Chapter Text
“You’re asking to see the Malfoy estate’s library?” Minister Kingsley Shaklebolt asked. He sat behind his desk in his very posh office, fingers steepled beneath his chin. “But their names have been cleared. You stepped forward yourself and defended them.”
Harry leaned back in his seat, offering up his most genuine smile. He had been worrying about this meeting for days, but now that it was underway, he realized there'd been nothing to worry about at all. “Oh, yeah. The Malfoys are fine. It isn’t personal at all, it’s just, well…”
How exactly could he put it? Harry had come to his friend, the Minister of Magic, to ask for a favor only he could provide. Harry was attempting to make use of his clout, because he was fairly certain if he didn’t, he’d end up losing his mind. But he really did not need Kingsley to know that part.
“Ah.” Kingsley filled the silence, nodding. “You’re looking for information that only libraries such as the Malfoy’s might provide. Is that it?” He raised an eyebrow when Harry gave a weak shrug. “Is this an assignment from Dumbledore? Some mission he entrusted you with before his death?”
He was looking at Harry as if it were the most obvious explanation in the world, and Harry seized on it. “Yes, actually.” He glanced down, thinking, then met Kingsley’s eyes. “Dumbledore wanted me to find out more about Voldemort and how he became so powerful. So I can use the information to stop anything like that from happening ever again.”
Kingsley was nodding along sagely, as if he had expected this, so Harry decided to push a bit. “Maybe to even gain some knowledge, to help future generations unlock the sort of magic that monster was using.”
That threw Kingsley off. “Oh? But surely Dumbledore wouldn’t task you with learning about the Dark Arts?”
“Of course not!” Harry lowered his voice, speaking with what he hoped was a convincing amount of determination. “No. But he was a prodigy, wasn’t he? Powerful on an unusual level. And Dumbledore said that if anyone could be trusted with what knowledge that man had gained, it’s me. I’ll be sure anything actually dangerous is dealt with.”
“Yes, yes of course.” Kingsley nodded, eager to agree that Harry Potter was trustworthy by default. “Well, I know the Malfoy family is eager to save face in the eyes of the Ministry, so I’m certain they’d be happy to grant you temporary access to their library.”
“Excellent!” Harry stood up. “Now, I know you’re busy so I don’t want to keep you any longer. But if I could add one little thing to the request? Could we insist that I be alone in the library? It's very important that I'm not interrupted. Ideally, I'd have the whole manor to myself."
Kingsley blinked in surprise. “For how long?”
“Well, their library houses some, what, eight thousand books? That’s what an old Prophet article said.”
“Eight thousand that weren’t spelled to not show up on the registry, I suppose,” Kingsley supplied.
“I think forty-eight hours ought to do it then.”
Kingsley’s mouth popped open, as if ready to protest, but he reeled himself back. “I… This is more serious than I thought, isn’t it? Are you looking for something specific?”
“I am. In fact, I think I might need access to every single former Death Eater’s estate, living or otherwise.” Harry angled toward the door. “I really don’t mean to take any more of your time, but I do think it might be necessary.”
Kingsley was still nodding, still fully cooperative. Harry couldn't believe this was going so well. “In that case… perhaps we might arrange for a grant. This sounds like full time work.”
Harry almost laughed. “Oh, that’s not necessary!”
Kingsley waved him off, smiling. “Not at all, not at all. Considering this is a mission given to you by Dumbledore, I’m fully confident that it’s worthwhile. Please, let me know if you need anything else.”
And that was how Harry gained access to the private libraries of all of the former Death Eaters, both alive and dead, as well as Voldemort himself, and made copies of every single text he could find on anything to do with the Dark Arts. And that was how he subsequently ruined his life, and replaced it with something better.
That was a bit of an exaggeration. He also made copies of anything else that seemed like it might have once caught Voldemort’s interest. He had Kreacher haul it all back to Grimmauld Place, where they reviewed the titles at length and set aside anything useful. Kreacher had been very eager to help once he recognized a few of the books from the Malfoy library. His enthusiasm was a bit off-putting, honestly, but it was nice to have the company.
Harry remembered when he was younger, when he used to share the property with a revolving cast of people. Every morning he could wake up and wonder which friendly faces he’d find chatting with an inevitable Weasley over breakfast. But now it was empty. All the time. Empty and quiet, aside from himself and Kreacher.
Not that it was anyone’s fault but his own. Hermione tried, she really did, but he was bound and determined to learn what exactly had happened to him as a child, how Voldemort had forced a piece of his actual fucking soul into him, and the possible implications of not having it there anymore. Investigating all of those books took time and focus. He stopped responding to her letters, and then disconnected his Floo connection. Really, she started to get a bit rude about it near the end, when he made it clear how important this was to him and she had expressed nothing but a condescending level of concern.
After she finally gave up and joined the Weasleys and Luna and all his former Gryffindor friends in leaving him alone, he had all the time in the world to learn precisely what a Horcrux was, the nature of their receptacles, and how other people might have tried working with similar magic across history.
That eventually brought him to soul magic. But his first major research project was discovering if he’d really been the first ever human Horcrux. As it turned out, yes. It certainly seemed that way. There were staggeringly few mentions of Horcruxes throughout all of magical history—and Harry had the resources to know that.
He poured through book after book, ranging from limited edition publications to old, handwritten journals. In his research, he tracked down about a dozen people across the world reckless enough to create a Horcrux. Of this dozen, only five survived the necessary ritual. It was more than he had anticipated.
Suffice it to say, it was very impressive to know that Voldemort had made so many, when it was rare to survive even one. Very impressive. It made Harry wonder what exactly made Voldemort so special. And so that turned into yet another project. Was Tom Riddle really as impressive as he seemed to believe he was?
Harry sometimes wondered how differently his life would have turned out if he hadn’t decided to pillage Dumbledore’s home for more information. Maybe he would have gone on to get married, to have children, to live a perfectly average, peaceful life after so much strife. He had earned that, hadn’t he? Everyone had said so. But it wasn’t worth thinking about. He was very happy with how it all played out in the end.
Apiary Tower was a crumbling, wretched thing way off in the Scottish highlands. Grey stone and green moss, jutting out of a sea of heather. It was idyllic. Ancient. It looked more like a death trap than the last known address of the late Albus Dumbledore.
Fat little bees guarded the way to the door, bumbling among the flowers, zipping past Harry’s face. They didn’t stop him from stepping inside, where it was cold and significantly less gorgeous than the sweeping vista outside.
The first level of the tower was completely empty, save for a broken chair and the staircase winding along the wall, which only led up. He could practically hear his heartbeat echo. Clearly, no one had been there in several years. Harry sidestepped a particularly nasty hole in the floor—which looked as if it had been caused by spell damage rather than disuse—and headed for the staircase.
It felt as if he was ascending the crooked spine of some long-dead giant, and each successive room was one further vertebrae. Everything felt hollow. The staircase wound around the perimeter of the tower, unwalled, looking over each room as it continued on to the next. Some rooms had furniture huddled beneath the low ceiling, some were even filled to the brim with clutter. Every now and then he’d have to pause and repair a step. At least he didn’t have to worry about any defensive magic, as he had found the key to the tower among Dumbledore’s things at Hogwarts. Headmistress McGonagall had assured him that as long as he carried that key in his pocket, he was welcome there.
The study was rather high up, just enough for the view from the windows to be a bit dizzying. Harry tried to not concern himself with the odd relationship the tower had with the horizon. He focused on the sprawl of books, scrolls, and—oddly enough—the staggering assortment of Muggle writing utensils. It seemed Dumbledore had a fondness for mechanical pencils.
Everything was mostly piled neatly on a desk or in its proper place on one of the many bookshelves lining the wall. It was the tidiest room in the tower by a long shot. He settled into a dusty armchair and pulled out his wand to summon anything containing the name Tom Riddle. Several journals flew his way, landing in a neat stack by his feet. He picked up the first one and saw that it was filled with Dumbledore’s handwriting. Perfect.
Some time later, he set aside the journals and, trembling, summoned any books regarding soulmates. Half a dozen flew to him, skidding along the floor and careening into the pile by his feet. Stomach churning with dread, he picked one up and started reading somewhere in the middle.
Soulmates are always indicated by a permanent, physical marking. Freckle patterns and birthmarks are by far the most common. More uncommon are irregular scars and tattoos, which are generally inflicted through the course of a fated event.
Fated event? He muttered an index spell, and the book flipped itself to the first mention of the term.
Fated events are significant encounters between soulmates that leave them both forever changed. These events are echoed through the vast majority of all possible versions of reality.
What? He muttered another index spell.
Of course, we must remain mindful of the existence of the infinite versions of reality, spanning outward forever, fractal and ever-changing. A soulmate connection persists throughout all of time, all of space, throughout every instance and possibility. Theirs is a connection that transcends the gossamer threads weaving our mortal coil.
Merlin, who wrote this? It sounded like Trelawny-level nonsense.
And throughout every infinitesimal version of reality, soulmates are connected by a living connection. And this connection is a string on the harp of destiny.
Trash. Absolute time-wasting rubbish. He tossed the book aside, stared blankly into the middle distance, and then picked up another.
Much later, he trekked down into one of the overstuffed storage rooms, where he was fairly certain he had spotted some liquor bottles.
Agartha Market had many things, but it was generally not the sort of place where one expected to find the Boy Who Lived. He should have been more comfortable on the high streets, perhaps, but even those businesses had unsavory associations. There were far more appealing magical shopping districts all over the globe that didn’t have a particularly extensive Dark underbelly.
That was probably why the man running the counter at Aconitum Apothekers was giving Harry such a dirty look. Despite his best efforts, Harry was aware that he exuded a ‘Golden Boy’ aura that would follow him to his grave.
“I’ve heard this is the place to ask about basilisk venom.” It was best to just say it, just spit it out and deal with the inevitable outburst.
“You what?” the man sneered.
“Basilisk venom. I’ll need a good amount of it.” The man was unresponsive, staring at Harry with narrowed eyes, so Harry called for reinforcements. “I can pay now.”
His money pouch made a satisfying thud, galleons spilling out onto the counter. The man eyed it for a moment before wiping his nose on his sleeve and sniffing. “Ent nuffin good to be done wit basilisk venom. Nuffin at all.”
Regardless, he turned around and hurried into the back room, and a few minutes later Harry was walking the dingy alleys of Agartha Market with his coin pouch lighter and his pockets weighed down with venom. He made it back to his rental home without incident—likely because it was in a much nicer part of town. Expensive, but worth it. From what he’d read, the Darks Arts were easier for a novice when cast underground, and basements were very hard to come by on Mediterranean islands. But he needed everything to go perfectly. Besides, the Ministry was technically funding this trip.
It hadn’t taken him too long in his new career as a Dark Arts researcher to realize that he needed to actually start practicing everything he read about. There was only so much he could grasp without that additional context. He’d been slowly angling toward this moment for well over a year now, but had been too afraid to take the first step.
It was too monumental of a turning point. Difficult to approach, but impossible to ignore. He had to do this. It was the only way to become strong enough for the sort of magic he had set his mind on.
The first, and quite possibly most terrifying step in a new career in the Dark Arts was to call down the forces of darkness itself. To make friends with it, really. Harry had quite the task ahead of him in convincing this supposedly sentient branch of magic that after such a long history of suspicion and hatred, he was now interested in dipping his toe in the proverbial water. He had to convince it of his sincerity, and that he already had a spark of it flowing through his veins. Hence the basilisk venom. Sure, Fawks had cleared it all out of him before, but that poison had been inside of him, and it had left a mark.
He had already been touched by the Dark Arts in several ways. Now it was time to show it that he was done running. It had already claimed him. Marked him as an equal, in fact. The thought sent him into a spat of nervous laughter.
The circle had already been drawn, all the various implements arranged where they were needed. Harry changed into a crisp red robe and waited for the ritually-prescribed hour, and then carefully stepped over the concentric salt rings forming the boundaries of his rite.
He called upon the guardian spirits of the four cardinal directions, and the overseers of up and down, of within and without, asking them to keep watch as he then invoked the living presence permeating the concept of Dark magic. Immediately, there was a flash of bright, smiling teeth in his mind’s eye, just before a burst of pain clapped through his scar.
He dropped to the ground, howling with agony but all too mindful that something was there. Something was there and It was listening, and when he gathered his wits enough to offer up half a thimbleful of basilisk venom and drink it like a shot, It heard him.
And It laughed at him.
It laughed and laughed as pain scorched through his veins, reigniting a decade-old wound. It made a mockery of his agony, roaring with amusement as his life flickered like a dying flame.
The hubris, to do this alone. To seek out contact with the Dark Arts after spurning it for so long. But sincerity made up for a lifetime of scorn, especially when a human lifetime really was so terribly short. It would help him. In fact, It decided that It quite liked him.
—all of this was being streamed directly into Harry’s mind, he couldn’t hear he couldn’t see, but It told him everything—
Every transgression was forgiven in Its eyes, especially when It peered deep into his heart, and saw the beginnings of a plan.
The pain receded, and Harry pushed up from the floor, palms digging into scattered resin incense and smeared salt lines. He looked around, and saw he was alone.
He didn’t feel very alone, though. The basement was too unfamiliar, too eerie. Hurrying up the stairs a bit quicker than necessary, he changed back into ordinary clothes, flung a few things into his bag, and Flooed back home.
It was easier after that first ritual. The basilisk venom had scorched away the last of his doubts, and he had woken the following morning shivering and sore, but filled with the conviction to do what needed to be done. Something had switched over in his mind, something that allowed all the tangential pieces of knowledge he had gathered over the years to coalesce into self-assurance.
He could do it. He could find his soulmate, even if he had to push aside time and space to do so. He was going to find Tom Riddle and save him, so they could be together, so they could both have a fighting chance at finding some form of happiness despite whatever destiny kept throwing their way.
It would take work, though. Work and patience to figure out precisely what needed to be done. Simply put, he needed to become more powerful.
“Honestly, Harry, I was starting to think you died,” Ron said for the hundredth time that evening. “We haven’t seen you in, what? Three years?”
“Something like that,” he said, giving his friend a self-effacing smile. “I’ve been… Well, I’ll be the first to admit that I was a huge bloody bastard. It’s just… when I had to face what exactly Dumbledore had asked of me, I panicked. I thought the only way to do it right, to really serve his memory justice, was to throw myself into it completely. No distractions.”
He’d been thinking over that speech for several days, deciding to go along with it because there was a healthy dose of truth. He had felt compelled to throw himself entirely into his research, but not for some invented Dumbledore quest. Never for the man that had let him down time and time again.
“We understand, mate,” George said, speaking for the others. Hermione was frowning down into her glass, but Ron nodded along. “We all know what it’s like, wanting to do right by Dumbledore. You were doing your best.”
“Yeah, I was trying anyway.”
“And what exactly were you hoping to accomplish?” Hermione asked, her tone a bit clipped. “You told me before that you were involved in a research project? Did it really take you three years?” When Harry nodded, she sniffed. “I find that hard to believe. Forgive me, Harry, while you’re an excellent magician, you were never much for independent research.”
Just then, a wave of cheers rocked through the pub. A group had formed to listen to a Quidditch match over the wireless, and they were getting a bit rowdy. Harry winced at the sudden noise. “I dunno. Maybe it was the treasure hunting part of it, but digging through Death Eater libraries to find their best secrets was a lot of fun. Then reading up on all of it was kind of satisfying, seeing as how I was the exact sort of person they were trying to keep it hidden from.”
“Wicked. I bet you found all sorts of messed up stuff,” Ron said, sounding fully awed.
“What did you do with everything? Is it all… stockpiled somewhere?” Hermione was clearly offended by the thought.
“Of course not. I destroyed almost everything.”
He said it so plainly, as if it weren’t an unforgivable offense to destroy such priceless information, no matter the subject. So much knowledge lost that might never be recovered again. It was a lie, of course, but it wasn’t as if he could tell anyone that Grimmauld Place now housed a staggering number of Dark Arts books.
“Oh.” Hermione flushed somewhat, as if conflicted. “Well. Good.”
The conversation then turned to easier subjects, and Harry thought he was doing a fine job of pretending to be social. This was the most he had spoken in several years, and he wasn’t used to crowded restaurants anymore. But he was managing. Conversation was happening at the table, and he was an active participant. It almost felt like they were back in the Gryffindor common room. He made plenty of small talk, and discussed old Quidditch matches at length, and even reminisced a bit over Severus Snape of all people.
But he couldn’t help wondering what would happen if he mentioned what he'd been up to. Or that Voldemort was his soulmate. That was so absurd of a thing to confess in a ratty, crowded bar that he almost went ahead and did it. What would they say if he told them Dumbledore had known and never told anyone? Would they be more frightened or concerned if he described precisely how it felt to know he’d been tricked into killing his fucking soulmate, taking away his agency to make the decision for himself?
First he’d probably have to explain what exactly a soulmate was, or what a soul was for that matter. They wouldn’t understand why it mattered so much, or how it had something to do with him being a former Horcrux, but much more to do with the endless ocean of time radiating out in every possible direction, and how Harry and Voldemort were fated to ride that current together in every possible iteration of their lives.
And then he’d have to explain how very, very, exceedingly empty he had felt since Voldemort’s death, and how the only thing he’d found to fill that void was practicing the sort of magic that made him feel closer to the man.
It was a lot to unpack, so he didn’t.
Despite the fact that he couldn’t really talk to any of them about anything that actually mattered, he had a reason for inviting them out. It was time to force himself into the light of day, to get out and actually talk to someone other than Kreacher. That was how one got information that couldn’t be found in libraries, no matter how ancient or extensive.
He used to be good with people, right? Crowds never bothered him much, anyway. And those first few months after the end of Hogwarts, when Harry genuinely thought he could live a regular life like all of his friends, despite his name, despite the media and the fans and the Dark Lord pretenders and everything else, he’d gone out all the time. To pubs, even, where he had a grand old time.
Why did it feel so forced now? Sure, he was out of practice, but everything felt as if it had changed.
Probably because he had invited them out with an ulterior motive.
Voldemort was gone, and there was no bringing him back. Sure, there were plenty of books on Necromancy, but none of them presented a viable option. Besides, while no one was beyond saving, that particular version of Voldemort was… not an ideal person to bring back to life. But Harry could find Tom Riddle elsewhere.
At first, he’d looked into hopping over to another version of his world, some similar ring in the multiverse, and seeking out his soulmate there, but that had so many risks and hidden factors. Not to mention that it was extremely difficult and he didn’t want to steal away some other version of himself’s soulmate, if he could help it.
That left time travel as his best option. The world had done terrible things to this version of Tom Riddle and he had done terrible things back, but equipped with what he knew, Harry could help him. He just needed to track down some information first.
That was where Hermione came in. According to the gossip Kingsley loved to pass along in their occasional letters, Hermione Granger was becoming an Unspeakable. Harry knew he could use that. He just had to make sure he didn’t seem too eager.
And so he sat in the crowded pub and kept playing to her sense of security among friends, and the way alcohol tended to make her show off, and she finally gave him a spectacular in.
“Alright, alright! I wanted to keep quiet until everything was certain, but I’ve done it! I passed all the admittance exams and I’m going to be an Unspeakable!” she declared, her voice a bit slurred. Nearby, a group cheered over a Quidditch play, and she beamed.
“Clearly not, if you’re going to blab everything the first chance you get,” George said, then yelped when she flung a chip at him.
“I can say all I like up until my first day. That’s when the oaths are made,” she shot back.
“Any idea what you’ll be doing?” Harry asked, before waving over their server.
“I’ll be in the Time Room! Due to my experience with time-turners as a child, they thought it’d be a good fit. I’m terribly excited, it’s all so very fascinating.”
Oh. That was good. That was very, very good.
Harry ordered a round of Sylvan Laments—Hermione’s favorite cocktail. Once she was properly intoxicated, he pressed the issue. “Do you know much about what all they’re studying in the Time Room?”
“I… really shouldn’t say,” Hermione said, looking at him in bewilderment. “You know how they feel about secrets.”
“Indulge me, would you?” Harry asked, shooting her a grin. “Tell them to Obliviate me later, if it matters.”
“Pfft! As if anyone would turn their wand on you, Harry!” Ron declared.
“Hah, yeah. As if. But I’m curious. There’s this book series I’ve been reading. Er, just for fun. It’s fiction. But it talks about traveling back in time. Got me wondering if anything like that could really exist. You know, better than a time-turner. More permanent.”
“Well…” Hermione trailed off, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve heard of an enchantment that can do it. You'd have to deal with an... unsavory spirit, if I recall correctly. But once that's done, as long as you stay in contact with a properly enchanted item, it could… hypothetically, of course, but it could bring you back in time.”
“So what’s the catch? There’s got to be one.”
“Massive organ failure. The body isn’t equipped for long term time travel, you see, so it begins to shut down.” Hermione grimaced and slugged back her second Sylvan Lament. “Don’t see what could possibly be worth going through that.”
Was that all? There were other enchantments that could handle something as simple as physical trauma. “Right. So, hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to use that enchantment, where could they find the instructions?”
“Why the sudden interest?” George asked.
Harry shrugged. “Just really like this book is all. And the author said it’s based on a true story.”
Hermione snorted, and then almost knocked over her drink as she propped up her chin on her fist. “I doubt that very much! This is a Five-X ranked enchantment, so all records of it are locked up tight. There’ll be a copy of the original text in the Time Room, as well as the archives of some other countries, I imagine, but that’s it! Unless this author is a government official, I doubt they used that particular enchantment.”
Hm. That was mildly inconvenient, but what else was Harry going to use his famous name for, if not to get access to government secrets when they caught his eye? “What else could they have used, then? There has to be something.”
Hermione shook her head. “Nothing else comes to mind.”
Well then. It seemed Harry had his lead. But first, he had to make sure he could survive it.