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Chapter Text

1) Reverse

Voldemort’s maniacal grin was visible for everyone to see. He let out a shrill laugh, a little too inhuman not to raise the hairs on everyone’s necks. Even with his borderline human appearance, there was something horribly wrong about his form, not even accounting for the overbearing presence of power radiated by the monster in human skin.

And yet, nobody could look away from the broken boy lying limp in Hagrid’s arms. The size difference between them was only too obvious, making Harry look like what he truly had been all along— a child. A child who had too much on his shoulders until the pressure had crushed him. 

Nobody could blame Harry for his death. Not when he’d given so much to them, even his life . No, the fault lied with them, for not supporting him more. For not doing more . 

Hagrid’s tears were visible even from a distance away, his quiet sobbing far too loud in the silence that followed Harry’s reveal. Students of every year stood in the courtyard, feeling their hopes crumble as more and more Death Eaters swarmed around them.

“Harry Potter is dead!” Voldemort exclaimed, his glee turning their blood cold.

A few of the students looked away, and even some of the teachers, unable to bear the sight of what was happening. They choked down sobs, not wanting to be the one to break the tense silence that had fallen with that statement.

“Think again, bitch!” A voice called out, and it took barely a moment for them to realize it was Harry. Harry, who, in one fluid motion, was out of Hagrid’s (weeping tears of joy, now) arms and back on his feet and holding out a card. 

A.. card?

“Potter!” Voldemort snarled, “What sort of trickery is this?!”

Harry held out the Uno card with determination, as if that would stop the Death Eaters from pouncing and attacking them with force. “Reverse card, bitch! Retreat and I’ll let you live!”

Instead of raising his wand, Voldemort scowled in frustration. “Blast! Fine.” The Dark Lord turned towards his followers, frowning harshly. “Death Eaters, we’ve been bested this time. Retreat, and I will call for you later.”

Huh?

“But my lord! We could wipe out every one of those itty bitty little students right now!” Bellatrix screeched.

Both the Death Eaters and students had similar looks of confusion. What in the world was happening?

“No. We’ve been bested,” Voldemort stated, as if it were anywhere near a fact. “Potter has the reverse card. You should count yourself lucky he’s letting us leave alive!” 

And with that, the Death Eaters, all with horribly bewildered looks plastered on their faces, retreated without another complaint. No matter how confused they may be, they weren’t suicidal enough to go against their lord’s direct order. Even Voldemort left without another threat, after making sure every Death Eater had apparated out.

And then there was only Harry, looking incredibly smug about his apparent victory.

Professor McGonagall sped over the moment the commotion ended, checking over Harry for any injuries she could find. Nothing more than a couple small bruises and scrapes. It didn’t stop Hagrid from sobbing over him being alive, but even while being crushed in a hug, Harry’s grin didn’t falter.

“Mr. Potter, how did you..” she trailed off after the damage had been assessed.

“Hm?” Harry voiced. “Ah, you mean this?” He held up a blue Uno reverse card.

“That is what caused Voldemort to leave?” McGonagall questioned.

Harry nodded. “Yep.”

“I don’t sense any magic on it.” How could this card have possibly won them the war?

“Oh, there is none.”

Her confusion only rose. “Then how..?”

“Respect the reverse card, Professor.”

. . . . .

2) Homework Woes (part 1)

“Harry, Ron, you should get started on the transfiguration essay,” Hermione started, as per usual. “Research shows that people who do their homework ahead of time get better grades, and I for one-”

“Blimey, ‘Mione-” Ron started.

Harry didn’t look up from his book. “I already did it.”

Hermione stopped mid rant with an incredulous look. “You- You did?”

“I finished it a few hours ago, while you were in one of your classes,” Harry clarified, ignoring Ron’s similarly confused look. His friends truly had no faith in him.

“You did?” She repeated.

“Yes.”

For all of her nagging, she truly didn’t expect either of her friends to already be done with any of their homework. “Can I see it? You know, to check it over and to see if I can improve mine any.”

Finally a glance up from her best friend, “Hm? Oh, sure. Here you go.” Harry dug out a piece of parchment from his bag and handed it over, then went straight back to his book.

Meanwhile, Ron watched as Hermione’s face went through a myriad of emotions as she read through the essay. “You even- You have quotes from the textbook? And went six inches over the minimum?!”

“What’s wrong with my essay?” Harry asked with furrowed brows.

“Nothing!” Hermione reassured, then repeated, “Nothing is wrong with it.” As if that were the problem. It was a perfectly written essay, sure to get a good grade, and Hermione-

Hermione had never seen Harry put this much effort into any homework assignment. She should be proud of Harry for finally doing more than the minimum and waiting until the last minute, but all she felt was utter bewilderment.

“That’s good. I even got the Hermione seal of approval,” Harry snickered. “Anyways, I’m going to go grab a snack from the kitchens. You guys want anything?”

“Sure, mate. Whatever you get is fine,” Ron accepted easily, snorting as he saw Hermione’s baffled stare follow Harry out of the room.

The peace only lasted for a moment, before Hermione asked, “Ron, have you started the transfiguration essay?”

“Of course not.”

“That- That’s good.” Hermione muttered in a daze.

Ron snorted again.

. . . . .

3) The Bittenbinder Method

“Give me the prophecy, Potter,” hissed Voldemort, stalking closer and closer to Harry.

His friends stood behind him in varying shades of pain, while the Death Eaters anxiously awaited his next move. The prophecy was too important to their lord for them to mess this up. From most people’s point of view, there was little chance of escape, no matter what Harry’s next move was.

Harry only held the orb higher with a maniacal grin, unconcerned about the petty qualms of how to escape this situation. “You want the prophecy? Go get it!” He yeeted the orb across the room as hard as he could, laughing as Voldemort’s attention was diverted towards the orb. “Street Smarts!”

With that, he threw a random potion (that he most certainly wasn’t holding a moment before) to the ground, and when the smoke cleared, Harry and all of his friends were gone.

. . . . .

4) A Break-In Least Expected

Nicolas Flamel paused as he heard a strange sound—thumping, perhaps?—coming from his basement. Normally, this would not be a strange occurrence, seeing as his wife spent much of her time down there, making potions and whatnot, but he knew for a fact that Perenelle wasn’t home. She was out buying some new plants for their garden in the muggle part of town, and wouldn’t be back for another couple hours at least.

There was an intruder in the basement.

Where most of their valuables are stored.

(Truthfully, he’s wondering how anybody even broke in. There were wards upon wards and over 600 years of magic to back up even more wards. How in the world had they gotten in without him noticing?)

For a moment, he wondered if it was that Dark Lord everybody (Albus Dumbledore) has been ranting about, here to steal the Philosopher’s Stone and gain immortality, like Albus had said he was after. However, he quickly brushed the idea off. The Gringotts break-in had only happened a couple months ago, and the Dark Lord (and he hesitated to truly use that title, after seeing so many others claiming the same) wouldn’t try breaking into his house for something he knew wasn’t here. The actual stone was hidden somewhere in the Hogwarts school grounds—or, at least, the fake stone he’d put in the vaults in the first place, keeping the real one hidden far more securely.

But if it wasn’t that Dark Lord—what was his name? It started with a V for sure, and he knew it was French, but Merlin, he couldn’t remember. Something to do with death, he believed?

No matter. While he may be known for the Philosopher's Stone, Nicolas had quite a bit of confidence in his dueling skills, plus 600 years backing him up. The intruder would be taken care of, though he was careful not to become reckless through confidence.

Nicolas started the slow trek downstairs, inching closer to the basement as the sounds got louder. Whoever had broken in truly did not understand the art of subtlety. 

Instead of the thumping he thought it was, as he got closer to the source, it started to sound more like.. Voices? Plural?

They were arguing, loudly, and as Nicolas crept around the corner, only a doorframe away from the intruders, ready to strike at any sudden movement, the argument started to make less and less sense.

He was expecting them to argue about what was valuable to steal, perhaps, but not about a card game.

Without realizing, he rounded the corner, completely forgoing his plan to attack out of the pure bewilderment he felt at the situation.

The intruders were playing Uno. They were playing a muggle card game Nicolas only vaguely knows of because of Perenelle, and because of that one night they got really drunk and, well-

Neither intruder acknowledged his presence as he entered, too immersed in their game. One of them, a boy who couldn’t be older than thirteen, was down to two cards while the older man, most certainly a full-grown adult, was grimacing at his hand of sixteen cards.

“I don’t think that should be a rule anymore. Obviously it wasn’t meant to be one in the first place, and I am cursed to always be at a disadvantage against your luck -” The man grumbled, obviously displeased with how the game was going.

“The rule was your idea! It’s not my fault you tried to hit me with a +2 and it stacked into a +12! You shouldn’t have tried to hit me with three +2s!!” The boy exclaimed.

The man scrunched his nose. “Why in the world did you have three +2s as well?! Were you just saving them for when I was getting low?!”

“Of course! I was thinking ‘What would Tom do in this situation’ and knew he’d probably pull a stunt like slamming me with three +2s! And I was right! Of course I was saving them!”

There was a tense silence as the boy and man (Tom, apparently) glared at each other.

“.. Play your next card, brat.”

“Ah.. About that..” The boy muttered, suddenly looking nervous.

“Harry.”

“I’m sorry Tom.”

“HARRY.”

The boy placed down his second to last card, a wild +4. He looked so inexplicably sad as he whispered, “Uno.”

The man threw all of his cards at the boy’s (Harry?) face, and they went flying through the air, scattering around the room. Miraculously, none of them actually went anywhere near the boy. The man only looked more upset about that.

Nicolas couldn’t bring himself to do anything but stare.

No longer distracted by the game, the man finally noticed  him standing in the doorway. “Oh good, you’re here.”

That somehow broke him out of his stupor, just enough to ask, “What- Who are you? Why are you in my house?!”

“Harry. My name is Harry Potter,” the boy answered, and Nicolas knew he recognized that name.

“You- You’re Albus’ little prophecy child, aren’t you?”

The man started laughing. Harry sighed.

“Sure.”

“And, um, who is your friend?” Nicolas couldn’t help but ask.

“Hm? Oh, my name is Tom Riddle. I’m Harry’s friend,” the man introduced himself.

Tom Riddle? The name didn’t sound familiar.

Harry casually added on, “He’s also known as the Dark Lord Voldemort. You know, the other ‘little prophecy child’.”

“That was his name!” Nicolas exclaimed. The Dark Lord that Albus was worried about- His name was Voldemort! He knew it had something to do with death!

This time, it was Harry who burst out laughing, and then Nicolas actually processed what Harry had said.

Despite apparently being a Dark Lord, Tom Riddle didn’t do anything more than glare at Harry, so Nicolas felt almost safe enough to ask-

“Surely you know that the Philosopher's Stone isn’t here. Albus practically announced that it’s hidden somewhere in Hogwarts, didn’t he?”

Tom Riddle didn’t do more than glance in his direction, and Nicolas was suddenly hit with how crimson red his eyes were. “We’re not here for the stone, actually. Also I’m very aware that the one in Hogwarts is a fake.”

“We learned that the hard way, huh,” Harry piped in.

“I told you not to add the yarrow root to the potion!”

“It would’ve been fine if it were the real stone!”

“No, instead it just caused it to turn into an actual acid that ate through the stone floor. ”

“Like I said, I was expecting the real stone! Not some ripoff made of a cool volcanic rock. ”

“This is just your stupid Potter luck-”

“What is with you and my luck?!”

“That I can’t beat you in a fair fight without being thwarted by the actual universe.”

“Just because you lost Uno doesn’t mean the universe is out to get you, Tom.”

“Then how do you explain the three +2s you hit me with?!”

“Maybe you should stop being so predictable.”

Nicolas felt that this fight could go on for a while, and decided to cut it short. “Um. If you’re not here for the stone, then.. What are you here for?” It wasn’t everyday that two mortal enemies broke into your house to play Uno, after all. Also wasn’t Harry supposed to be in school?

The two of them turned to him, and Nicolas was hit with the intensity of vibrant green and scarlet red eyes. Suddenly, they looked almost as old as Nicolas himself.

“We were just wondering..” Harry started.

And Tom finished, “Do you know anything about time loops?”

. . . . .

5) You Look As Though You’ve Seen A Ghost (part 1)

Harry had never seen Dumbledore’s face pale so quickly.

“Harry, my boy,” the old man started, looking entirely unsure how to continue, “.. Who is.. this?”

The shakiness in his voice was something Harry would cherish forever.

“Hello!” The ghost of teenage Tom Riddle floats above Harry’s head, not even having to fake the cheeriness in his voice. “My name is Tom Riddle! I’m Harry’s friend!”

Okay, perhaps he was faking it a little, but what better way to disturb Dumbledore than to act friendly? 

Tom rested his head on top of Harry’s, and Harry couldn’t find it in him to care about the chill that spread down his back. He’ll nag Tom about that later, when they don’t have an audience of one (1) shooketh Dumbledore. Why does Tom feel the need to be so cold to the touch anyways?

“.. Friend..?” Dumbledore repeated.

They were currently in his office after the fiasco with the diary, which had actually gone somewhere along the lines of setting up a ritual to allow Tom to become a ghost after death instead of just dying. Harry, who was currently a small second-year student, got to pretend to be innocent and naive for everything he knew what was to come, all while being “best friends” with the ghost of a dark lord. 

This will be excellent.

“Ah, yes, Professor. After I got rid of the diary that was responsible for hurting everyone, the ghost of Tom showed up. He can’t interact with anything anymore” (a lie) “and so we kinda just.. talked things out. And now we’re friends.”

“Friends?” Dumbledore repeated again.

“Yes?” Harry tilted his head, as if wondering why Dumbledore kept questioning that point. “Is something wrong, Professor?”

“Ah, well, Harry, are you aware your.. friend.. is Voldemort? Or, the boy who grew into Voldemort, I suppose.”

Harry looked at Tom, feigning surprise. “Really?!”

Dumbledore looked far too smug behind his twinkling eyes. Harry could almost read his thoughts. ‘Ah yes, I’ve pitted them against each other. Harry will never trust this random ghost now. I’ve done it. I’ve manipulated yet again.’

Tom just snorted. “Listen, we all have a tragic backstory. Mine is just worse than most.”

“Bet it’s not worse than mine.”

“One of my teachers kept trying to accuse me of murder.”

“You murdered my parents.”

“I grew up in an abusive orphanage.”

“I am still growing up in an abusive household because you murdered my parents.”

Dumbledore quickly lost the twinkle in his eyes.

“The same teacher also forced me to watch everything I cared about go up in flames.”

“Damn. I haven’t had that, but I have had one of my teachers try to literally kill me. Also you murdered my parents.”

“One of your teachers tried to kill you?”

“Don’t worry, I killed him back. He was actually you in disguise. Also you murdered my parents.”

“I am really bad at staying alive, apparently. How many times have you killed me?”

“You were like, the third. Stop multiplying, jerk.”

“Don’t worry, there’s only like five left.”

“That is five too many, Tom.”

Dumbledore, who had long since hidden his face in his hands, but subtly, suddenly regained an interest in the conversation. “Five more, you say? And would you happen to know where any of them are?”

“Why would I answer you , old man?” Tom snarked back.

Dumbeldore did the Dumbledore version of a double take.

“Would you tell me if I asked?” Harry asked.

Tom smiled, “Of course! Do you want to know?”

“Hmm..” Harry pretended to think. “Nah.”

Dumbledore actually, audibly, sighed. “Harry, my boy, that is very valuable information that your.. friend.. is offering. Are you sure you don’t want to know?”

Harry gave a confused look. “Why would I want to know? Every time I run into one it’s either kill or be killed, and I don’t want to kill anybody else, especially not another version of Tom in front of him.”

Tom’s answer to that was overzealous cuddling, and now Harry’s face felt horribly cold. He will be complaining later.

Though, the look on Dumbledore’s face.. Maybe he won’t complain too much.

“Could your friend not simply.. leave?” It was telling how tired Dumbledore was with this  that he actually sounded as tired as he looked. The grandfather role must be a tiring one to play. Not that Harry cared.

“Oh, I can’t leave,” Tom said, with his arms still wrapped around Harry.

“Tom can’t go too far from me,” Harry added on. “He’s a ghost, and ghosts have, well, obsessions, which is something the ghost cares a lot for, and they can’t go super far from their obsession. The Hogwarts ghosts all have Hogwarts as their obsession, and Tom, well, Tom’s obsession is me.”

Dumbledore simply looked between the two of them. “I see.”

“Was there anything else you needed, professor?” Harry asked, as if he didn’t already know Dumbledore called him up here to discuss what happened in the chamber. Also there’s no way Harry’s handing over Tom’s diary to him.

However, at this point, Dumbledore no longer cared about what happened in the chamber. He was just looking for an excuse to end the meeting and have some time to process what just happened. “No, my boy. I believe that will be all. Good luck on your final tests.”

Harry waved goodbye as he exited the office, only to immediately turn to the ghost following him. “Wait, is he not cancelling exams this time?!”

“That is so incredibly rude of him,” Tom agreed.

Harry groaned. Tom patted him on the back.

“Dude, stop touching me! You are so cold! I am so cold!”

“You must know that I’m not stopping anytime soon.”

“You’re the worst. I’m going to pour ice cubes down your back when you least expect it next loop,” Harry huffed.

“Speaking of that, and also ignoring what you just threatened me with, we definitely need to do this again sometime. Did you see his face? I’m going to play that on repeat in a pensive for at least five hours,” Tom exclaimed.

“Only if I can join you.”

“Of course.”

They chatted on the walk back to the Gryffindor dorm, only to be cut off by Professor McGonagall just as they were entering.

“Mr. Potter, you must know that you’re cutting it quite close to curfew, young man.”

“Ah, sorry Professor, I had a meeting with Dumbledore and it went on for a while,” Harry apologized.

“As long as it doesn’t happen ag-” She cut off, and it wasn’t hard to figure out that she recognized the ghost floating next to Harry. “.. Tom Riddle..?”

“Hello again, Minerva,” Tom greeted. “I’m surprised you still recognize me; it looks like it’s been a few decades since you were a student.”

“Wha- But- How? You- you’re a ghost? A Hogwarts ghost? After all this time? You’re dead?” she stammered.

“Oh, Professor, don’t you know?” Harry asked, the picture of innocence. “This is the teenage version of Voldemort!”

McGonagall’s face went from pale to even more drastically pale.

This loop was going to be so very fun.

. . . . .

6) Relic of the Past (part 1)

Albus Dumbledore wasn’t sure if he was going crazy.

Little first year Harry Potter, his prophecy child, was wearing a small black ring on his finger. A ring which looked so very similar to the Resurrection Stone, one of the three Deathly Hallows. A ring which had been lost to time.

Albus was sure the last time he saw that ring was on Tom Riddle’s finger, fifty odd years ago.

Perhaps Albus was simply mistaken. It had been a while since he’d seen it, and how would little first year Harry have gotten his hands on it? It was most likely just a gift from somebody.

Albus had to be mistaken, because the thought of if he were right. If that were actually the Resurrection Stone.

How would little Harry have gotten his hands on something Albus was almost positive Tom Riddle had made into a horcrux? And surely Harry didn’t know what he was wearing, the power it holds, or how it was connected to Voldemort.

No, Albus didn’t want to be right about this at all. He almost desperately wanted to be wrong, because the implications if he were right were almost too much to handle.

He had a sinking suspicion his guess was, somehow, worryingly, impossibly, correct.

. . . . .

7) Origins (part 1)

Tom Riddle’s first thought upon waking up was ‘Huh. That’s not supposed to happen.’

Because he could have sworn he died. For real, this time. There was a whole “final battle” and everything.

Harry Potter had most definitely killed him, so why was he awake?

He looked around his surroundings, mildly startled to see.. Malfoy Manor? He was in the room he used while staying at the Malfoy’s house, a large bedroom with all of Malfoy’s best things—an untouched bed, a fancy wardrobe, a personal bathroom, and the ornate desk he was currently sitting at. It was covered in different papers, mostly reports from different followers, and legal documents after he’d taken over the Ministry.

Tom twisted the quill still in his hands with absentmindedness, trying to figure out what in the world was going on. Did he.. Time travel?  

One look at his body neither proved nor disproved that, with him looking far closer to human than he had in decades. It was still closer to a reptile than he’d prefer, but Tom could feel that the magic behind his appearance was fading away, and he could either wait for it to run its course or speed up the process himself. His curly hair fell over his eyes, and his skin was no longer a pale white, nor half-scaly. With only a minor nudge, he could look like he did in his 20’s, before, well, everything.

Had he truly time traveled? Back before his death?

Tom ran through the possibilities in his head. He could take over the Wizarding World easily with the knowledge he possessed. He could kill Harry Potter right here and now, who should be starting, or in, his seventh year. (Though he’s aware Potter did not attend school this year, and instead ran across the country destroying his horcruxes.) He could be ruthless in his pursuit, no longer having to waste time gaining information.

He could do things better.

It was too late to change most things, but with the right people and tools, he could give them all a better ending. Now that he’s suddenly sane again, he could change the Wizarding World for the better, such as legalizing certain dark magic (and nobody will convince him that all dark magic deserved to be banned), gaining rights for more magical creatures, and perhaps even getting a peace treaty between Potter’s people and his.

Actually, it may be better to get rid of most of his followers.

And if that plan fell through, for some reason, he could always just.. leave. He was given a second chance, and if Tom doesn’t take that as a sign that he screwed up in the first timeline, he doesn’t know what is. He could always just run away and start a new life in another country, whether it be muggle or magical. He could spend his days exploring, learning new things, like he did when he was younger. The first timeline had been so very tiring, and knowing he could avoid all of the drama that was to come (and had already) felt almost euphoric.

He could leave.

. . .

Tom barely remembered what he did for the next few days, but he knew it involved talking to his followers about new changes (after convincing them of his identity), lots of paperwork, and a sense of peace that he hasn’t felt in decades. No matter how stressful it got, ‘ I can leave. I can run away. I can leave.’   was playing on loop in his head, like a broken record that sounded almost too tempting from the get-go.

He could leave.

What a wonderful thought that was.

Tom sighed as he wrote the next letter for the Ministry—this one comparable to a research essay on why some dark magic should be allowed, including every reason Tom could think of, counterarguments to every possible excuse they could come up with on why not to agree, and sources from reputable people who were known to have dark cores or use dark magic in daily life. The letter was reaching thirteen pages already, and Tom was nowhere near done, though his hand was cramping from the excessive writing he’d been doing for the last few days.

If he was getting a second chance, he was going to do it right. Either that, or not at all.

Running away from everything- It was so very tempting.

His mind would often stray to what he would do out in the world. He didn’t know if he was still immortal or not, but that was easily fixable with a single ( one!) horcrux, or even inventing a better way to gain immortality that didn’t cost his sanity. He could travel the world for rare magic, go to a muggle university and see how technology has advanced, live in a little house out in the middle of nowhere and just exist . 

If his next breath came out a little too shaky, nobody was there to notice.

Except for the teenager climbing in his window, of course.

Tom could have sworn he was on the third floor, surrounded by numerous wards, but as per always, the laws of magic didn’t apply to Harry Potter.

Potter looked worn down, covered in bruises and dirt, but the coldness in his eyes was unparalleled.

Tom stared at the teen, bewildered at his sudden appearance, because this certainly didn’t happen last time. In fact, his only thought during that moment was an emphatic ‘What the fuck.’

“Fuck you.” Potter enunciated, raising his wand.

And with that, the world faded from bright green to black.

Tom Riddle dies.

Chapter Text

8) School Colors (part 1)

Every student was watching the Sorting Hat in an awed silence. Harry Potter was finally being sorted, and while there was no doubt he would end up in Gryffindor, it didn’t change the fact that the first year had been sitting up there for over ten minutes already. Surely that had to be a new record.

If Harry Potter was destined for Gryffindor, what was taking the hat so long?

Even the teachers were beginning to look concerned, Snape’s grimace deepening and McGonagall fussing with her robes slightly. Even Dumbeldore was starting to lose his “grandfatherly twinkle” his eyes always seemed to carry.

Harry Potter, however, looked to be perfectly at ease where he was. Even, perhaps, enjoying himself, one could say.

(Oddly enough, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher—Professor Puzzle, or something similar, was sipping his drink with a small smile peeking out from the corners of his mouth.)

“Well, well!” Booms the hat, suddenly. “You were a hard one to sort, Harry Potter, but I know just where to put you.”

Everyone collectively leaned forward in their seats; not even the teachers were exempt from the sudden anticipation. Which house was the Harry Potter going to end up in?

“You, Mr. Potter, are a HUFFLEPUFF!”

... What?

A collective silence fell over the entire school as Harry Potter’s uniform faded into yellow and black, matching the rest of the Hufflepuffs’ clothes. Nobody knew what to say. Even Dumbeldore looked at a loss for words, and McGonagall (and the entire rest of the Gryffindors) looked ready to protest his placement.

However, Harry Potter didn’t seem to mind the absolute lack of encouraging words, trotting over to his new table with ease.

Professor Puzzle was the only one who clapped for Potter’s placement, breaking the silence that had fallen over the school. And in return, Harry Potter sent a beaming grin right back his way.

. . . . .

9) Save Spot

It started with an innocuously muttered “Oh no.” from Harry during dinner, something that Dumbeldore only overheard because of his fixated attention already on the boy. (Who knows when Voldemort would try something, and little Harry was the perfect key to watching for it.)

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked from next to him.

Ron, mouth still half full, looked up from his food. “You alright, mate?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Harry waved off, then, even quieter, “He’s going to be so upset.”

“Who?” Hermione inquired with furrowed brows.

But Harry only waved them off. “Don’t worry about it. Just talking to myself.”

Dumbledore calmly sipped his tea as if he wasn’t eavesdropping on three teenagers. Truly, Harry’s sudden concern for “him” was quite random—there had been no mentions of this person in their previous conversation, nor had Harry received any sort of letter from Sirius Black, so Dumbeldore was at a loss for who Harry’s concern is about.

Harry didn’t mention his friend again throughout dinner, though Dumbledore wasn’t oblivious to the sneaking glances towards the door, as if Harry was waiting for somebody to walk through them. Who could he possibly be watching for, if all of the students, and thus, Harry’s friends, were in the dining hall with him?

And yet dinner remained uneventful. 

. . .

Severus Snape wasn’t one to express many emotions (aside from his usual scowl). It was a defense mechanism he’d learned young, and had mastered under Voldemort’s reign, where the slightest hint of fear could get you killed and the slightest bit of hesitance would get you tortured (and then killed). Snape would like to say he’d perfected the art of controlling his emotions, or at least what he shows of them, especially after working under the Dark Lord, or even Dumbledore , for so long.

However, this did not account for Voldemort strolling into Hogwarts with no warning only minutes after curfew. It’d been a relatively calm day; there had been no hints of burning from his Dark Mark, nor had Dumbledore voiced any new suspicions about the Dark Lord’s activity. For all intents and purposes, Voldemort should not be walking through Hogarts’ halls, and yet there he was. So while normally Snape would balk at showing his befuddlement and dawning horror (for why else would the Dark Lord be in Hogwarts, except for one thing?), his blank expression slipped just this once, his eyes widening just in time for them to meet blood red ones from across the hall.

There was no doubt that this was the Dark Lord, even with the drastic change in appearance. His Dark Mark confirmed this man’s identity with no doubt, no matter how strange it was to see the Dark Lord with a human form once more. (The last time Snape had seen Voldemort look so human was that night. ) Somehow, and Snape didn’t want to know how, Voldemort had gained a human appearance again. (And wasn’t that a terrifying thought, that the Dark Lord could blend in in a crowd.)

And yet Snape had bigger issues to deal with at the moment, than wondering the hows and whys of the situation, with the Dark Lord scowling deeply at the sight of his follower. Quickly covering up his emotions once more, Snape didn’t know what else to do but ask, “My Lord?”

“Do not bother me now Severus.” Voldemort stalked right past him without a second glance. “But worry not, I am not here to kill today.”

Somehow, his reassurance didn’t feel comforting in the least. The Dark Lord was in a bad mood today, to the point that his emotions almost seemed palpable in the air (and yet the mark remained so very silent). Snape could only wait until the Dark Lord had turned the corner to the stairs and his footsteps had quieted into silence before speed-walking towards Dumbledore’s office.

. . .

Minerva hadn’t seen Tom Riddle in many, many years. 

He’d always been such an upstanding student, a few years older than her, and undoubtedly the most admired student throughout the whole school. She remembered every girl in her year trying to earn his favor through sweets and compliments, remembered them all being turned down with a charming smile, remembered the crowd of Slytherins that all seemed to defer to him.

Minerva also knew the rumors. (Dumbledore is not as sneaky as he thinks he is.)

She knows what most likely became of him—his obsessive behavior towards the Dark Arts, the way some of his “friends” would sometimes flinch away, the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. She’d seen the way his endearing smile and pleasant attitude would slip into something colder, sometimes. She’d seen his hatred for Dumbledore, and Dumbledore’s suspicions towards him in return.

Tom Riddle may have become Voldemort. Dumbledore could know that as fact, or perhaps only be guessing as to his identity. (Though she has to admit that all of the pieces line up, and it does not paint a pretty picture.)

However, Minerva is just maybe , just slightly , starting to doubt Dumbledore’s claims on the matter. Starting to doubt her own judgement as well, in fact, of Tom Riddle’s character.

There’s no way the Tom Riddle from her memories would allow himself to receive comfort from anybody . And even less of a chance that Voldemort would do so, especially from Harry Potter.

And yet, in front of her lay Tom Riddle with his face buried into Potter’s stomach, arms wrapped around the boy’s waist while Potter gently stroked his hair.

There were students littered around the common room, no doubt “discreetly” watching the spectacle going down, even before Minvera had appeared. It’s not every day that a random adult breaks into Hogwarts simply to receive affection from Harry.

( Well, she rephrased, thinking of Harry’s reputation as savior of the Wizarding World, it’s not every day that they succeed.)

Harry, for one, didn’t look the least bit surprised, perfectly comfortable in his lounge chair with a Dark Lord (?) half on his lap. His two friends were nowhere in sight, and Minerva quietly hoped it stayed that way, for she didn’t know what kind of ruckus Granger would bring if she knew this was happening.

Tom Riddle shifted his hold of Harry, then broke the silence that had overtaken the room (only overshadowed by the crackling of the fireplace) with a small murmur that Minerva barely heard, “I miss Quirrel. I miss him so much. ”

Quirrel?

An equally quiet mutter from Harry, followed by gently stroking Riddle’s hair, “I know you do.”

“I was so close to winning.” Riddle’s hold on Harry’s waist became tighter.

Another agreement from Harry, “I know you were.”

Minerva could only stare in shock as Voldemort (and the Quirrel comment confirmed that, didn’t it? And winning? ) continued to hug Harry, both of them acting as if there isn’t a place they’d rather be.

Of course, the peaceful and somber tone of the room was interrupted only a moment later, before Minerva could work through her surprise to do more than stare. Dumbledore burst into the room with a speed she rarely saw of him, followed by Snape lurking through the doorway. The headmaster’s wand was gripped tightly in his hand, and an unusually stern look adorned his face.

(For a quick second, Dumbledore looked completely bewildered, before an odd determination came over him.)

And yet, he still tried to make pleasant conversation, for some strange reason that Minerva will never understand. “Mr. Riddle, I’m afraid we weren’t expecting your presence today.”

The students in the room had never been so quiet as they were now, watching with undivided interest as bombshell after bombshell dropped out of the blue. This most certainly wasn’t how she expected her night to go either, so Minerva cannot fault them for watching the spectacle, even if they may be in danger. She wouldn’t want to leave, either.

Tom Riddle, for the first time, made a motion other than hugging Harry tighter. Blood red eyes peaked out from Harry’s abdomen, then buried themselves once more. For someone so obsessed with immortality, he seemed oddly unconcerned about the threat posed to his life.

(Blood red eyes. So different from the dark brown he’d had in school.)

It was Harry who answered instead, still comfortable in his seat with one of his hands loosely tangled in Tom Riddle’s hair. “Did you need something, Headmaster?”

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore started, looking unsure as to how to continue, “I would recommend you separate yourself from him.”

Riddle’s response to that was to tighten his grip on Harry’s clothes, no doubt not a fan of that idea. Harry, in return, pulled the Dark Lord closer to him. “No can do, Headmaster. My friend is in mourning, you see.”

Snape, apparently having enough of this, finally stepped into the room with a snarled, “Potter, for once in your life , stop being an oblivious idiot and do as you’re told!”

Harry raised a single eyebrow in return. “No, there’s no need to kill him. I’ve already packed.”

(Little known to Minerva, Snape’s Dark Mark had started burning with anger, dying out as soon as Harry finished speaking.)

It took the other two another moment to realize that Harry wasn’t talking to them, but the Dark Lord. Snape had figured it out immediately, blanching at the implications that his life had been spared only by the grace of Potter, and the Dark Lord’s willingness to listen to him.

(Packed for what?)

It was Dumbledore’s turn to lose the rest of his patience, next. (Minerva felt like a bystander in this whole situation, which, as she hadn’t done more than stare, was quite accurate.) “Mr. Riddle, release your hold on Harry. I will not allow you to harm my students.” This was accompanied by Dumbledore raising his wand in a threatening manner, no doubt feeling like he had the advantage and yet unwilling to strike first. Was it because of the prophecy, Riddle’s hold on Harry, or his morals that kept him from attacking first? (Why not defeat the final boss while it’s easy, even if it may be underhanded? This was a war .)

This time, he was completely ignored by both of them. Harry was muttering softly to Riddle with a thoughtful look. “Well, what are you in the mood for? We can work on the time travel idea more, or do you want to go traveling?”

From his lap, a muffled, “Travel,” sounded.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore tried again, “That man is dangerous. I do not want you to get hurt.” It was obvious he was trying to be careful, what with Riddle’s tight hold of Harry (though Minerva really doubts it’s a hostage situation) and the other students in the common room. 

“Yeah, yeah. He’s Voldemort, I know,” Harry snarked, shifting his hold on Riddle’s hair to grab his wand out from his sleeve.

“You know?” Dumbledore repeated, dumbfounded.

“You know?!” Snape stressed, angrily.

Minerva has decided that she is going to raid the kitchens for their best alcohol tonight.

“Oh yeah, me and Voldy here go way back,” Harry answered, as if that didn’t raise more questions, and wasn’t in the process of casting a spell on the Dark Lord. “We met that night that he murdered my parents and- we just clicked , you know?” 

Minerva may not know what’s happening, but she couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped her. It is clear, however, that even if this man was Tom Riddle or Voldemort or (Merlin forbid) neither , Harry felt perfectly safe with him, and Riddle with Harry. She’s not sure how this friendship came to be, and honestly doesn’t want to know, but at least she knows Harry is safe.

Snape, on the other hand, obviously does not feel this way, turning red with rage. “Potter, if you do not cease this immediately-”

He never finished his sentence, because Harry finished casting whatever spell he had been working on and the two of them glowed a bright white, forcing everyone to look away. When they looked back over, both Harry and Riddle were gone, and Dumbledore looked far more irritated than worried.

Minerva didn’t know how to feel about that , either.

. . . . .

10) Relic of the Past (part 2)

Only a couple of weeks later, long enough for Albus to go back and forth a hundred times on whether the ring was truly the Resurrection Stone, Harry Potter is seen holding a diary.

A diary with a black binding, and the golden initials of T. M. Riddle stamped on the cover.

When asked about where he got the diary-

“It was a gift from a friend.” Harry’s eyes were always such a bright green, far brighter than Lily Evans’ had ever been. 

“Oh?” Dumbeldore nudged. “Who is your friend?” 

And why were they sending you Tom Riddle’s diary?

“Does that matter, Professor?” Harry asked.  It was a perfectly innocent question, and yet, somehow, Albus felt as if there were hidden emotions behind it. Snark that wasn’t quite there. Anger simmering just below the surface. Loathing hidden deep within, where Albus would never notice.

“Of course not, my boy. I just thought I recognized it for a moment there,” he started. “One of the students, back a couple of decades ago, had one exactly like that.”

“Oh, I’m aware, Professor.” Harry smiled, amused and yet cold. “Where do you think I got it from?”

Albus truly didn’t know what to think. Nobody had ever seen him write in it, nor was little Harry disappearing for hours, nor did he have any blank spots in his memory. But he never once let that book out of his sight, the same with the ring still on his finger.

Albus would wait and see where this all led, and hopefully put an end to it before it was too late.

Once is strange, twice is a coincidence, but three times? Would Voldemort truly let Harry Potter hold so many parts of his soul? His path to immortality? Was it Voldemort giving little Harry these pieces of dangerous, vile magic, or was it somebody else?

Why would Voldemort give Harry so much power over him, if not for a trap?

No, Albus truly had no idea what to think about this.

. . . . .

11) A Meeting Worth Remembering

Lucius would never admit this to anybody, not over his dead body, but he was trembling in his seat. It wasn’t noticeable by any means, but his hands were shaking and his stomach felt full of lead.

And yet he took comfort in the fact that he was far from the only one cowering in their seats. The Death Eaters sat around the meeting room, all trying to hide their fear from each other and, of course, the source of their fear. Even Bellatrix was silent in her seat, though that might’ve been out of reverence instead. It was hard to tell with her.

Voldemort, their Lord, sat in his makeshift throne at the head of the table, radiating anger and fury. His wrath was almost palpable in the air, thick to the point of suffocation. Lucius didn’t know why, but the Dark Lord was in a bad mood today.

Well, “bad mood” was an understatement. 

And, like usual, Voldemort’s anger was directed at the Potter brat. The one topic that none of them can really do anything about. Even if they did come across Potter, it’s a battle between wiping out their biggest threat (a 16 year old child, really?) and leaving him for the Dark Lord, who has staked his claim on killing Potter whether he knows it or not. Lucius, for sure, doesn’t want to be the one to tell him that ‘No, sorry, you can’t torture Potter, I already killed him’.

They had been in this meeting for almost an hour now, and yet somehow Voldemort found something else to complain about. Perhaps it was because he was repeating his main few points with increasing displeasure each time, or perhaps it was because nobody wished to be the one to speak up and point out that the Dark Lord was acting as insane as the rumors claimed him to be.

(Lucius studiously ignored those rumors, because whether the man is insane or not, he’s still far more powerful than Lucius, both in magic and the fact that Lucius had the mark of a servant branded on his arm.)

The low creaking of the door gained everyone’s attention, subtly glancing at who would dare interrupt a Death Eater meeting and guessing at how long they would live. And yet, even as the door opened wider with a groan and the person behind the door was revealed, even as every Death Eater in attendance poorly stifled a gasp, Voldemort never once stopped in his rant to even glance over.

Harry Potter, Harry Potter , walked into the meeting room without a single bit of hesitance, to the point where Lucius couldn’t tell if he were completely stupid, horribly oblivious, or if the entire room of people were having a shared delusion of seeing the stupid Potter boy after listening to their lord rant for an hour about him.

Bellatrix, who had been hanging off of Voldemort’s every word until the boy had come in, was the first to act. She stood up in her chair and raised her wand, ready to cast a curse, while every other Death Eater were still pondering if they were seeing things.

However, she didn’t get farther than the first syllable before Voldemort paused in his rant to cut her off with a sharp, “I will not tolerate you interrupting this meeting, Bellatrix.”

(In Lucius’ very important opinion, this hardly counted as a meeting.)

The rest of the Death Eaters took a cue from Bellatrix’s failure to keep seated quietly and simply pretend they didn’t see anything. Lucius sure wasn’t going to be the one to act out.

“But, My Lord-” Bellatrix tried, vaguely gesturing wildly towards Potter, who was still making his way over to the meeting table with ease. And- What was he holding? Were those apple slices?

“Hush, Bellatrix, before I lose my patience with you,” Voldemort commanded, glaring until she sat down (unwilling to disobey, even when Potter was right there-) .

It was a miracle none of them had been cursed thus far.

Before the Dark Lord could continue with his rant, the Potter boy reached the head of the table and gently tapped their lord on the arm. Voldemort turned to glance at the boy as Potter muttered a soft, “I brought you a snack.”

Lucius was sure he was hallucinating, or perhaps he’d fallen asleep and this was some horrible nightmare, especially when the Dark Lord returned the soft words with a murmur of his own, “Thank you, my dear.”

Definitely a nightmare.

 No matter how realistic it may be, it was definitely a nightmare playing out before him.

Lucius caught the expressions of the other Death Eaters in attendance, ranging from horrified to shocked to distraught to in complete denial.

(Lucius was not in denial. This was a dream.)

After sharing another soft touch with Voldemort and leaving the apple slices on the table, Potter left without another word, not even a glance back. The door clicked shut, and each of the Death Eaters turned to face their lord in various stages of grief, perhaps even inventing new ones.

The Dark Lord grabbed an apple slice to munch on, even as he said, “Now, as I was saying, Potter’s reign has gone on for far too long! He needs to be taken care of swiftly so I can enact my will on the Wizarding World as a whole! Once I get rid of that stupid Potter brat-”

Lucius hoped he would wake up soon.

. . . . .

12) Wrong of Conquest (part 1)

When Hermione had imagined the final battle—the end of the war between Voldemort and her best friends , she’d imagined a battlefield, a final desperate attack between both sides. She’d prepared herself for the possibility of death, whether she included Harry’s horcrux into that mix or not. They were all children , how could they be expected to fight against experienced adults?

How could Harry be expected to fight against the Dark Lord by himself?

She’d prepared for many things, through books and supplies and erasing her parents’ memories, but mostly, she’d prepared herself for death.

She’d been prepared for Harry’s death.

And yet, the final battle had gone so very different from what she’d imagined. Voldemort had only brought a few of his Death Eaters along, even if they were some of his most loyal and ruthless ones, and even then he’d ordered them to back off because the Dark Lord apparently wanted to fight Harry in a one on one duel. Harry, being his usual self-sacrificial self, of course, accepted, despite many people’s protests. 

(It wasn’t like he had a choice .)

Somehow, for some reason , Voldemort had wanted a fair fight between the two of them, graciously allowing Harry to ready himself and both of them respectfully bowing to each other, as the duel tradition states. The duel started not a moment later, and yet to her surprise none of the colors of the spells were a sickening green, nor were they a ruthless red hue. None of Harry’s spells were meant to kill or torture, him favoring Expelliarmus as per usual, but none of Voldemort’s had either. For some reason she could not possibly fathom, the Dark Lord seemed determined to have a fair duel.

And really, that was only one of the weirdest things about all of this. Another one to note as an extremely strange situation , in Hermione’s opinion, was the horrible realization that Voldemort was gorgeous. She remembered Harry explaining what he looked like after the TriWizard Tournament, though it hadn’t truly set in how horrid a beast he looked until she’d seen him herself at the Department of Mysteries. But this version of Voldemort, for whatever reason, no longer looked like a snake creature. Instead, he had styled black hair with a hint of curls, a delicate hold to his wand, casting spells with nothing more than a soft murmur, blood red eyes that almost glowed in the dim light cast over them, and a well-toned body that looked no older than 25.

Hermione hated to admit this, but this version of Voldemort—Harry had told her he was good at manipulating people through his good looks and charm—she could see it. If they’d met under a different light, or perhaps if he’d been a student in school, she would have fawned over him just as much as the next girl.

Ron may be the love of her life, but damn if the Dark Lord isn’t her type.

That does not make up for the fact he is literally the Dark Lord though, and thus Hermione has decided that he is no longer handsome nor her type at all.

However, what may possibly be the strangest part of all of this, and that’s really saying something, was the fact that it looked like Harry was winning . Not that she doubted her best friend’s skills, but this was Voldemort she was talking about.

Spells were being cast left and right, some of which Hermione couldn’t even recognize, yet none went towards the crowd of people watching this spectacle in awe and horror. Even the Death Eaters were starting in blatant shock, except for Bellatrix, recognizable for the loud cheering for her lord mixed with several threats towards the students.

One after another, Voldemort cast spell after spell, with Harry dodging or blocking every one. However, after a few minutes, the positions almost seemed reversed, with Harry leading off with offensive spells and the Dark Lord seemingly on the defensive. It was a spectacle like none other Hermione had seen, sure this battle would go down in history.

Ron clutched her arm in the same amount of shock that she was in herself.

And finally, with a slip on Voldemort’s end, Harry was able to disarm the Dark Lord, much to the horrified awe of the crowd. He held his wand against Voldemort’s throat, even as Voldemort made the move to surrender, holding his hands to the side with a small smirk on his face.

(The smile itself was worrying, even before Hermione noticed Harry was holding back his own grin.)

She expected a surprise attack, perhaps an ambush from unseen Death Eaters, or a wandless and nonverbal curse. There was no way it was over that easily, not with Voldemort’s cheshire grin and almost glowing eyes. Hermione raised her wand, prepared to defend or run, and saw Ron copying her movement with his own.

And yet, instead of an attack-

“I forfeit. You win, Potter,” Voldemort said blithely, far more cheerful than anybody would have ever thought.

The schoolyard was so quiet Hermione could hear Harry’s huff of a response from across the yard.

“And with this comes my surrender to the war,” the Dark Lord continued, as if there were not many things wrong with that statement.

“You’re surrendering?” Harry repeated. “You?” He shoved his wand closer against Voldemort’s throat as he expressed his disbelief.

Voldemort’s grin only grew. “Yes. I surrender.”

“Prove it.”

Hermione took a step forward, ready for whatever may come, whether it be spells, an ambush, or even a bloody fistfight between the two of them.

She was not, however, prepared for Voldemort to drop to his knees and say-

“I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, hereby enact the Right of Conquest upon myself. I give myself freely in body, soul, and magic to Harry James Potter and bind myself to his will. So mote it be.”

The Death Eaters had paled from the first few words, Bellatrix screeching out her displeasure. Half of the students and all of the teachers (who knew what the Right of Conquest was) had wide eyes and an aghast expression, while the other half (who didn’t know) were watching the scene with a wary look.

They didn’t know the true weight of those words—how irreversible such a binding was—to properly react. Not that there was a correct way to react. Ron, as a pureblood, knew the implications perfectly well and was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what was possibly happening.

Hermione herself was having a hard time with it. She’d read up on the Right of Conquest a few times, but books on the subject were rare. It was- It was slavery. It was binding a person’s being to another willingly after being defeated in a battle. She hadn’t heard of a case of it happening since the early days—Merlin’s time early—which had been filled with an honor system she couldn’t imagine anyone agreeing to today.

It was seeing Voldemort willingly on his knees after being bested in a duel as her best friend stood over him, looking so very young for the burden he’d been placed with.

(And had somehow come out on top.)

“So mote it be,” Harry whispered, as a golden light bound The Boy Who Lived and The Dark Lord Voldemort together irreversibly.

. . . . .

13) Commitment

Harry woke up with a pounding headache and a sense of dread that only grew as he became more aware.

He was on a soft bed with rumpled blankets, but this was no doubt a hotel with its just slightly too cold air and too loud air conditioning. Without a second glance, Harry turned the contraption off with a gentle nudge of his magic, firmly ignoring the loud ‘crack’ it made in protest.

The body in bed next to him groaned as he awoke, until Tom was sitting up with the same annoyance of a headache that Harry was currently sporting. He kept the blanket tightly wrapped around him as he yawned, and only then became more aware of his surroundings.

“Merlin, how drunk did we get last night?” Tom asked in a grumble. He felt around for his wand on the bed, eventually finding it buried under his pillow.

“I don’t even remember,” Harry mumbled, sighing in relief as Tom rid him of his headache with a spell. “I remember.. a party? And.. did we make out?”

“I think,” Tom agreed. “But why are we in a hotel?”

Harry was curious about that too. “I’d like to say something to defend our drunk selves, but there’s no way they would’ve checked into a hotel without a reason.”

That feeling of dread hadn’t left him either, and Harry had a horrible suspicion he was forgetting something important.

While Harry pondered over what he could have possibly forgotten, sorting through blurry memories of the previous night’s events, Tom, still bundled up in the blanket and refusing to leave the bed, reached to the floor to grab a piece of paper. He stared at it for a minute, then another, before dropping his head to his hands with a huff of exasperated breath. “I figured out what drunk us did.”

Harry grabbed the paper to see for himself, only to freeze on the spot.

This was.. This was a marriage certificate.

Drunk them had gotten married.

Tom let out a sardonic laugh. “Well, I hadn’t anticipated this happening, but you know what they say, my dear, till death do us part.”

“Even in death I won’t be rid of your dumb ass and you know it,” Harry retorted.

“The memories are starting to come back to me, now,” Tom grimaced.

The same for Harry—there was lots of drinking, and he definitely did make out with Tom as they were getting their wedding vows, and there was him and Tom surrounded by empty glasses of what had once been filled with alcohol, and Tom stumbling out a “wanna get married” and Harry jumping on the idea immediately. Harry also remembered a specific point where he muttered “Sober me is going to be so surprised,” and Tom nodding along seriously.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now,” Harry finally said.

(As if they hadn’t spent hundreds of years with each other at this point.)

“You’ve got it all wrong, my dear,” Tom countered. “ You’re stuck with me. ”

With a sudden bout of worry, Harry ripped the blanket off of both of them, exposing the two of them to the cold air. He ignored Tom’s shout of “Hey!”, sighing in relief.

At least they were still wearing clothes.

. . . . .

14) Origins (part 2)

Harry Potter didn’t quite know what was going on. This is the second time, now, that he’d seemingly gone back in time.

The first time had been in the middle of him hunting down the horcruxes with Hermione and Ron, and he’d thought of how good a chance it was, that he could change things for the better, even just a little. Though he mourned the future he had been building with his friends, he could save so many lives (Fred) , even with only a few months of time extra.

It had felt so good wiping out Voldemort from the start, and the Death Eaters had fallen not long after. Why they didn’t think of getting rid of the main body just to start was a mystery—it wasn’t like his revival was instant , after all, and it’d give them precious time that they were lacking. However, for some reason, Voldemort hadn’t come back at all . Even before Harry and his friends had wiped out the remaining horcruxes, Voldemort had never made a reappearance. While it was strange, Harry hadn’t questioned it too much, and had gone on living his life with the knowledge he’d saved at least a few lives.

He’d been in the middle of eating dinner with his friends, celebrating the end of the war, and now suddenly he was back in the graveyard.

(It felt far too real to be a nightmare.)

There was the sound of Peter Pettigrew sniveling near a cauldron, the stinging pain of his arm, the silence of the Death Eaters surrounding him, and the Dark Lord seemingly frozen in.. confusion?

Well, no matter. Harry remembered how this happened. His nightmares wouldn’t let him forget this. With how he and Voldemort were both holding their wands, they were most likely about to duel.

He may not understand why Voldemort has decided to freeze up suddenly, but Harry wasn’t one to let an opportunity go to waste. Before anyone realized what was happening, Harry took the opportunity to strike with a lethal green. 

Voldemort’s eyes widened with terror as the spell shot toward him, and then he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

And good riddance.

. . .

Tom Riddle didn’t quite know what was going on. This is the second time, now, that he’d seemingly gone back in time.

Only seconds ago, he’d seen Potter climbing through his window, throwing the killing curse at him with a brutality Tom didn’t remember him having. Tom had blacked out, no doubt because he’d died (he died he died but he’s alive-?), and now he was standing in a graveyard for reasons he didn’t understand.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but the terror of dying hadn’t left his mind (he died he died he died -) . His hands were shaking, and it’s hard to see anything but a green so bright that it makes him want to be sick.

(He doesn’t want to die-)

The panic blinded him, so much so that he didn’t realize when memory turned into reality—when the glimpses of green he couldn’t stop seeing led way for a real one. Tom doesn’t have time to do anything more than suck in a sharp breath, eyes wide with fear, before everything goes black.

Tom Riddle dies.