm halls, and crisp linens.

xoxox

The rest Tom had wished for was unfortunately interrupted by the panicked noises of Weasley.

"What?" he snapped, glaring over at the ginger's bed. Ron Weasley , Tom reminded himself. The boy had been Harry's friend, and if Tom wanted to maintain this lacklustre disguise for the day he should try to act the part. 

"Where's Hermione?" 

Tom swallowed. "She isn't back yet?" he asked, not needing to feign the confusion in his voice.

He wasn't sure what was more inconvenient: a girl that was convinced he was an imposter, or a girl that was mysteriously vanished. With a heavy heart, he realised he'd been expecting the former. Girls who disappeared into time had to reappear sometime else, surely?

"I was hoping," said Albus Dumbledore, lurching Tom firmly into the realm of wide awake , "that you could tell us what happened to Miss Granger and Professor Lupin. Harry?"

Weasley handed Tom the glasses Potter's pathetic body was dependent on, but still Tom was grateful not to have to squint to see his nemesis seated at the foot of his bed. The man was unwrapping a box of Every Flavoured Beans. Tom wasn't fooled by the attempt to appear harmless.

"She went to save Buckbeak, while I went to save Black. When the Dementors came, we ran towards the forest. And then…" Tom let his voice break off and looked down, studying the scrubbed wooden floors. He bit his tongue until his eyes watered before glancing back up at Weasley, then Dumbledore. "Then Lupin came out of the forest," he said lowly. "He—he bit her, here," Tom gestured his own shoulder, "and scratched her, here."

"My dear boy," Dumbledore said, his voice heavy. "I'm sorry, but you must tell me what happened then."

"Her time turner shattered." Was that a reasonable conclusion for a boy of twelve to have reached? Tom's stomach lurched, he couldn't afford to have Dumbledore doubt him now, not when he was caught in the Headmaster's realm. "I mean, I saw the gold chain, and then green light, but not like the killing curse." 

Salazar, was he supposed to know the colour of the killing curse? Tom glared at the hands on his new body. It'd been a long time since he'd been Tom Riddle, prefect schoolboy with the entire staff wrapped around his little finger.

Albus had been the only one he'd never managed to fool.

"I see," Dumbledore murmured, even though he obviously hadn't. Tom refrained from rolling his eyes; the man's hole-riddled logic suited him just fine. 

Tom let a bit of regret colour his voice, there was enough of that in him to make the emotion genuine. "Where did they go? I thought they might just…turn up."

"We'll have to wait and see, Harry. If not, I will consult with the Department of Mysteries. Perhaps we'll have to summon her, but you mustn't worry. You'll have your friend back soon."

"Wait, that's it?" Weasley cried. "Wait and see? What about last year, when the Basilisk was petrifying people. Hermione was the only one smart enough to figure it out!"

The Basilisk? Slytherin's Basilisk had been released only a year ago? Tom had a lot of missing memories to catch up on. He half-listened to Dumbledore cooing empty reassurances at Weasley, while Tom plotted for ways to get more information.

There was a backlog of Daily Prophet articles at the paper's offices in Diagon, but Tom wasn't stupid enough to believe that was a reliable news source. He couldn't ask the school's elves, they reported to the Headmaster.

Asking Severus would be an option, but Tom wasn't ready to expose his identity to the man like this. Similarly, most of his other Death Eaters would be hesitant to be friendly with the boy that had been present at their Lord's downfall.

At least, they should be if they had any sense in them. Perhaps Bellatrix or Barty would be open to serving a much younger looking Dark Lord, they'd always been rather untraditional.

So close to the end of the school year, Tom decided it would be much less suspicious to depart by train rather than as a runaway.

He indulged in another night in the infirmary before they forced him to attend the leaving feast. Surrounded by a sea of red and gold, he felt entirely unmollified that the house he was in was the one that had won the house cup. 

Weasley was cheery despite having lost both of his friends only a few days before. Perhaps the boy was too thick to realise this, or he was too preoccupied with the gravy dribbling down his chin. Tom turned away, forcing his face into a smile.

At the front of the room, Dumbledore stood before his gold throne, surrounded by staff and banners, while peering at the sea of upturned faces before him. The man had never even considered the irony of him denying Tom the very thing that the Headmaster received every day. Then again, Dumbledore hadn't had a self-critical moment in his life.

They collectively suffered through the announcement that Lupin had departed, and that Black had been declared dead by the ministry and was no longer a threat. Granger was not even mentioned, as nobody seemed to miss the mudblood anyway. It was a mixture of tension and relief that bore Tom out of Hogwarts and back into the world at large.

The summer would be a time of information gathering, he decided. A chance to settle into Harry Potter's life while finding the truth behind the holes in his memories around that Halloween night. Something had gone terribly wrong and yet terribly right for Tom to have ended up in Harry Potter, and it was best to wait and see before doing anything hasty.

Chapter Text

It took an uncomfortable minute on platform nine and three quarters for Tom to be informed, by Weasley no less, that he should be waiting for his guardians on the muggle side of the station. Tom bristled at the thought and pushed himself through the barrier all the same.

Potter had special status as the boy who survived the killing curse, surely there were special arrangements concerning his living situation. This summer would be quite pleasant, a thousand times better than in an abysmal underfunded London orphanage.

Then a whale of a man stomped up to Tom, spitting words that not even Fenrir Greyback would consider a greeting. The car ride to suburbia was just long enough for Tom to understand that, Trace or no, he was in for a summer of muggle-baiting and indulging in a significant amount of torture.

It didn't take more than a day to learn that Vernon and Petunia, not to mention their scion Dudders, were absolutely terrified of magic. They were infuriating, vile muggles, but Tom clamped down on his anger whenever it simmered too fiercely in his veins. It wouldn't do to call attention to himself with accidental magic. To have an obliviator visit would be humiliating, and he'd didn't want to explain the potions laboratory he'd set up on Potter's rickety desk. 

Instead, it was with a delicious self-righteousness that Tom added laxative in their Earl Grey and frog spawn to the milk in their refrigerator.

A refrigerator that lit up when its door was opened. Wizardkind were superior to muggles in every possible way, but their cold closets charms didn't involve a light spell. Tom had spent a solid ten minutes before the shiny, humming contraption in the middle of the night, confirming that the light was only activated when needed. 

Muggles were delightful. Potter's aunt screamed like music when she added milk to her tea, thought unfortunately her screeching summoned Vernon Dursley for his usual round of sputtering threats.

They should be grateful that the great Lord Voldemort wasn't tearing them apart, limb from limb. He could have carved up Dudders with a knife while he slept and the pig likely wouldn't even have noticed, not until his skin came off him in ribbons. 

But no, it would not do to lose control. Dumbledore would notice, he'd come looking if somebody turned up dead. Tom needed more information, contact with his followers, a safe base to which he could move. This was not the time to let his temper get away with him. Bodily harm was not an option, the Dudders boy had no pets to hang from the rafters, and the Trace prevented Tom from doing very much else. Expulsion at this point would be a disaster.

These muggles needed to be punished for every sneer, taunt, and insult, but they were no Mrs. Cole. All that was left to Tom without his magic was juvenile delinquency, but taking the tenners out of Petunia's wallet wasn't satisfying enough.

Meanwhile 'uncle' Vernon had squashed his obese form through the door to Tom's mediocre bedroom. The man was a coward who was entirely unprepared to use his bulk for anything other than posturing, and it took a lot more than a muggle to scare a Dark Lord. Tom ignored him and rolled his eyes when he realised that Vernon was failing to manoeuvre himself back out through the door. Climbing out the window instead, he made for the nearest bus stop. The muggles would still be there for him to rile when he returned that night with a fresh batch of tarantula eggs.

xoxox

Diagon Alley had changed just as little in the past decade as it had in the decades before; only the fashions having shifted. Tom was disgusted to see more muggle clothing than usual, and a dreadful resurgence of the pointed hat.

When his first shopping trip had demonstrated that Harry Potter was a recognizable public figure, Tom had decided on a disguise consisting of an ageing potion and a bakerboy pulled low over his rather recognizable scar.

A few people sneered at him, imbeciles who wouldn't realise true power if it slapped them in the face, but being misidentified was almost a tradition by that point.

Orphan boy Tom, the mudblood in Slytherin.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, heir of the founder himself. 

Now an orphan boy again, wearing Harry James Potter like a cloak, Tom skulked through Borgin's bookshelves searching for a historical accounting that was even remotely true. 

I am Lord Voldemort, Tom knew. The careful way the shopkeep was eyeing him couldn't intimidate a wet sock, let alone someone who'd been chosen by Magic herself.

When he returned to the Durselys in the early hours of the morning, a fresh stack of tomes in his new mokeskin pouch, Tom found all windows and doors locked. The spare key that resided under a pot of begonias in the back garden had been replaced by a note in Petunia's spidery hand.

You are no longer welcome in our home, you ungrateful boy. Collect your belongings from the shed and do not return. 

The carton of contaminated milk was sitting neatly on his school trunk, which in turn was nestled between various gardening utensils. 

Age thirteen and homeless, Tom allowed himself the indignity of sitting on the ground. He leaned against the lawnmower, sighing as his tired feet proclaimed their relief.

Perhaps the milk had been a bit too much, on top of the biting teacups, the discomfort runes etched on the bottom of their beds, the red shirt hidden in the white laundry, and the cockroach clusters left in the bowl of sweets by the television.

Even Mrs. Cole had been more resilient; she'd sheltered him until he was fifteen just like every one of the louts that passed through her halls. 

Handicapped by the Trace and without an owl for contact an ally—and what allies did he have anyway, displaced into the very boy who had discorporated him—Tom didn't have many places to turn.

His thoughts went back to that moment between Potter and Black, that offer of a place to stay made between a tunnel and a moonbeam. If he could find Black he'd be free from the Trace, a legal loophole he'd gladly exploit.

Without standing, he redistributed his trunk's contents into either the mokeskin pouch or a pile of castoffs flung against the shed's back wall. He made sure to leave a dungbomb rigged to explode on whomever was lucky enough to open the rickety door, and abandoned his pewter cauldron when it refused to fit into the mouth of the trusty pouch. 

After a week living with the muggles, Tom wrote them off as boring. He hopped onto the next bus back into London, his copy of The Dark Arts Through the Twentieth Centry keeping him entertained for the long ride to the Black townhouse on Grimmauld Place.

xoxox

The key from Black's robe pocket didn't unlock the front door, but the enchanted pocket knife did an excellent job of jimmying open the dark magic sealing the kitchen window. Tom climbed through, knife fisted in one hand and wand in the other. He'd been in this house only once, by Walburga Black's standing invitation, and even when lived in the place had been littered with dangerous defences.

A voice rasped out from the darkness—the flash of green left Tom's wand on instinct. He followed it up with a Lumos, mouth dry as he searched for the source of the choked moaning nearby.

"You shouldn't have startled me," Tom said to the house elf hyperventilating by a pantry door. 

"You are not the filthy blood traitor," the elf replied at Tom's boot. 

"Certainly not." Tom pondered if he should kick it, but his feet were already sore from almost a full day and night spent travelling. "Tell your master that Harry Potter is here to see him."

"Master?" the elf spat. "No Blacks have been here since the Mistress died. Kreacher has no Master, no Mistress." 

Hadn't Walburga died in '81? No wonder the thing was insane. Any elf that didn't incapacitate the person climbing through the kitchen window wasn't worth the linens it slept on.

Tom sneered. "I came under the impression Sirius Black would be residing here," he said, lest the thing decide to attack him after all. "He invited me to stay over the summer holidays."

"Sirius is a blood traitor. You, imposter, are you being a proper wizard?"

Tom raised his wand, collecting his anger into the desire to hurt. "Filthy elf, if I were your master I'd have your head for that. Of course I'm a proper wizard, and I'm as far from a blood traitor as it gets."

"An imposter who comes in through windows casting killing spells, yes, Kreacher can—"

"Crucio," Tom said, and let the elf shriek for a minute before he stunned it. He fed the thing enough Draught of Living Death to keep it from bothering him for at least a year and went in search of a bedroom.

The only clean one was pleasantly decorated in Slytherin green. After disabling a handful of warding spells and setting up twice as many of his own, Tom let himself fall into bed and directly asleep.

xoxox

The Black townhouse was disgusting, but at least it wasn't disgustingly muggle. A considerable number of cleaning and repair charms set the kitchen to rights. Tom didn't even want to undo the magic that burned him every time he touched the front door, perfectly content to have it keeping him safe while he used the window. 

Besides grocery runs, he had no need to leave the house anyway. The elf corpse he'd found lying on the kitchen table meant it was unfit for meal consumption, but the table did make a convenient step-ladder for climbing up and down through the window.

He could have moved the elf, of course, but he was hoping if he left it there long enough he'd be able to recall how it had died. Anyway, there was just a kick of delight Tom got out of treading on its fingers.

Meanwhile, protected as he was from the Trace by the proprietary Black warding, Tom settled in for more reading while the dust bunnies he'd charmed to gather their kin worked their way from room to room, swelling into plump grey things that hopped lethargically about. 

Perhaps, for nostalgia's sake, Tom would let them find their final resting place up in the attic.

Dark Wizards Through the Ages, coupled with long bouts of digging through his own patchy memories, delivered the answers Tom had been seeking for. 

At the height of his reign, only weeks before Lord Voldemort could have taken over the Ministry from within, a prophesised saviour had been born. Severus Snape had brought Fate's own words, overheard when a woman had interrupted a chat between the Dumbledore brothers with her offer to take on the divination post.

A true prophecy, spoken in a job interview of all things. A half-prophecy at that, for Tom knew his spy hadn't heard more than the first few lines.

Why in Salazar's name had he decided to act on so little information? Tom could remember the way the prophecy had burned through him, reordering his priorities until he could focus on nothing but the death of a baby.

Killing Potter had become Lord Voldemort's new goal, to the detriment of everything else. There were other gaps there too, holes of time where only snippets of emotion were left. Anger. Fury. 

Fear.

Slamming the book closed, Tom shoved his shoes on and began the short walk from Grimmauld to King's Cross. He wove through the crowd of bleary commuters and got on a train—slipping under his new invisibility cloak to dodge the fare—the first of several trains that would bring him to Godric's Hollow.

Lord Voldemort had been more feared than even Grindelwald, and he wasn't going to trust some journalist's accounting of the events that had led to his own discorporation.

xoxox

The twenty pounds for a cab fare had hurt, even if it was Petunia Dursley's money.

Standing before the ruined cottage hurt more, the smell of charred wood and mildew making it hard to breathe. Tom let himself sink to his knees lest his lungs abandon their purpose entirely.

Everything in the house reeked of the blackest of magics. Death clung to the air, and not in the good way. This wasn't a place where Bellatrix might stand, laughing as she tortured some mudblood.

This cottage was the home of a ritual, blood magic of the kind that had intentionally been lost to time. Lord Voldemort's clothes and wand had likely been seized by aurors, so the only trace of him in the nursery was a shrivelled dead viper coiled underneath the wardrobe. 

Standing before the crib, Tom could remember it with the murky details of a muggle film, like the lines of pawns marching too quickly through speckled streets. He'd meant this as his crowning moment, a ritual he'd created himself because no living horcrux had ever been accomplished before.

Things had gone impossibly wrong and impossibly right, Tom knew that the same way he knew his name was now Harry Potter. 

Gathering up the mummified remains of Nagini, Tom turned his back on where he had accidentally put a piece of his soul into a baby thirteen years ago. Even if the receptacle hadn't been the one he'd intended, that was hardly a point of failure.

Lord Voldemort had meant to thwart prophecy, to create a horcrux unlike any other, and he'd succeeded beyond his wildest imaginings. What was a bit of spell backlash, a minor discorporation, a lost decade, compared to the boon that this new body was for him?

Fate had smiled on him that day when she'd brought him that prophecy. And when she'd sent a hoard of Dementors after Harry Potter on a moonlit June night, she had laughed.

Tom allowed his own chuckle to slip from his throat, standing in the front garden of a cottage adorned by a sign that proclaimed his new alter ego as saviour of the wizarding world. He knew he was proud, and vain, but some people's hubris was insurmountable indeed.

Still chortling, Tom turned right down Coleford Road, determined to pay his respects, as it were, to Lily and James Potter for sacrificing themselves and their son so that Lord Voldemort might survive.

xoxox

The tombstone was immaculate, inscribed with a phrase that had been chosen by a muggle like Petunia, because Dumbledore surely hadn't touched a bible in his decrepit life.

Corinthians 15. There had been a particularly determined brother preaching it every night in the Tower Hamlets shelter, the German bombers screaming over the sound of the man's echoing voice. Certain lines hadn't left Tom even when the walls had stopped shaking, when his knees had stopped shaking.

When this corruptible shall have put on incorruption, and this mortal shall have put on immortality, then Death is swallowed up in victory.

"For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead," Tom told the white marble. "For he must reign, till he hath put all enemies under his feet. The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death." He wished he could conjure some flowers, leave a gesture of peace lest Fate revoke her gift and send their spirits to haunt him, but he didn't dare provoke the Trace. "You did not die in vain, James, Lily, even if it was not for the cause you intended."

With a final pat to the cold stone, Tom turned, only to see a shaggy black dog sitting on the path before him.

xoxox

Coming up:

"Harry, I'm so glad you're safe." Sirius sounded like had not spent any of the past fortnight recovering his health. Apparently, being dead did not suit the man.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Tom said. Unlike you, he refrained from adding, and he kept the sneer off his face. Whether the man took after Bellatrix or Narcissa, it would be extremely useful to have a Black on Tom's side. 

xoxox

Thank you for reading. See you in the comments!

Chapter Text

"Sirius Black," Tom greeted the dog. "I had been hoping to meet with you this summer."

The dog panted, tongue lolling and ribs protruding. It looked remarkably like a grim, a fitting sight for an evening stroll in a church graveyard. At least one weak-hearted pensioner had likely toppled over in fright.

"Shall we?" Tom stepped up to the dog and led the way back to the main road. He'd spied a muggle inn; nobody would be looking for a dead man there, and Tom had no intention to spend three frustrating hours getting back to London. Either Black would be apparating them, or Tom would be spending the night.

Fortunately, there were enough wards littered about Godric's Hollow that the innkeep didn't question the minor whose underfed dog executed a perfect heel.

As soon as the room’s door closed, Sirius transformed back, wrapping spindly arms around Tom. Lord Voldemort gritted his teeth and endured the hug for three seconds before stepping out of reach. He did not reholster his wand, regardless that Black was so thin a strong kick would snap him in two.

"Harry, I'm so glad you're safe." Sirius sounded like he hadn't spent any of the past fortnight recovering his health. Apparently, being dead did not suit the man.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Tom said. Unlike you , he refrained from adding, and he kept the sneer off his face. Whether the man took after Bellatrix or Narcissa, it would be extremely useful to have a Black on Tom's side. 

"Dumbledore said you'd be with the muggles, that I couldn't see you. I wanted to write, but…" 

There was a forlorn look in the man's eyes. Had he lost his literacy in twelve years in Azkaban? If so, Tom would have to reconsider breaking his most loyal out. 

"But?"

"I don't have an owl, and I lost my wand and the key to my vault. I've been living as Padfoot, mostly. Wormtail's trail has gone cold." The man momentarily looked more sheep than dog.

"Dumbledore didn't provide you with anything?" The Headmaster must had given Black the antidote, and hopefully shoved some nutrition potions and a hearty meal at the man for good measure. 

If Black had been Tom's servant, he'd have interrogated, then punished the man enough to take the edge off Lord Voldemort's temper, but he'd never let his people starve .

There were cleaner ways to kill a nuisance than that, and Dumbledore had always preached his humanitarian superiority. The sheer hypocrisy was enough to have Tom's blood searing through him.

"I might've run off when he told me you couldn't live with me," Sirius said, regarding his own feet as he shifted.

"I see." Tom took a clearing breath. One of them needed to be the adult here, and Sirius Black evidently took after Bellatrix. Well, Tom had a lot of experience dealing with Bella. "Tell me, Sirius, what is it you desire?"

Black blinked. "You. Well, not like that , but—"

Tom nodded, counting the seconds in his head as Black gathered his thoughts. One killing curse, two killing curse, three killing curse—

"You're all I have left, Harry."

Excellent. Tom could have laughed. 

"I'm here now. I am amenable to staying with you, Sirius, a few conditions notwithstanding."

"Anything." Black's eyes brimmed with emotion.

The smile stretching across Tom's face was genuine. "You shall swear to keep my secrets. I do not want words of my habits being released to the press, nor to my peers or professors. The summer should be a chance for me to relax and be myself."

Black nodded solemnly, swallowing every word like a Gryffindor. "Done. Anything else?"

"We will be living in the Black townhouse." Tom let his mind rattle through eventualities and excuses. "I am tired of staying with the muggles, and I heard it has formidable wards. Once you adopt me formally, the wards should respond to me as well."

"I'm adopting you?" Black had managed to choke on his own spit. Either his time in Azkaban had made the man incapable of swallowing, or it was an inborn deficiency. There had been many things said about the effects of incest on the Black family tree, but Tom very much hoped to get some use out of Sirius first.

"You should listen when I speak."

For a moment those grey eyes were bright and shrewd, searching Tom for something more than the boy he was wearing. 

"Okay. Yeah, Harry. Anything for you." Sirius Black's searching gaze found only what he wanted to see. Humans, Tom had learnt half a century ago, were stupid like that. 

"I suppose there's no point in asking if you can side-along me wandlessly." Tom sighed, rubbing at his temples. "The Trace is still on mine," he added, before Black dared ask to use it. "We'll have to take the train to London tomorrow morning."

The whine Black made was particularly dog-like as he regarded the single bed. "Good night, Harry. I really am glad you're safe." 

There were many possible replies to that, each more honest than the next. I find your existence convenient. You have a part to play in my plans for taking over wizarding Britain. Magic was smiling upon me when she placed you in my path today. 

Tom swallowed his words, nodded, and went to brush his teeth.

xoxox

The inn's full English was enough to provide a growing teenager and his dog with sufficient nourishment for the day. Their long journey back to London consisted mostly of sitting on train platforms listening to announcements of delays.

Leaves on the line . Muggles truly were incompetent if they couldn't prevent leaf litter in the height of summer. It was enough to have Tom clenching his fists, nails pressing into his calloused little hands.

Once Tom had cut Black's hair and loaned him some clothes, the man looked decent enough to travel as a human without risking attention. People weren't looking for a dead man, so the felt cap pulled low over his face sufficed as camouflage.

Despite them having avoided the main wave of commuters by virtue of their extended breakfast, it was nonetheless too busy to travel under the invisibility cloak. Tom pretended not to mind paying their fare and said that yes, he was definitely twelve and therefore eligible for a child's ticket. He had to clamp down on his magic before he set the conductor's brain alight with his glare.

When they finally arrived at Grimmauld Place, Tom was ready for a neat bit of murder, but of course Black had other plans. The dog-man was squirming with questions, each of them collected when Black had realised they weren't fit for muggle ears. Tom would have been impressed by the man's control, if he hadn't also been so pathetic.

"I haven't been here since I was about your age," Black whispered, regarding the townhouse's panelled door as if something insignificant as lingering dust or magical residue could hurt him. "Here goes."

The lock clicked open for the heir of House Black like it was his birthright. Tom surreptitiously vanished Potter's trainers, which he'd left by the coatrack, and lifted his chokehold on the house's spying portraits.

"Back to sully my doorstep, boy?" Walburga Black greeted them.

"Shut up, mum," Sirius said, and led the way through the hall while Walburga worked herself up into a frenzy that Petunia couldn't have bested. "If we're lucky the kitchen will be clean enough, else you can cast a Scourgify . The Trace can't track you here, my dad made sure of that."

Somehow, Black didn't notice the elf-shaped lump under a sheet by the far wall, too busy exclaiming his pleasure over mould-free implements while unpacking groceries and putting the kettle on.

Over the sound of crinkling bags, Tom threw a disillusionment spell at Kritchy and lowered him to the floor by the window. Tom held his breath as Black turned towards the pantry door but—blessed Magic—he merely set the shop on the countertop. Black truly was a bachelor who'd grown up with an elf.  

Soon enough they were sitting at the scourgified kitchen table, each cradling a cuppa. Tom had made sure they'd bought the good stuff, and Black as a proper little heir knew to prepare it exactly right.

Tom inhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing despite himself.

"What vow am I swearing, then?" Black said once they'd both drained their first cups. 

"A binding contract will do. To protect my life, my secrets, and my public image."

If Tom could, he'd mark the man; the loyalty and secrecy spells on the Dark Mark were a work of art. However he knew that Sirius, white sheep of the Black family, wouldn't have changed quite that much in Azkaban.

Tom watched the thoughts flit across Black's face, each of them a bit too fast for him to catch. The man had been trained well by his family, that much was certain. It would be all the more fun to twist him inside out. Tom very much wished to take Sirius apart. 

Black's face settled into a furrowed brow. "There'll be enchanted parchment in Father's study. You want it in blood, I'm guessing?"

Clever little Black. Tom nodded. He even knew where those quills were kept, thought Black went right past the library and into the study.

The man unlocked a drawer in the paterfamilias' desk; it was lined in green velvet with little divets each holding a family wand. In his explorations of the townhouse's treasures, Tom hadn't even imagined he'd find this .

While Black went through testing them each for a match, Tom assigned himself the task of setting the wands back into their proper places. If one of them slipped into his pocket along the way, a stubborn dragon heartstring, Black either didn't notice or he didn't care.

The Black heir knew his binding contracts and his phlebotomy spells. Tom signed with his blood and his magic. Harry Potter , it looked almost as stunningly mundane as Tom Riddle had. They moved through the words of the adoption oath without pomp, because Tom had asked and Black obeyed.

"Thank you, by the way." Black said as the parchment dried. "For saving me. Albus told me what you did, and it's—it means a lot to me. Nobody even knows I'm not dead besides Snape, Dumbledore, and you, but you're the only one who really believed when I said I was innocent."

Tom smiled back at him, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. "You've saved me in return. The Dursleys do not deserve to be called 'family.'" After all, if someone had noticed he was living without an adult, things would have become complicated.

He led the way back to the kitchen, listening to Black's insistence that he not touch anything, and while Black tested his new wand on his mother's portrait Tom rushed to the pantry. He had all his previous groceries summoned into his mokeskin pouch and was back at the kitchen table, swinging his legs frivolously, when Black returned.

"Alright, Harry," Black said once he'd fixed them both cocoa. "Your secrets are safe. Let's go get your stuff, I don't want you living with those awful muggles either."

"There's no need." Tom brushed the man's hand off his shoulder and sniffed at his oversweetened drink. "I have everything I need with me here. I'm certain one of the bedrooms will do, you Blacks had more children than you could count back in the day."

Sirius propped his head in his hands and peered at Tom. "It's just me now. And Cissa and Andy, but they've got their own families. Not even the elf's around anymore." The man sighed, casting his eyes to the ceiling. "I never thought I'd come back here. I'd thought they'd disowned me."

"You make an excellent case for the allures of your childhood home." There were funnel webs above them, nothing as harmless as the Dursleys' cobwebs. Tom jutted out his wand and set them on fire, breathing deeply. 

The burning hairs produced a sulphurous smoke that tingled like a cheap cigarette. 

"Harry," Sirius said, "what happened that night? With the Dementors, I saw them coming for us. I remember one leaning over to Kiss me."

There was a tremble in the man's voice, and a tremor in his arm. Tom wiped his hands dry on his trousers and took another fortifying breath. "I don't know," he said, and the confusion adorning his words was real. "From one moment to the next, everything changed. And now you're a living dead man, and I'm the boy who lived." 

The very idea of it was stark and uncomfortable. Lord Voldemort had claimed Wizarding Britain with intimidation, networking, and information. To be missing crucial answers was burning a hole in his stomach.

He thought of the way Dumbedore had been standing at the foot of his bed, picking through a box of Bertie Bott's asking pointed questions that Tom had barely avoided. Something about the memory was murky, like Tom hadn't been quite there that night.

Like doing his homework under the sheets in summer, accidentally pushing too hard with his quill until the cheap muggle paper ripped, ink bleeding into a mess. 

Ron Weasley was the only one of them that hadn't suffered some kind of death that night. Tom knew there had been something about a rat, but the memory was slippery as an eel in the Thames' mud. It made him want for a sharp spear, or a stick of dynamite.

"I don't remember," Tom said, startled by the idea.

"Don't look at me." Sirius' mouth twisted into an unhappy smile. "The Dementors took every happy memory I had. Dumbledore said they might come back, but—"

"Dumbledore," Tom spat. He didn't have the words to continue. 

His hands were shaking, why were his hands shaking? Tom wasn't weak, and he wasn't scared. Maybe he was angry, it was safe for a Dark Lord to be angry. 

Tom pictured the way he'd stick a dagger in the old man's heart. "Don't get me started about Dumbledore."

"He means well," Sirius said, but his voice was flat like his gaze staring at the window.

Tom reigned in his emotions, wiping the foam off his mouth. "I'm never going back to the muggles. They were—"

His mind went back to Petunia's screeching, Duddy's lumpy fists, Vernon's impotent lumbering. It shouldn't be enough for the loathing he felt for them, and yet—

"They're despicable," he finished. "The worst sort of muggles."

"You're never going back there. What Dumbledore doesn't know can't hurt him," Sirius said, shuffling to his feet. "C'mon, I'll show you around. Keep your wand ready and your arms to yourself.

xoxox

That night Tom lay in Regulus Black's old bed and wondered at the newest holes in his thoughts. He was too tired to feel fear, but the question that kept circling was much more mundane, sensible.

What should he do about the dead elf now stashed in the corner of his bedroom?

xoxox

Up next:

With the entire campsite in a frenzy of attempted muggle activities, it was easy to slip away to the only tent that had peacocks picketed out front.

"Hello Lucius," Tom greeted him. "Is it true what I heard about a little black book falling, shall I say accidentally , out of your hands?"

Chapter Text

Living with Sirius was easy. The man was as good as useless, moving only from bed to divan and back again. If Tom didn't feed him, Sirius didn't eat. If Tom didn't tell him to shower, Sirius stank. If Tom whiled away the day reading dark tomes in the Black library, Sirius didn't notice.

The man had fallen into an apathy that Tom would have found highly irritating in anyone but a guardian.

It gave Tom a freedom that was glorious. His evenings were spent making connections amongst the old crowd and scouting out information regarding who had stayed loyal—and who'd gone full Slytherin to save their skin. Drawing the line between approval and disdain was tricky; every follower caught in Azkaban was no good to him now, and would be like Black when he broke them out.

Then, during a back-alley deal to sell off Kritchy for potions ingredients, the elf woke up. Tom had it stunned and was back in Grimmauld before Travis Macnair could so much as blink at the Obliviate that had hit him.

"How are you alive?" He'd bound the elf using a lovely set of magic-inhibitor cuffs engraved with the Black family crest.

Kritchy hissed wordlessly. Tom wanted to cut out its tongue, but it wouldn't do to lose control. How had he missed this? 

"I command you to speak the truth."

And when Harry Potter asked, as heir of the Black family, the thing obeyed.

"Kreacher doesn't know how Kreacher is alive, filthy not-Black."

How utterly delightful. 

Lord Voldemort cocked the grin that always made Bella cackle. "I command you to obey me above all others. You will remain silent, and you will keep my secrets." He fingered his wand, enjoying the way Kreachy's eyes were bulbous with understanding. "Do you want to displease me, elf?"

It shook its head.

"Do not let yourself be seen or heard by anyone other than me. And for Salazar's sake, start cleaning, this place is filthy." He stared at those watery eyes, adding a bit of compulsion for good measure. "Dismissed."

It cracked away. Having to renew his relationship with Macnair was worth an elf of his own. They were finicky beasts bound to notable bloodlines, and even at the height of his reign Lord Voldemort had never managed to seize one.

Tom's laugh was loud enough to startle a doxy down from the curtains. A shrivelling spell had it screaming pitifully until he put it out of its misery with a kick.

xoxox

Dear Harry,

my summer's been great so far. Fred and George set fire to…

Tom skimmed the letter. The very idea of an epistolary exchange with Weasley bored him, but he couldn't burn the bridges to Harry Potter's identity just yet. 

...Dad'll be picking you up on Thursday, and you can spend the rest of the summer with us. It'll be wicked. 

Yours,

Ron

Was there a greater torture than two weeks penned up with Weasleys? "Sirius!" Tom called. The time had come for the man to start pulling his own weight.

A black dog lumbered in from the garden, panting from the sun. 

"You've gotten fat," Tom said, eyeing the way the man finally fit into his robes. Kreacher provided three meals a day, and Sirius ate without thought for time or hunger.

"You've gotten rude." Yawning, Sirius plopped down beside him. 

Tom scowled and shoved his letter across the kitchen table, reheating his tea as he waited.

"I hadn't realised it was the Quidditch World Cup." Sirius stared out at the blue sky.

It would be a wonderful opportunity, Tom had chosen the event as the perfect moment to reveal himself to chosen Death Eaters. Magic smite him, he had a thing for proper showmanship. " The Prophet has been reporting little else all summer. Don't you read?"

"Only the cartoons." Sirius flashed a grin, easy and mad like a thin bear coming out after winter. "D'you think I can go with you to the match?"

"You're dead." Sirius was pathetic, asking a teenage boy for permission, but Tom wouldn't have it any other way. "I'm sure you can afford a disguise and the overpriced ticket, though we'll have to attend separately."

While Sirius scampered up the groaning staircase, Tom composed a swift reply.

I'll floo to the Burrow the night before, but I already have plans to visit my godfather for the last of summer. Give my regards to your family.

The ancient Weasley family owl got a thimbleful of Wiggenweld's before Tom tossed it outside, just to ensure it survived the trip.

Whether or not he would be returning to school come September, Tom didn't want to put off his school shopping until the last minute. When he left for Diagon the next day, Sirius insisted on accompanying him. The man bought them ice cream while laughing at his grey hair from the ageing potion.

It was the first sign of emotion Tom had seen in him all summer, but his indulgence ended when he had to steer Sirius away from Ollivander's and towards the specialist down Knockturn. 

Vanja fitted Sirius in absolute silence, mad grin glinting off every sword racked on the shop's walls. The premium they payed for a hawthorn and dragon heartstring also bought the wandmaker's confidentiality, and Sirius didn't protest. 

Only later did Tom realise it was Harry Potter's birthday, by virtue of the silver-wrapped package he found on his pillow. The pocket knife it contained was marginally useful, and Tom appreciated the lack of sentimentality. A simple thank you was communicated via a package of dog treats. 

Tom appreciated the way Sirius didn't press him into talking.

xoxox

"I know I haven't been much of a Godfather to you," Sirius said quietly, finding Tom in the library the night before he left for the Burrow. "I want you to know you can trust me, Harry. No matter what."

Tom stared at the man and set his book aside. "I do trust you," he lied, relaxing his face into an easy smile.

Sirius snorted, tossing his head like a horse. "I'm not stupid. You haven't told me anything about yourself, not really. If you weren't in Gryffindor, I'd think there was something else going on."

That was the entire point of being in Gryffindor, wasn't it? Tom would enjoy being able to soar beneath suspicion. 

"But," Sirius said quietly, "the hat's been known to make mistakes."

The nerve of the man! Tom scowled at him and reopened his book. "I resent that."

Sirius' answering chuckle was hollow, but thankfully the man understood when to leave. "We can talk when you get back. About your time at Hogwarts, about the things you remember and the things you think you forgot. I know I haven't been much of a godfather to you—it hasn't been easy for either of us—but I'm damn well going to try."

For the next hour, Tom couldn't read a word. His mind kept combing through eventualities and contingencies, snagging on the holes in his memories like a wriggling mess of snakes. He missed the clarity of his youth, his every thought being pinned neatly like a lepidopterist's collection in a velvet-lined case.

He left the next day without saying goodbye to Sirius, walking off his temper all the way to the Leaky. When he stepped out of the Weasleys' floo, he was ready to play at being Harry Potter for the day.

xoxox

The Weasley family struck like a firework in a barrel.

The youngest and oldest child stayed out of the way. Ronald wanted to go flying, while Fred and George acted worse than orphans. Molly's attempt to make up for missed mothering by pushing food onto everyone was a poor show. Meanwhile Arthur buried himself in work and his garage, too busy providing to parent beyond a headcount at the breakfast table.

All of this, Tom discerned within the first raucous meal. He put up with Molly, keeping his responses infallibly polite. The twins had cast an inflating spell on a hen after lunch, and the explosion had been a mess not even Macnair would enjoy. He smiled at the girl with her elbow in the gravy, and once they were all in bed he coaxed Ron Weasley into telling a wealth of stories.

A maze, Albus Dumbledore had concocted an elaborate obstacle course that led to the Philosopher's Stone, and Lord Voldemort had turned to ash when Harry Potter had touched him. 

Tom measured his breath in time with the rain pattering on the tin roof above his head.

A diary, Lucius Malfoy had given Ginny Weasley his diary that had led to the Chamber of Secrets opening, and Lord Voldemort had bled ink when Harry Potter had stabbed him with the basilisk's fang.

In the attic the ghoul groaned, and Tom pictured in excruciating detail exactly how the thing had been tortured so it could only moan. He fell asleep in the beats between disembowelling and flailing curses, and woke far too soon when Molly Weasley rapped on the door saying, "Up now, boys, are you up yet?"

xoxox

With the entire campsite in a frenzy, it was easy to slip away to the only tent that had peacocks picketed out front.

"Hello Lucius," Tom greeted him. "Is it true a little black book fell, shall I say accidentally, out of your hands?"

The man was blond as his father before him, but he wasn't stupid. He backed into a study—only a Malfoy tent would have a study—with his throat bobbing. "I believe, Mister Potter," he said, voice like a stone, "that your accusation was as groundless then as it is now."

Tom smiled, like a boy holding a dead rabbit by the ears, and manipulated the Dark Mark to burn. Abraxas had been complicated , but Lucius had joined the Dark Lord's service as a child. The man dropped to one knee, breath rattling loudly between them. 

"Do I look like I need proof, Lucius?"

The curse that left Tom's wand was delicious, a welcome relief after the past month's abstinence. He felt alive as a tiger extending his claws. Finally, a bit of the respect he deserved. 

Lucius' fear was ambrosia. "Potter? Stop this at once," he hissed, but his eyes said something else entirely.

"Potter is otherwise engaged," Tom said, still smiling. "Now, tell me about my diary."

The man had the decency not to tremble as he talked, and Tom made sure to clamp down on his anger to listen. Several nations' auror forces were present; they'd find any dark magic in a heartbeat.

Instead, Tom began levitating Lucius' oversized desk above the man's head, crushing him into an ever lower bow with the thick oak. "Thank you, Lucius," he said finally, once the man had stopped talking. Tom took deep breaths until his heartbeat was calm like waves lapping against a cave's shore.

He set the desk back into place and stepped up beside Lucius. "Sit down in your chair Lucius. You want to look presentable when your son finds you later, hmm?"

Tom cupped the man's shaking face in one hand and raised his wand in the other, laughing at the thoughts of green he could see racing through those terrified eyes.

"Obliviate, " he whispered, leaving only the sensation of a Dark Lord walking over his grave. He had a lot more information to gather about his Death Eaters before taking up Lord Voldemort's mantle again. "Somnium."

Then he slipped back out to rejoin the Weasley children returning from the water tap, and if he was smiling a little brighter, nobody understood.

xoxox

The Quidditch game was good, but the discussion between the polyglottal Crouch and the Bulgarian president was much better. Tom eavesdropped with impunity, learning about the upcoming Triwizard Tournament by glorious virtue of being in the right place at the right time.

Not to mention the minor translation ritual he'd performed in his youth, a soul-bound spell that had followed him into Harry Potter's body. Magic truly was smiling on him.

A tournament sounded more interesting than the school year for which Tom had been expecting to be truant. There would be politics to be had, even from the lacklustre gallery that was Gryffindor tower.

Once Ireland won the game and the evening's revelries had been truncated for the children, Tom allowed himself to be bustled off to bed.

He set an alarm spell for half eleven, when he meant to slip away. Tired and listening to the twins' hushed whispers, Tom promised himself to just close his eyes for one second.

The next moment, he was waking to light streaming through the windows and frustration screaming through his veins. So much for his delightful reveal. Instead, his people had indulged in a bit of muggle-baiting nestled between a Dark Mark and an international scandal.

But perhaps this was prudent, Tom decided while looking into Lily Potter's eyes as he brushed his teeth. Magic had chosen to put him here in this child's body, not an adult's, and he trusted her wisdom. 

He could go back to Hogwarts, entertain himself winning a competition meant for schoolchildren, and gad about gaining international allies beneath Dumbledore's crooked nose. 

Some wars were better won before they even started, by snakes lying in the grass. 

Or sleeping between the lions.

xoxox

When they returned from the World Cup, Grimmauld Place seemed darker somehow, as though the shadows had multiplied in their absence. 

"I hate this place," Sirius said, kicking his feet onto the same table his mother had served Tom tea from so many years ago.

"I like it. It feels…" Safe was the wrong word, it was as safe as a nesting hawk, "protective. Like a bear."

Sirius snorted. "A bear trap, sure. But you promised me we'd talk about you, not my mum's sense for ambience."

It was difficult to meet the man's eyes, and even more difficult to find the right words. Tom spoke to the curtains, hoping he hadn't accidentally rid the house of doxies with his bouts anger; he'd miss having them on hand.

He told Sirius an abbreviated version of the tale Ron had told him, a proper Gryffindor story of adventure and idiocy. Sirius laughed in all the right places, and he didn't notice when Tom had to swallow his sneers. But the details Tom had gotten from Weasley were sparse, and three years at Hogwarts barely stretched to fill two hours.

Then they were back where their conversation had started over a month ago. "Something happened that night, when the Dementor almost kissed me," Tom said, with faith in the secrecy that Black was sworn to and the fact the man barely left the house. "It changed me, and I've been trying to figure all this out. I trust you, Sirius, I just don't know what to say."

"What about your relatives? You haven't told me anything real about them. Dumbledore said he put you with them to keep you safe." Sirius' gaze was hungry when Tom looked, but the man's occlumency remained unfortunately airtight.

"I'd rather not talk about them." Tom didn't have to fake his discomfort, and he didn't want to fake the fury in his heart. "I despise them, and I will never forgive Dumbledore for leaving me stranded in the muggle world."

"Never say never, kiddo."

Tom glared back at him. "And you're happy to forgive our Chief Warlock, who couldn't get you a trial in twelve years? Had to rely on a schoolchild to save your life? Even the Dark Lord takes better care of his own than Dumbledore does for his little Order."

"Who told you about that?" The words were sharp, if also tired. There were things Sirius Black was good at, and then there was the act of sitting still and listening.

"People say all kinds of things." It was an old excuse, familiar as the prefect badge he'd pinned to his robes every day for two years. "It's hardly my fault they didn't check if I was listening."

"Spoken like a true Slytherin." Sirius sighed, deflating into the armchair to leave half the heir he was supposed to have been. "Honestly, Harry, how did you fool old Alastor at all?"

"I'm a Gryffindor." Tom sneered reflexively, but when the next lie refused to roll from his tongue he chose a different avenue: attack. "And you, Sirius? A Black through and through, I've seen how you look at me. You can't deny where you come from." He gestured the room, with its neat array of dark artefacts on the mantle, and a well-thumbed Machiavelli on the end table. It felt as if Arcturus were about to walk in, polishing his reading glasses.

"No—" Sirius said, but then he drew a slow, deep breath. If he hadn't already been a disgrace Walburga would have disowned him for how expressively he  sighed. "You can't just keep changing the subject, Harry. If you'd rather not talk, we don't have to. I've seen enough to know you're not like a normal child, but I'm glad. You'll have your work cut out for you—I'm bloody well useless cooped up in here."

Tom blinked. Then he stifled the yawn building in him, and let himself fall back within his armchair. "You have been a more suitable guardian than I'd suspected. I hope you know better than to let it get to your head, but I've enjoyed this summer with you."

The smile that unfolded across Sirius' face was easy, like stealing Avery's Chocolate Frog collection from right under the boy's nose. "You'll be alright, kid. I don't mind if you're sharp, and you're better off being sneaky. Don't let them tell you Slytherin's a bad thing to be , even if it's a rotten house to be in ."

Had the man done that much growing up in his decade between the Dementors? Tom stretched, then rose to head off to bed. "Thank you," he said, "good night."

And, by the Sisters Three, he actually meant it.

Chapter Text

For the first time, the sight of the steaming red engine filled Tom with annoyance and dread. "I'll miss you," he told Sirius honestly. "School is going to be dreadful."

Sirius grinned and tried to ruffle Tom's hair, then pulled back his singed fingers. "You'll be fine, kid. Remember to write, et cetera, et cetera. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I would have to refrain from doing any of my homework." The sneer was reflexive, but Tom didn't mean it. "Goodbye." He took his new trunk onto the train and offered Sirius a wave out the window before pulling out a potions text.

When Ron Weasley arrived in the compartment, Tom simply selected what he needed to say from the boy's shallow mind. "I won't stand for Snape to keep taking points from me."

"Mate, I doubt he'll ever give you a fair mark." Ron picked through his homemade lunch, scowling. "I hope Hermione'll be back soon, or we'll actually need to figure this stuff out for ourselves."

As if Tom needed a mudblood to think for him. "It'll work out." Then he passed Ron a portion of the meal Kreacher had packed, and returned to reading.

xoxox

Dumbledore's summons came directly after the feast. Tom spent his climb to the seventh floor silencing the idiotic voice inside his chest, the one that was wondering what he'd done wrong. 

"Harry, my boy," the headmaster greeted, and Tom wanted to bite the hand extending a glass bowl towards him. 

"I'm not hungry," he said. Dumbledore shrugged and popped a sweet while Tom refused to meet his sparkling eyes.

"I spent the summer working closely with the Department of Mysteries." 

Tom loathed the way the man smiled, as if he'd been imparting some great favour instead of doing his thrice-damned job. 

"You'll be pleased to know we worked out a ritual to summon Miss Granger and Professor Lupin back into our dimension. They've been out for a spot of adventure, but you may inform young Mister Weasley that it is only a matter of waiting for an alignment in the planes. It's—ah, but I see I'm boring you with details. You must forgive an old man, Harry. It isn't every day that a student goes on such a trip, and a muggleborn no less."

"Why does it matter that she's muggleborn?" 

That old fart with his holier-than-thou attitude, carrying all the same prejudices under a thin layer of—

"It was quite difficult to explain to Mister and Doctor Granger, you see. In the muggle experience, children do not often disappear out of space-time the way they might here. I sent them a letter, of course. You mustn't worry, Harry."

His own unease splattered across Tom's chest like arterial spray. "Was that all you summoned me here for, Professor?"

"That's all—and Harry? How was your summer?"

"It was fine." At Dumbledore's expectant look, he scrambled for more. "Rather hot. I completed all my assignments easily."

"Mrs Weasley told me you stayed with your godfather for two weeks. How is Sirius? He was quite unwell when he left here, after your rather ingenious use of the Draught of Living Death. You've a fine young mind, Harry."

"He's doing well." 

There was something peculiar in the way Dumbledore was staring. Tom felt like someone had stolen his clothes after a shower, like he'd have to walk to his dorm naked. 

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Harry?"

Tom kept his eyes fixed on the bridge of the man's bent nose, wondering who'd had the pleasure of socking it. "No, sir."

"Thank you, my boy." The air had collapsed out of Dumbledore like the skin rotting off a corpse. 

Tom's walk to the dungeons was automatic, and the walk to Gryffindor tower felt even longer. 

On his first day at Hogwarts, Tom realised she no longer felt like home.

xoxox

Classes were tedious. The Gryffindors were a ungovernable wretches. The library wasn't how Tom remembered it, with all the useful books missing. Tom stalked from one day to the next in a sour trance of homework and scheming. 

When Ron told him Harry Potter had an owl, he wrestled a note for Sirius onto its leg, hoping that something might change.

xoxox

"Hermione will be returning soon," he told Weasley as the boy whined his way through doing his own schoolwork. "Dumbledore told me to tell you."

The holes in Tom's memory of that conversation were deeply unsettling, like a train churning headlong through mist.

He set the thought aside. They had potions on Fridays, and Tom was looking forward to seeing his Death Eater in his chosen role. By all accounts, Severus was an atrocious educator.

"Some of your summer assignments have proven, once again, that you are entirely incapable of thought," Severus sneered as soon as they were all at their seats. 

Tom heartily agreed; he'd seen what Weasley thought constituted an essay.

"Potter!"

The week of classes still hadn't accustomed him to the name. "Yes, sir?" If only Severus knew who Tom really was, his face would pale so delightfully, like a waterlogged inferius.

But inside the thrumming castle the Mark's magic wouldn't conduit anything.

"Would you like to share your amusement, Mister Potter?"

No legilimency attack came. "Just the thought of you having to mark our work. Perhaps you might have anticipated that when you assigned it?"

The kick at Tom's shin was entirely unnecessary. Tom hissed. His glare didn't work on Weasley though, and he wasn't allowed to cast pain curses on Potter's stupid little friend.

"Detention, Mister Potter."

"Yes, sir." Tom would enjoy the chance for a good reconnaissance.

Tom had been expecting something…he wasn't sure precisely what, but not this. Besides a bit of looming and a general air of disdain, Severus' lesson was mundane. Like Slughorn, he assigned the potion and walked about correcting their methods. Like Slughorn, he picked out a few students and mostly ignored the rest. Like Slughorn, he used his classes as an excuse to redistribute points towards Slytherin.

"That was entirely disappointing," Tom announced to Ronald once they'd left the dungeons behind.

"Yeah, mate, detention already. You should've kept quiet, but at least it's not lost points."

Over the course of their budding acquaintance, Tom had realised that Ronald Weasley had the empathetic capacity of a teaspoon. The boy saw only what he wanted to, and Tom couldn't have dreamt up a better Gryffindor for himself to endure.

On Saturday morning he rose from the breakfast table while Weasley was busy stuffing himself with black pudding.

"I'm going to the library," he declared. "See you later."

"Sure, can we play another chess game? Dunno what you did over summer, you've gotten much better. I'll beat you next time though, you'll see."

Tom turned away, nodding, and went in search for the girls' bathroom. He had a story to corroborate.

xoxox

"Open," he hissed at the snake he'd carved into the tap. 

"Hi Harry," a voice intoned from directly above his shoulder. Tom spun and cursed faster than he could think.

The blood boiling charm passed through where Myrtle Warren's heart would have been, had Tom not murdered her half a century ago. His spell ricochet off the tiles on the far end of the room. In his recounting, Weasley had failed to mention the ghost.

"Myrtle." Tom nodded at her. "You startled me."

That was how she'd ended up dead, back then. Warren had opened the door to her loo stall when he'd been directing Ssnh towards the next petrification. 

Ssnh was dead too. At some point since Weasley had told him of it, Tom's feelings had shifted to a deep sense of loss; she'd been a good Basilisk.

"What are you doing? Is someone else dying? Are you going back down there, Harry?"

Why else would he be opening the tunnel, it not to go? Tom turned back towards it and shot off a few cleaning spells. 

"Can I come with?" Warren's giggle had become even more irritating in death. 

"I should obliviate you." Tom raised his wand and slipped into her mind to guide the spell.

Cold.

There was ice on his spine and a Dementor looming before him. Tom's teeth started chattering. 

He blinked at the soft lights echoed on the tiled ceiling.

A face floated over him, hair dangling like little nooses. "Harry? Are you alright? Wait, I'll—"

There was a great splash. Tom blinked again, a few times, just so his eyes wouldn't dry out.

Dumbledore's face loomed, his beard thrown over his shoulder. Tom shrank back, and over the sound of his teeth he heard a keening noise, like the air being crushed out of a mouse.

"Harry, are you alright?"

Tom blinked again, shoving at the ice blanketing his mind, and then he was in the infirmary with somebody holding his hand.

"You scared the shit out of me," Sirius was saying. "I thought I told you not to do anything I wouldn't do?"

It was the oddest sensation, a human hand clutching at his own. He could feel the callouses on Sirius' palm. He could feel the headache pounding away in his temples. It was like the time Bella and Barty had gotten a bag of bones, banging them about in his ballroom.

"Ngh," Tom said. He remembered how all the new recruits had been terrified by Bella's sweet, mad laughter.

"Here." 

The potion helped with the pain. Tom didn't release the man's hand. "What happened?"

"Myrtle called Albus, and Albus called me. It's only been a day." Sirius' report was mediocre, but Tom couldn't cruciate him without a wand. Besides, he had a soft spot for Blacks. 

"Did she say anything else?" Because Tom's memory of the moments before were clear as ever. On Magic herself, he wouldn't be casting legilimency on a ghost ever again.

"Should she have?"

Tom stopped shaking his head when pain stabbed through him. 

"Harry, my dear boy." Dumbledore appeared at the curtain like a bad smell; Tom appreciated the scowl Sirius swept off his own face. 

"Is Myrtle alright?" It was the thing Harry Potter would have said, and it made Dumbledore smile. 

"I assure you Miss Warren is made of sterner stuff, metaphorically speaking." The following wink was an abomination. "She said you were talking, and then you collapsed. Did you see anyone that might have bespelled you, Harry? This is important."

"No, sir. I'm glad she's unhurt. I want to talk to her." Either he'd obliviated her by accident, or he was being outslytherined by a Ravenclaw—Gryffindor or no, Tom wouldn't stand for it.

"Is that why you were in a girl's toilet? To talk to Moaning Myrtle ?"

"Why else would I be there?" Tom said, looking Sirius in the eye and instructing him, firmly, to shut up.

Dumbledore drifted away when Pomfrey came to administer a dreamless sleep potion. Tom's last thought was that the weight at the base of his bed—the radiating warmth of a shaggy black dog—it was oddly comforting.

xoxox

"Mate, you could have told me you were going to visit Myrtle."

Tom stared at Weasley. He'd been dismissed to breakfast deemed totally healed, but the sight of the ginger made him feel nauseous. "I didn't want you to come with me. It's private."

"Potter, off to see your girlfriend already?" Malfoy crowed, walking past despite his table being across the room. He was making kissing faces, like a dying fish.

Something in Tom's look made the boy flinch and scuttle away. His fellow Slytherins were holding quiet conversations, all order and intrigue. What Tom wouldn't give to be sitting alongside them, weaving a web around them until he had them all begging at his feet.

"D'you need the hospital wing? Harry?"

"I'm perfectly alright." Shouldering his bookbag, Tom stood and let the flow of students bring him to his transfiguration class. 

xoxox

The first proper lesson with Alastor Moody had Tom huddling at the back of the room with the Hufflepuffs, hoping to avoid the man's steely blue gaze. It didn't work, with Moody directing every other questions directly at him, but when they moved on to practical work Tom could focus his attention on the girl quivering before him.

Sally-Anne Perks was not surprised that Harry Potter didn't remember her name, and she was perfectly content to let him stand with his back to the wall while they practiced blocking each other's Expelliarmus . 

When they were dismissed Moody held Tom behind, swigging from his flask, tongue darting out to lick his lips like a frog. "You'd make a fine professor yourself," the man barked. 

Tom wasn't sure if he should take that as a compliment. He could name a thousand things he'd rather be doing than sitting in a classroom all day, surrounded by imbeciles.

Chapter Text

Dear Harry,

Dumbledore told me he's worried about you, said you've been acting strange. Maybe it's you're growing up. It's probably because you're going into girls' bathrooms? Either way he says it's not safe for you to stay with me next summer.

Tom was going to murder Dumbledore. He'd Polyjuice as a student and bait the Headmaster into leaving his castle, preferably all the way to Hogsmeade. Then he'd cast the spell right at the man's back, in front of everyone, so they could see how insignificant and stupid he truly was. 

It took a dozen readthroughs before the meaning of the words stayed with Tom, his fury abating.

Anyway, I say fuck that, and fuck him. I'm pretending to play along for now, but don't worry, you're not setting another foot in the Dursleys' house while I'm still alive. I've tried to find the sods, the wards protecting your childhood home are very well done.

The wards on mine are better.

I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to talk much, but I've been thinking, what you said about Dumbledore not getting me a trial and I—

At this point there were several indecipherable lines, scratched out and cramped into the margins in angry black splotches. 

—I don't know what to think, Harry. I'd rather we look out for each other, though. If I were a better man I'd say you promise not to go talking to ghosts, and I promise not to keep looking for Pettigrew. But I'm not that man anymore, I spent too long losing my thoughts to those monsters, so I'm going to hold on to what I've got.

Be careful. Things aren't safe, not out here and not in the castle. There are whispers of a man moving around Knockturn all summer, with magic like You-Know-Who had. Something's coming, and it won't be good. 

I love you, Harry, though I know you're a bit more careful about throwing around your feelings. Work on finding out where the holes in your memories went, I think that's the key to a lot of this. I'll be right here fighting for you and with you, every step of the way.

Yours,

S. O. B.

Tom's fingers kept up their stroking of Hedwig's downy feathers. The clever owl had brought his letter right to the dorm window, rat-tat-tatting at the window soft enough not to wake his dormmates.

"You're a very good girl," he reminded her. Not as lovely as Nagini had been, or Ssbnh, but it wasn't her fault that she was only an owl.

He read over Sirius' effortless calligraphy once more before penning his reply.

Dear S.,

Hogwarts isn't the same as I remember. 

I'm looking forward to the other schools arriving soon, the cup will be a good distraction. Don't be alarmed if I end up in the competition.

Dumbledore said Hermione and Lupin will be returning, but he has yet to pinpoint the exact date. Him insisting I not worry is only making me worry more. What if she's been changed by her travels? What if she no longer wants to be my friend?

Tom scratched his nose with the tip of his pen, careful the ink didn't smudge. 

I can help you find Pettigrew over the Yule break if you like. Talking to ghosts is a part of my plans, otherwise I wouldn't be doing it. 

Have you had any success setting up a name for yourself? The man I told you of does excellent human transfiguration. You might become Alphard's bastard, he's already been struck off the tapestry. Perhaps a half-blood. Call yourself something mundane like Archibald just to spite Walburga. Pretend you were hiding from the deranged Sirius Black.

Hedwig's feathers were ruffled coming in, and while I'm hesitant to fling accusations I do suspect someone is trying to search my mail. Purchase a dangerous owl for further correspondence, or visit me in Hogsmeade yourself. 

You're right, these are dangerous times, though I'm more worried about what we're not hearing than what Knockturn rumours profess. When He returns it'll be loud and dramatic, not some balding man slinking through an Alley asking questions. 

I know you're a Gryffindor, but please don't do anything stupid. If you're gone I will be forced to return to the muggles, and I will not forgive you for that.

Sincerely,

H.

Shaking the cramp out of his wrist, Tom rolled up the parchment. A set of protective runes in a wax seal did the rest.

He set Hedwig off into the brisk air and huddled into his sheets, wishing for the consistent warmth of the dungeons, wishing for a time-turner that'd let him skip forwards past Herbology the next morning.

xoxox

The detention with Severus was even more disappointing than the man's lessons. Tom had been delegated to Argus Filch, a doddering man with a cruel streak that would have been excellent, had he not also been a squib.

Magic was everything, and for the Lady to have refused to bless the man must mean something terrible was wrong with him. Tom kept his distance, letting an enchanted rag shine trophies while he completed his Transfiguration essay.

When the hours was up and Filch pretended to hear nothing of it, Tom flung an Obliviate at the man and let the rag continue until it ran out of magic. 

If he was going to go to the effort of getting assigned a detention, the Professors should at least supervise him themselves.

For all that he was fond of his little potions master, Tom couldn't help find him…boring.  

xoxox

"I'm going to the bathroom," Tom told Weasley at Saturday over breakfast. "If anyone asks, tell them I've gone to the library."

The stupid boy beamed with pleasure, revelling in the apparent trust instead of contemplating consequences, or leveraging what he'd learnt. Thankfully, Weasley knew better than to try come along.

"Myrtle," Tom greeted the empty bathroom. "Myrtle, I've returned. We need to talk."

Her giggle came from the second stall. Tom stalked up to it and slammed the door through her body.

"What did you tell Dumbledore?"

"Hello Harry. It's good to see you, too. Are you feeling better?" Her laugh made him want to smash her into a faucet. He'd never murdered someone via plumbing before, it'd be useful for cleaning away the blood with the drain already right there, but of course the girl was already dead.

"You lied to Dumbledore. Tell me why."

"You're welcome, you know." Her smile made her face look fat. Tom watched her eyelashes flutter and supressed his sneer. "Harry, I know you were going to go on an adventure, down to the chamber. I want to come with, and you're going to let me."

If she hadn't been a mudblood and a sobbing, pimply mess, she'd have made a good Slytherin. It was time to learn if a dead basilisk's stare could petrify a ghost. Tom had looked up the spells, if it were easy to harm a ghost someone would have dealt with Binns long ago. "Why?"

She floated down to eye level without fear. "Nobody comes here except to cry. I want more from my death than I had from life."

"Swear you will keep my secrets, on your name."

She did, and so Tom led the way to the tap and spoke the phrase. They had a minute to pass through before it would close, he didn't need more than a second. "Follow me," Tom said, and jumped.

xoxox

The ghost lit up the path with a soft glow. It took several reinforcement and repair charms to make the tunnels passable, just like Tom's first time down in the pipes. Myrtle kept to herself, only squeaking once at the massive shed skin they moved past.

The apothecary would buy it. Next time, Tom would bring something bigger than his space-expanded bookbag and trusty mokeskin pouch.  

When they reach the chamber, the first thing that hit him was the smell.

Ssbnh lay there, rotting like a common rat left under the floorboards. A noise rose in Tom's throat, and he ran to her.

There were claw marks cutting sharp, jagged lines across her beautiful eyes. When Tom tried to pry one open, a gelatinous mess dripped down her face. Turning, aside, he vomited.

"Harry?" Myrtle whispered. 

"I'm perfectly alright," Tom said back. Coughing once, he looked at what had once been Salazar Slytherin's own familiar, the last line of defence for the castle should the muggles invade.

"Is that the it? The basilisk?"

"Yes." He wiped the sweat from his face and charmed his robes clean. 

"I…I thought it would be bigger." 

Tom would gladly have arranged for Myrtle to be murdered by a larger venomous snake. He watched her float around, peering at statues and murals. 

"It's beautiful, but in a terrible way," she said. "Thank you for letting me come."

"You're welcome, Myrtle." It wasn't like he'd had a choice. Turning his back, Tom ducked through the hidden alcove to Slytherin's study. A packing spell collected his old notes and copied books for him, though the original tomes were charmed to remain. He'd thought to come back here and research like he had in his first life—now, with the basilisk contorted just beyond the door—Tom couldn't stand the thought.

"I'm leaving."

Myrtle was floating below the ceiling, looking at the paint crumbling off the water-damaged plaster. "Bye Harry."

Her smile was bright as her own pearlescent glow. Tom spun on his heel and left.

xoxox

Thank you ex-livreira for helping me sort out formatting and logistics. 

Chapter Text

After Tom's second incense-induced coughing fit, Trelawney informed him he had been marked by death. Ron told him this was normal behaviour.

Tom immediately scheduled a meeting with the Gryffindor Head of House.

"I'm transferring out of Divination," he said while helping himself to a gingersnap.

"Mister Potter, you must take your education seriously," she replied. She pressed her lips together, the same hidden smile she'd worn as Head Girl when docking points from Prewett—as if she hadn't loved the fireworks off over the black lake.

"I will take Ancient Runes instead, or Arithmancy. Even Ghoul Studies, but you cannot force me to attend another of Professor Trelawney's classes." Seer she may be, but the bint had no grasp on her gift and neither means nor will to teach any corresponding skills. The sheer waste of Magical talent made Tom seethe.

"I'm sure something can be arranged, Mister Potter."

Taking another biscuit, he nodded.

…

Thus Tom ended up beside Blaise Zabini, the only other fourth year in Babbling's beginner's Runes class.

When Tom introduced himself as Harry Potter, Zabini replied, "I know." Blaise was sharp, funny, and Slytherin—the antithesis to Weasley. Tom's goal of a summer holiday invitation from someone respectable was in progress.

While Ronald moaned about barely-scraped acceptables, Tom excused himself to catch up on the missed year of classes with his new acquaintance. Within the week, they'd become…not friends, but perhaps allies.

xoxox

"You've been distancing yourself from Mister Weasley," Albus Dumbledore said, offering no explanation for having summoned Tom from study hall. "I am concerned about you, Harry. Surely he is your best friend, who has stood by you through thin and thick?"

Tom did not sneer, and he did not sink into the overstuffed chair. "I'm trying to focus on my education, Professor Dumbledore. Hogwarts is a school, is she not?"

There was something soft in the man's eyes, and it softened further when his phoenix alighted on Tom's armrest. "You must always remember that there is more to life than books and cleverness. Promise me that, Harry."

Fawkes' feathers were hot to the touch. She was pushing at Tom's sleeve, where he kept his wand, and the phoenix-tail core was vibrating in harmony with the bird's chirps.

"He's a truly beautiful bird."

"Ah, not he, but yes, Fawkes is. Alas, I did not invite you to my office for tea and biscuits."

Tom had not drunk the tea, and he had not touched the biscuits. "I will endeavour to spread my interests between school subjects, extracurriculars, and my peers." It was not a promise. Only children made silly promises to schoolmasters, and Tom was so much more.

"I am pleased to inform you your friend Miss Granger will be returning tomorrow. She will likely need an adjustment period." The man looked tired; Tom wanted to put itching powder in his nightgown. "I was hoping you and young Mister Weasley might hold close to her side, that she might feel more at home."

If they were both important to the equation, why was Albus only imparting this on Tom?

"Yes, sir. It's not like Ron and I don't talk. We play chess often. I merely refuse to do his homework for him, surely you aren't blaming me for that."

"Of course not, my dear boy." Dumbledore was tugging his own cuffs into place, left, right, then left again. "What do you think of your classes this year?"

"They are interesting. I enjoy being challenged."

"Do you? Wonderful. Your professors did say…"

When he did not finish, Tom stood. "I have a Transfiguration essay to finish, sir, and you've made me miss half of study hall."

There was no trace of twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes. "I see. Of course, dear boy. Go on, then."

For an instant Tom was struck by the age of the man, hair white and face sagging. Dumbledore looked small and fallible at that table. It would be easy for a student to suddenly flash green light across the room.

Over a dozen people had witnessed Tom leave with the Headmaster. Murder would have to wait for a different night.

Grating stone accompanied him back downstairs.

xoxox

The entire Great Hall pointed and whispered when Granger arrived halfway through dinner of September 21st. Lughnasadh, a night of harvest. Tom watched her sit gingerly next to Ron, wondering if he was now reaping what he'd sown.

"Hello Ron, Harry," she said. They, along with the rest of the school, continued to stare. Granger blushed, but she held her place as if unbothered.

Her hair was cut much shorter, like a boy's; it made her look dangerous. A red jagged scar stretched under her collarbone.

When Tom disincarcerated Bella he'd suggest that haircut to her, too. Best not to explain the idea had come from a muggle, obviously.

"Hullo Hermione," Ron said, then tore into a leg of chicken. Around them, the other tables burst back into conversation.

"How was your exchange trip, then?" Tom said loudly. Within the hour, the cover story would have been disseminated.

Granger smiled without uncoiling her muscles. "It was good. Time went by much slower than I'd thought. I missed you both so much."

She must have been elsewhere for longer than she'd been gone. Dumbledore had said they'd been waiting for planes to align. What with the time turner involved, Tom should have known.

"And Lupin? Has he returned also?"

The girl looked down before Tom could yank the truth from her muddy thoughts. "We'll talk later. I just want to arrive properly first."

A blond boy squeaked, then took a picture that covered them all in purple smoke.

"Bugger off, Colin," Ron said through his drumstick. With a second squeak, the boy left.

Tom promised himself to find the boy's darkroom; it was convenient to know a place where a drop of the right potion could cause a lovely explosion.

xoxox

"So what was it like?" Ron asked from the jarring red armchair ensconcing him. For reasons unknown, the Longbottom heir had joined Tom on the worn sofa.

Tom snapped up a few anti-eavesdropping spells, baring his teeth at the gaggle of prepubescent girls who suddenly turned away.

"It was…different," Granger said. Her voice faltered, then she continued in a whisper. "The other me had died there."

Tom sat up. "You died? How? When?"

Did dimension travel lead to immortality?

She was still studying her own fingernails. "That Halloween night, with the troll. Quirrell got the stone then, too. It was—I was dead. Remus died much earlier in that timeline. He hypothesised we had to go somewhere we had stopped existing so there was space for us to go."

"Logical." That summer, Ron had told Tom about the ludicrous act that had sparked their friendship to Hermione. Tom still hadn't decided if Dumbledore was a coordinating mastermind, or utterly insane. "How much time passed for you there? Did you and Lupin arrive simultaneously?"

"Almost a year." The girl was still whispering. She did not see the way Weasley was leaning away, eyes wide, nor how Longbottom struggled with his own fluttering hands.

If they were his followers he'd have drilled proper behaviour into them, but Tom stayed his wand. Longbottom would need his extremities attached, especially as he'd never amount to more than a gardener.

"Did you go to classes there?" Longbottom said, tripping over the words. "Was it scary?"

"Well," she glanced at Tom and Ronald with wide eyes, "I've gone through my fourth year already. Professor Dumbledore said he'd be moving me to a fifth year's schedule."

"That's your OWL year!" Ron said. "You can't sit your OWLs yet."

"Why not, I mean…if she's already done the work?" Longbottom trailed off.

Being able to take his OWLs early would be a relief. Tom could leave school that much sooner. Fickle Fate and Magic Mighty, why had he been put in a body that was thirteen?

Weasley devolved into circulatory arguments based mostly on not wanting to be left behind, so Tom excused himself and sent another owl to Sirius.

My investigations with the ghost did not yield the anticipated result.

Ensure that Lupin creates a comprehensive list of all differences between the dimensions. Also ask for his theories on the differing rates of time passing. Try to identify a divergence point. Perhaps he should be convinced to move into the Townhouse?

Yours,

H.

While watching Hedwig fly into the setting sun, Tom realised one thing Granger hadn't mentioned: her lycanthropy.

xoxox

Tom did not share any classes with Granger, nor did he spend much of his free time with Weasley. As a result, he was able to avoid overly Gryffindor interactions for most of the week.

It was liberating.

He and Blaise continued to study Runes in the library, setting a rapid pace through the third year curriculum in an attempt to join OWL classes next year. Tom used Blaise as a measuring stick for his own skill level, adapting to only just outperform them no matter how hard Blaise tried.

If the Zabini heir was bothered by this they did not say so, hiding all their reactions in smirks, winks, even the occasional bout of laughter.

Tom found nothing amusing about Ancient Runes translations, but Bella could laugh at a man being decapitated. Perhaps Tom was prone to keeping odd company with strange inclinations, he could admit.

When Moody showed them the Unforgivable Curses in their next defense lesson, Tom watched not the twitching spider but the expression on that curse-pocked face.

The light shining in that eye was unmistakable.

This was a man who loved Dark magic. Tom would have grinned, had he not been in the middle of a class that was trembling with their first exposure to torture.

The way that tongue darted across what had once been lips—

—Tom didn't even need to reach out with his magic to check, so certain was he that this was one of his Death Eaters.

That day when the other students left class in huddles of whispers, Tom remained behind.

"You cast those curses like you've had a fair bit of practice, Professor," Tom said.

Not-Moody did not smile. "'Hafta know the Dark to fight it, lad."

Tom grinned easily. "You must have been an excellent Auror, then. It would have taken someone mad to bring you out of retirement."

In 1981, Tom had assigned a trio of his own to watch Moody's movements, to search for any weakness that would let them take down the most dangerous man in the Ministry.

"Don't let Dumbledore hear ye' saying he's mad."

"Was that what I said? My apologies. Would I also have to learn Dark magic to become an Auror, Professor?"

"Are you asking me to teach you, boy?" Moody's teeth were like blunt yellow tombstones.

"Was that what I said?" Tom let the words hang between them for a long minute. "Are you offering?"

"Detention, Potter. Tonight after dinner."

Of those three Death Eaters, all were now officially dead. But Tom had spent most of his summer with a dead man, and he knew exactly which of his followers had been just mad enough for a scheme like this.

Tom would be having his first detention with Barty Crouch Junior.

He locked himself in a bathroom cubicle surrounded by a silencing charm, and laughed.

xoxox

Thank you for reading. Thank you especially for kudos here and on ffnet, those little stat boosts feel glorious. And thank you Ex-livreira for helping me with all kinds of logistics.

I'll be posting something new every day in December 2021, subscribe so you don't miss out. You can also join my Discord Server for previews, story discussions, scheduling, etc.

For more of my unique reincarnation fics in this collection:

• Peter Pettigrew's story, where you'll see the humanity in the rat as he tries to redeem himself by honouring the Potters' sacrifice.
• My take on the classic hero's journey, where Harry raises a dragon and finally grows into his own man.
• Wholesome Twilight crossovers with Harry as Bella, and with Harry as Charlie's boyfriend.
• A compassionate take on Snape in Harry's shoes.