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Chapter Text

**Some dialogue in this chapter is taken from Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince

The intoxicating burn of anticipation is heady, and when Tom appears before the front steps of the sprawling manor with a sharp crack, he barely feels the heat of the searing August sun. He doesn’t bother to appreciate the hazy serenity of the afternoon- merely brushes out the front of his black suit with long fingers before ascending the steps with thinly veiled excitement.

Normally, he spares a second of disgust for the manor’s extravagant exterior. There is something so utterly tasteless in the three stories of limestone abomination, the way the gold flakes on the window lack the unshakeable grace of inherent aristocracy. Today, he only wrinkles his patrician nose at the pungent scents of the insistently blooming flowers all around him, almost vulgar in their carnal display.

His long legs almost tremble with anticipation, but the hand that raises the badger-carved doorknocker is steady. As the sound echoes, Tom can barely suppress the smirk that threatens to envelop his coldly handsome face. If all goes well, this is the last time he’ll have to hear it, after all.

This is the day. Ever since Hepzibah Smith promised at the end of their last meeting that she would show him “her treasures” next time, Tom had been unable to stop furthering his plans. For Tom knows what her treasures are, and they are the only reason he has tolerated her presence this entire time, his job for Burke be damned.

And once she showed them to him, the other pieces would all fall into place.

Finally, Hokey, Hepzibah’s wizened house elf, greets him with a low bow. Tom sweeps through the doors, and follows the elf into Hepzibah’s sitting room. While he is usually distracted by the various items on display, today he zeroes in on the old woman, winding his way elegantly around the various items, until he is finally looking down at her grotesque ginger wig and offensive, pink robes.

Tom contains a shudder as he lifts her sweaty palm, and brushes his lips across her hand with the lightest of touches. But when he reaches for his wand, he does it with the utmost grace.

“I brought you flowers,” Tom states quietly, conjuring the bouquet with a subtle swish of his wand. Dark pink roses, signifying gratitude and appreciation, blossom from the tip. It is only fitting, although the garish old woman has no idea of what Tom is truly thanking her for, what she has finally enabled him to accomplish.

“You naughty boy, you shouldn’t have!” Hepzibah simpers from her confection of offensive satin and silk, and Tom forces his smile to deepen rather than wither at the edges. “You do spoil this old lady, Tom… Sit down, sit down. “Where’s Hokey? Ah…”

Tom closes his eyes for a fraction of a second, willing himself to wait. He has been so patient, these eight years since he graduated from Hogwarts, and these last few minutes are nothing in the grand scheme of things.

He smiles mechanically at Hepzibah’s high-pitched simpers, relaying Burke’s offer for the goblin-made armor he hopes to buy from the old fool. The entire exchange is routine, banal.

A voice in his head is whispering that the visit has been in vain when Hepzibah finally says, leaning forward conspiratorially, “I’ve something to show you that I’ve never shown Mr. Burke! Can you keep a secret, Tom? Will you promise you won’t tell Mr. Burke I’ve got it? He’d never let me rest if he knew I’d shown it to you, and I’m not selling, not to Burke, not to anyone! But you, Tom, you’ll appreciate it for its history, not how many Galleons you can get for it.”

Warmth coils through Tom, setting his nerves aflame. So close, he’s finally done it. To ensure that the triumph isn’t evident in his voice, Tom speaks quietly, “I’d love to see anything Miss Hepzibah shows me.”

“I had Hokey bring it out for me… Hokey, where are you? I want to show Mr. Riddle our finest treasure. In fact, bring both, while you’re at it…”

"Here, madam,” the little creature squeaks, and Tom’s eyes zero in on the two leather boxes as they thread their way across the room. He can feel them, feel their power, and this blasted fool of a witch knows nothing of their true value. Patience, he tells himself, leaning over as Hepzibah prattles on and on. At last, she opens the lid on the top box.

There, lying in silken wrappings, is a delicate golden cup with two finely wrought handles. The surface shimmers as it catches the light, lending the carved badger engraving an illusion of sentience. Helga Hufflepuff’s treasure, a piece of her magic at last. He barely hears Hepzibah’s encouragement as he stretches out to grasp a handle, freeing it of its confines. A legacy of Hufflepuff, at last, to match Ravenclaw’s diadem- hard earned, but his in the end. The artifact thrums under his fingers, singing to him with its magic. He wants to caress the cup, hide it away, worship it as one of the few who can understand its power.

But he has a role to play, so he murmurs, “A badger. Then this was…?”

“Helga Hufflepuff’s, as you very well know, you clever boy!” Tom tolerates the cheek pinch she gives him, still caught up in the cup’s thrall. “Didn’t I tell you that I was distantly descended? This has been handed down in the family for years and years. Lovely, isn’t it? And all sorts of powers it’s supposed to possess too, but I haven’t tested them thoroughly, I’ll just keep it nice and safe in here…”

Tom doesn’t move to protest as she takes the cup away, even as his magic hisses at the loss. It’s better that Hepzibah hasn’t had chance to sully the cup with her clumsy tests. He would examine it all too soon, and study the cup and all its secrets before finally using it for its true calling.

“Now then,” says Hepzibah, “Where’s Hokey? Oh yes, there you are- take that away now, Hokey.”

She directs her attention to the flatter box in her lap, and Tom lets the anticipation mount, feeling the consuming rush of excitement, so similar to the aftershock of casting a particularly powerful spell. This is the moment he has been working towards, ever since the day of his conversation with Burke.

He had been swiping down a cabinet, only a week into the job, when he had casually directed a question at the square-jawed man behind the counter. “Mr. Burke,” Tom had asked, “What is the greatest treasure you have ever laid eyes on?”

Seeing Burke’s eyes narrow, Tom had smoothly added, “The works in your store are so fine, so well-crafted. I have had the pleasure of examining many of the artifacts, and they have all been alive with power. Still, every master of the dark arts has an item they cherish above all else, and as the one who serves as the warden of rare, dark items, you have seen all that there is to see. Surely there must be a few that stood out to you, even if lesser men could not appreciate its value.”

When Burke smirked, Tom knew he had pulled the right strings. “There is one,” Burke drawls, eyes glowing with the memory. “Slytherin’s locket.”

“Slytherin’s locket? Handed down from Slytherin himself?” Tom all but hissed, a surge of possessiveness welling up at the very words.

“Indeed,” Burke sighs. “A true treasure, but gone from my hands. I sold it to Hepzibah Smith, that old witch who collects rare items to fill her empty mansion, compensating for her lack of human companionship.” Burke’s smile is nasty. “She was willing to pay a full fortune for the privilege of owning it, so I let her take it. Not that an imbecile like her could ever unleash its true potential.”

At that moment, a customer had entered the store, and the conversation was soon forgotten by Burke. But for Tom, it was a turning point. He had originally started work at Borgin and Burke’s in order to gain access to items of power, but he could have only dreamed of laying a hand on Slytherin’s locket. His locket, by blood. And so he had begun his dance with Hepzibah, funneling more energy and charm into the endeavor than usual. His efforts were buoyed when he discovered that she was Hufflepuff’s heir through old wizarding genealogies, but his original purpose had remained, and now it is time.

“I think you’ll like this even more, Tom,” Hepzibah says as though from a distance. “Lean in a little, dear boy, so you can see. Of course, Burke knows I’ve got this one, I bought it from him, and I daresay he’d love to get it back when I’m gone.”

There’s a roaring in his ears as Hepzibah finally undoes the filigree clasp and flips open the lid. There, resting upon a soft bed of crimson velvet, lies a heavy golden locket.

Driven by instinct, Tom seeks out its chain. The weight is right in his hand, his blood is aflame. He fights the urge to laugh, laugh until his lungs give out and laugh in the face of this stupid old woman who knows nothing, but has given him everything.

“Slytherin’s mark,” he all but croons. The ornate, serpentine S calls to him.

”That’s right!” Hepzibah enthuses. “I had to pay an arm and a leg for it, but I couldn’t let it pass, not a real treasure like that, had to have it for my collection. Burke bought it, apparently, from a ragged-looking woman who seemed to have stolen it, but had no idea of its true value-“

Rage. Tom’s fingers tighten on the locket as his magic whips out of control for the barest of seconds, ready to harm, to kill. His mother had been weak, yes, but this old woman does not have the right to scorn her, to laugh over her misfortune and by extension, Tom’s misfortune.

“- I dare say Burke paid her a pittance but there you are… Pretty, isn’t it? And again, all kinds of powers attributed to it, though I just keep it nice and safe.”

It’s a close thing, but Tom lets her remove the locket and place it back in the box. Soon, he promises it, soon, you will be owned by the rightful heir, and you will fulfill your true potential. It glistens, and the promise is sealed. Tom knows his mask has slipped, but he cannot bring himself to be concerned. The end is nigh for Hepzibah Smith; he only has to pull the curtain.

“Are you all right, dear?” she asks.

“Oh yes,” Tom replies quietly. “Yes, I’m very well…”

“I thought- but a trick of the light- I suppose-,” Hepzibah says, looking a bit afraid. Let her be afraid, Tom thinks, it is only retribution.

“Here, Hokey, take these away and lock them up again. The usual enchantments.”

There is no need to stay, Tom knows. He has accomplished all that he has set out to do and more, and he has had enough of this simpering old witch.

“Miss Hepzibah, I must take my leave,” Tom says quietly, leaning down to brush yet another semblance of a kiss over her swollen knuckles. “Mr. Burke is expecting me.”

Hepzibah is disappointed. She pouts and bats her eyelashes at him. “I’ll let you go now Tom, but I hope to see you next week. Tell Mr. Burke five hundred Galleons will not do, but I may settle for six hundred if I get to see you again.”

“Of course, Mr. Burke will be very pleased to hear that.”

“Very well then, Tom,” Hepzibah says, and the two of them rise to their feet. As they do, Tom catches sight of an object on the table where Hokey had placed his roses. More accurately, he senses it, and his instincts, still on fire from seeing the locket at last, propel him to investigate further.

“What is this?” Tom asks quietly, threading his way over. He examines the bronze disk, inlaid with carvings of lines and creatures around the edge. A triangular piece of bronze juts out vertically from the center, originating at the heart of the disk and stretching at its highest at one edge. He recognizes the inscribed words around the middle as ancient Greek. “A sundial?” asks Tom.

“Why yes, Tom, you smart boy,” Hepzibah exclaims. “You have a fine eye- I just got this yesterday. It came to me from a historian in the Mediterranean, known for excavating old wizarding sites. He said it was an object of immense power, and charged quite a hefty price for it too.”

“What does it do?” Tom says, examining the words on the sundial’s surface. He had only recently returned from his years tracking down the diadem in Greece and Albania, and had picked up the beginnings of the old script. 

“It’s ancient time magic, or so the historian said,” Hepzibah explains. “The ancient wizards were powerful, some say more powerful than we are now. I don’t know any more. But doesn’t it complete my collection nicely? I have been searching for a Classical wizarding artifact for some time, and this is just what I need.”

It’s tragic, Tom thinks, that such objects should be wasted on a witch who only knows to complete a collection. The sundial is powerful- Tom can feel a subtle force field around the object, and its surface is burnished until it shines, although it must have been created millennia ago. The vertical, triangular dial is practically a razor-thin blade, untouched by the millennia.

For an inexplicable reason, Tom is drawn to this sundial, and his hand reaches out towards it inadvertently. There’s a sense of rightness when the tip of his index finger makes contact with the sharp point of the sundial, and it’s only Hepzibah’s cry of concern that shakes him out of the trance he’d somehow entered.

“You’re bleeding!” she exclaims, and Tom is surprised to note that she’s right. There’s a tiny droplet of blood sliding down the razor thin dial edge, rolling gently, irrevocably. The moment it makes contact with the flat surface, Tom feels an odd sort of exposure, as though something as read him to his core, examined his mind and body and soul, but the sensation is gone as fast as it came.

Tom blinks.

Why had he done that? He is no fool- nobody with any understanding of the dark arts would be as foolish as to actually touch a dark object without extensive scans and preparation. Something is not right. Tom cautiously extends his magical sense towards the sundial, but the power it gives off has not shifted. There is no indication that it has responded to Tom’s blood.

He suddenly registers Hepzibah’s hand on his arm. “Would you like Hokey to bring you something, Tom? Do you feel unwell?”

The thought of staying any longer is repugnant. “It’s fine, Miss Hepzibah,” Tom says, tearing his eyes away from the object. “Thank you for showing me your sundial, but I really must depart.”

As Tom turns away, his mind finally figures out what the words on the sundial mean.  

αυτός που περιμένει

He who waits.

There is something off here, and Tom resolves to get to the bottom of it. But for now, he has lingered too long. He decides that when he has Hokey steal the locket and the cup in a fortnight’s time, he will take the sundial as well.

With one bow to Hepzibah and a final, piercing look at the sundial, Tom leaves the mansion. For reasons beyond his control, the sundial immediately slips from his mind.

Two weeks later, Hepzibah Smith is dead, and her unwitting house elf is charged for the murder. Tom Riddle all but vanishes into thin air. And the sundial continues to wait.

--

The cottage is still. Harry closes his eyes, stretching his senses into overdrive. No noise in the living room, and when he presses himself flat against the wall to peer into the kitchen, it is completely empty.

Sinking into a crouch that had been drilled into his muscle memory during the early days of Auror training, Harry backs out into the hallway. With his back against one side, and careful not to dislodge the photos spread along the wall, he advances cautiously towards the entrance.

“Ahhhhhhhh!” comes the war cry, as James Potter flips himself over the staircase bannister and slams his entire body weight onto his father’s head, clutching at the dark locks so similar to his own.

Harry stumbles back under the pressure, just as a tiny black blur hurls out of the nearby cupboard and crashes into his legs. Under the pressure of the two squirming bodies, Harry crashes to the floor.

“Got you!” James crows happily, pulling Harry’s hair with pride and knocking Harry’s glasses askew in the process. “Auror Jamie and his minion save the day!”

Harry laughs and ruffles James’ head, pulling the six year old off of him so he can sit up. “You got me.”

As James bounces to his feet, a pair of chubby hands pass Harry his glasses. “Thank you, Al.”

Al nods, cheeks also flushing with victory, before untangling himself from Harry’s legs to glare at his brother. “I am not minion, Jamie. I am assissitant,” he explains seriously, stumbling a bit over the last word.

“Whatever,” James responds, patting Al’s little shoulder with wisdom beyond his years. “You did good this time.”

Al’s smile grows at the praise, and Harry looks fondly at his boys before clambering to his feet. Albus may only be four, but he certainly has a backbone, and never lets James walk over him. “Come on,” he tells the two of them. “I’ll make you two a snack. Jamie, go get your sister.”

“Snack! Snack! Snack!” The boys race towards the kitchen, and as Al takes a seat at the table, Jamie dashes into the backyard to grab Lily from her playpen.

It’s a sunny Saturday afternoon, one of the last this autumn, and the trees around the cottage are beginning to wax in their glory. Harry stifles a yawn as he begins to make some sandwiches, fighting the urge to fall asleep. His last shift at the Ministry had ended at 2 AM, and he’d barely gotten five hours of sleep before a hyperactive James had pounced on his bed that morning.

Still, he is content. Every second spent with his kids is precious. They attend the local, muggle elementary school in Godric’s Hollow during the weekdays, and Ginny is there to watch them in the evenings; her job as a Quidditch journalist for the Daily Prophet allows her the luxury of flexible hours, except for the odd evening match she has to cover. However, in the past year she has been taking on more and more evening matches, often leaving the kids in Molly’s care at the Burrow. By the time Harry gets home, which is usually between 8 PM and midnight depending on the situation at the Auror Department, his dinner would be waiting with a heating charm and the kids would be winding down to go to bed. Although he always reads them a bedtime story if he is back in time, he still feels like an absentee father, as Ginny often puts it.

Thinking of Ginny, who is out covering a game like she does most Saturdays, brings on the beginnings of a headache, so Harry shoves the thought to the back of his mind. He focuses instead on slicing the bread for a sandwich, simply relaxing in the sight of James tramping into the cottage, Lily clutched in his arms.

The sight of his three kids at the table fills him with warmth. Regardless of his disagreements with Ginny, the long hours on the field and in the office, and the sense that something is missing from his life- elusive and perhaps misunderstood, this moment validates all that he had fought for those years ago. This is what peace means- ham sandwiches, squabbling kids, and dirt trails all over the floor as Lily decides to imitate a garden snake and begins slithering around on her stomach.

But just as he reaches for the mayonnaise, the fireplace flares green. The kids freeze as an agitated head pops up in the flames. “Harry!” Cho Chang exclaims.

“Cho?” Harry says, wiping his hands in a towel and moving towards the fireplace. Seeing her here means something wrong- Cho heads the emergency response team at the Auror Department, and she knows only to Floo him in the case of an emergency. His three kids trail behind him like shadows, Lily rising from the floor and now clutching at Harry’s leg.

“Attack at Windfield Manor- we received the alert that the wards were down a minute ago. At least ten enemies. We suspect it’s that new group again.”

Harry swears softly under his breath, wincing as he notices James and Al staring solemnly at him. James at least is old enough to shove it in his face later.

But the one to speak first is Lily, who is pulling on his pant leg, her upturned eyes starting to brim with tears. “Daddy… daddy go?” She is all of three years old, and the expression on her face is heartbreaking. Harry wants to stay, so, so badly he aches, but a coordinated attack of ten individuals is alarming, especially if they’re related to the new group in Europe.

“Oh Lily,” Harry whispers, bending to pull her into a hug, grabbing James and Al as he does. The two of them come willingly, although James is already starting to flee from Ginny’s embraces these days. “Daddy is so sorry- this is an emergency. We have to keep our friends safe, you guys know that right?”

“Al know,” Al says quietly, stepping back and James gives his dad a quick nod, but Harry can see how upset they are as well, even if they’re trying not to show it. Saturday is their special day together, but now it’s going to be cut short. It makes guilt bubble up in Harry’s chest, but he has no time to waste. Every second lost has its repercussions.

He wipes the tears from Lily’s eyes, and says, “Daddy will be back, and I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” Lily still looks upset, but she nods as Harry hands her off to James. He kisses all three of them on the forehead, and tells them, “You guys know what to do. We’re going to go to Gran’s, and you guys will have a great time. Daddy will tell you all two bedtimes story every night this week, okay?”

Three little faces light up, and Harry’s heart lightens a bit. He and Cho nod at each other, before Harry disapparates with Lily and Al, as Cho watches over James from the fireplace. Molly is knitting, and jumps to her feet when she hears the crack, but the moment she sees the resigned look on Harry’s face, she understands. She beams at the simultaneous chorus of “Hi Gran!”, even as she shoots Harry a worried look. After handing his two younger ones over, Harry disappears, only to reappear with James moments later.

Harry drops a quick kiss on Molly’s cheek, accepts farewell kisses from his own children, and turns on his heel.

When he opens his eyes again, he’s in the foyer of the Auror Department at the Ministry.

--

Cho hurries towards him from across the hall, battle robes already donned. Harry summons his own from his office, striding towards the mission departure center briskly. “Update?” he asks.

“Protection wards went down three minutes ago. Windfield Manor has medium-high security- the Smith family frequently hosts events, but it has all the old blood wards- visitors must be recognized, Apparition keyed to family members only, the standard. Since the detection wards are still in place, we know there are approximately a dozen strangers on the grounds- they all appeared simultaneously.”

“The Smith family? As in Zacharias Smith?”

“Indeed,” Cho says drily, “The one and only.”

Harry hasn’t interacted much with Smith since the war, but after the gradual reintegration of the darker pureblood families into society, he’s seen him in passing and heard of the many balls and receptions at Windfield Manor. Smith is far from his favourite person, but that’s of no consequence right now.

Harry steps into the departure center, Cho on his heels. There are six Aurors present, dressed and ready for battle, and Harry recognizes each of them- and their strengths and weaknesses for the most part. They straighten up as he enters.

“I’ve debriefed them already,” Cho explains, and Harry nods.

“Thank you for being here,” Harry says without preamble. “We will split into two groups. “Bullstrode, Hawthorne, Cornwall, Ruth- you’re with me. We’ll take out as many of the attackers as possible and provide a distraction. Merrythought, Spinnet- you’re with Cho. When they’re distracted, get the Smith family to safety.” There’s no time for a more sophisticated strategy, so they will have to operate on sheer firepower, and luckily the on-call team that day has it in spades. He sees their determined expressions and allows a small grin to slip onto his face. “We have an excellent team, and I trust you all to make this mission a success.”

Their answering nods are all he needs, as the eight of them gather around the emergency portkey and are tugged into a whirling cesspool of noise and colour.

Seconds later, Harry’s feet slam into the hard marble of Windfield Manor’s entrance hall. Only years of experience prevent Harry’s knees from buckling, and he quickly takes stock of the surroundings. Around him, the others adjust just as fast. While the hall is empty and devoid of signs of battle, Harry hears a shout from one of the wings, and they sprint in that direction.

Harry activates a spell that will ease their communication, so that any of the team’s whispers will be heard by the other members, as though he or she was whispering in their years. Thankfully, the charm only works for low whispers, or the screams and cries of battle would be utterly deafening.

As they run, Harry asks, “Has anyone been here before?”

“Yes sir,” Bullstrode responds immediately, “I visited last Yule with my family. It sounds as though the struggle is coming from the second sitting room, where the Smith family keeps their artifacts and precious items.” Crater Bullstrode had been in Ravenclaw, five years below Harry, and is the younger brother of Millicent Bullstrode, who was in Slytherin in Harry’s year. The Bullstrode family, despite their pureblood traditions, had not taken a side in the war, and Crater is one of the most talented new recruits. He had a sharp memory, almost photogenic in its intensity, and high aptitude for spellwork.

“In that case,” Harry states sharply, “We may have a motive. Try not to damage any of the artifacts when we attack. We wouldn’t want to cause further damage.”

They round the corner, just in time to hear a high-pitched scream resound from the oak door at the end of the hall. There is no time for subtlety. There’s a suspended second as they sprint for the door. “Now.”

Harry’s team bursts through the entrance, spells flying as they go. As Harry’s first stunner catches one of the wizards unawares, he takes stock the situation. Zacharias Smith is bound against the far wall, a woman who must be his wife unconscious at his feet. A little boy with Smith’s features is trapped in the arms of one of the attackers, who is dressed in the same ensemble as the rest of them. Loose, short grey robes conducive to movement, with a black veil in front of his face that reaches from ear to ear and does not flutter as he fights. So their suspicions are right- the new group in Europe has finally set foot in Britain.

But all of these thoughts are peripheral, and in the time it takes to catalogue them, Harry has already petrified the unprepared man, and is already moving onto his next target as Cho dashes past him towards Smith’s son.

The Aurors are outnumbered, and the advantage of surprise has already faded away. Harry engages his next opponent, dodging away from a shimmering blue spell. It catches the edge of the table behind him, and it pulsates a dark indigo colour before splitting cleanly down the middle.

What in Merlin’s name… Harry thinks, unease stirring in his stomach. He doesn’t recognize the spell, and that fact in itself means that he can’t rely on his shields to protect him from their magic.

He ducks a burst of orange, and with a whispered Glaceo, transforms the floor to ice so suddenly that his opponent slams to his knees. A well-placed Tarantallegra and he’s unconscious and still.

“Sir!” is the only warning Harry gets before he’s nearly torched by a stream of fire.

“Thanks, Cornwall,” Harry shouts, twisting his wand sharply and clobbering a witch with a conjured hammer.

He’s about to engage another attacker when Smith yells at him, “Potter, the back room!”

Back room? He follows Smith’s frantic gaze to a nondescript door in the corner, just as two of the wizards blast it open.

Harry swears under his breath, propelling himself through the melee. It’s chaos- spells are flying everywhere, half of them ones he doesn’t recognize, and there’s a scream as Ruth goes down hard, but Hawthorne’s there before her assailant has a chance to respond. It seems like his team is gaining ground, so Harry focuses on the back room and doesn’t look back.

The back room is dark and windowless, illuminated only by the light coming in from the ruined door. Inside, one attacker begins to shoot spells at Harry, while the other starts chanting furiously, uttering long vowels and sharp consonants that Harry can’t recognize. Harry dodges one spell, blasts another aside, and uses sheer power to send a silver web towards the man, which weights his entire body down.

But he is a second too late, and a green-tinged object is already flying towards the second man from the very corner of the room. Harry dives towards him, colliding with him in the knees and disarming him in one practiced motion. As the man falls, Harry attempts to suspend the flying object in the air, but it doesn’t stop. Instead, it collides with his chest. Harry barely takes in a clock-like design before the entire world explodes in shadow.

It’s as though an unrelenting wave of darkness has expelled itself from the object all at once, but as the darkness encompasses the room, it doesn’t feel dangerous or cold. Rather, Harry gets a sense of being protected, cherished, from where we were made to where we are now, like the beginning of all things tied into a presence that is not truly physical.

Harry can’t see in the pitch black, so he just takes heaving breaths, eyes peeled wide, and jolts as his entire body thrums, before a sudden tightness seizes his chest and then detonates. Harry’s awareness flickers- withdraws tightly like a doused flame before rushing out with the fury of a forest fire- and suddenly he call feel it: magic.

In the blackness there are beacons- two on the ground next to him where the wizards must be, more in the room beyond, and tiny pinpricks of energy coating the room- the artifacts, perhaps? Even as Harry comes to this realization, another rush of magic sweeps into the space between his arms, radiating out from the summoned object before it plummets to the ground. The magic grows, coalesces, reaches- and suddenly, everything returns to normal.

Except for the utter agony in Harry's scar. Fighting down a scream, Harry submits to a full body shudder, as every single nerve ending in his body is convinced it's being rewritten. His newly realized senses detect a burst of a magic within him that is distinctly foreign yet familiar, that fuses with the rest of his core so smoothly, two jigsaw pieces reunited at last. There's a trickle of something wet sliding down from his forehead, and the burst of saltiness on his lips identifies it as blood. And then the pain is gone, as though it was never there.

Harry blinks in shock, looking around in agitation. The awareness of magic hasn’t gone away- it’s almost staggering to take it in when his sight has returned at last and he is free from the unwarranted pain. At first, the room appears untouched, but then Harry realizes that there’s a body in his arms, cradled to his chest where the item had collided with him before tumbling to rest by his feet.

Still in shock, Harry shifts his weight and lowers himself to the ground, taking the startlingly naked man with him. His face is downturned, and Harry only sees black hair and pale skin. There is something off about this- people don’t just appear from thin air- but even so, the trepidation in the pit of his stomach is overwhelming.

As Harry attempts to gather the scattered shards of his composure, distractedly wiping away the trickle of blood on his forehead, his fingers brush against his scar, which tingles. The pain is gone without a trace, but his scar is warm in a way it had never been before. And that is when it dawns on Harry.

Holding his breath, Harry gently shifts the man in his arms so he’s lying on his back. His blood runs cold.

“Holy fuck,” Harry breathes, staring down into the face of an unconscious Tom Riddle.

--

Tom registers an endless surface of white, and has to shut his eyes as he’s overtaken by a merciless bout of vertigo. 

There is a solid surface against his back, but that shouldn’t be, because seconds ago he had been staring down at the sundial, and now all that’s before his eyes is white.

Is he lying down? That must be it, but that also makes no sense, and as soon as Tom realizes he’s lying down he forces himself into a sitting position, and winces a bit at how exposed he feels. Because he’s naked. Naked. What in Merlin’s name?

The Imperius curse to explain the gaping hole in his memory? But no, he can throw that off easily.

Tom wants to dwell over these details, wants to stare at the grey cotton blanket that’s covering his lower half, but there are more pressing matters. Such as the restless, swirling magic that he feels only meters away from his body, and the fact that there’s also magic threading the walls of the room he’s in- caging him inside. The white comes from the walls, the ceiling- blank expanses enclosing this sterile approximation of a cell. Relaxing his facial muscles into a neutral expression, as though he frequently wakes up naked in warded cells, Tom tilts his head towards the room’s other occupant.

Still. The man sitting on the only chair in the room possesses the unnatural stillness of a stag, frozen as he watches the wolf advance- testing the air, assessing his options, choosing between fight and flight. Tom knows how to read people, and this man is rife with contradictions- the tense line of his shoulders screams discomfort, the loose stance of his legs tells of authority, the angle of his arms is open- you can trust me, and the tilt of his chin is calculating.

But his face is the most fascinating puzzle of all; any fool can try to convey a lack of expression, yet there are always tells that give away one’s true feelings. Sure, there is a mildly inflamed scar on his forehead that is rather intriguing, but so much is contained in that face. In this man’s case, his emotions are projected by his jaw- clenched way too tight and Tom wonders if the visceral horror he reads in that tension is the honest truth. And then his eyes- a vibrant green, but so closed down that they are absolutely blank. It’s the greatest give away of all- this man thinks Tom is a threat. And as such, this mysterious man in turn is a threat to Tom.

Wariness succeeds this realization- Tom wonders what his own body language is giving away. Very little, hopefully. The one thing he prides himself on is control of his bearings. Every action should be deliberate, starting from his breathing. His movements do not lack intention, and are wrought with deliberation.

But right now, he is on the verge of panicking, and surely it is leaking through. He has no idea why he’s here, how they got him into this cell, hell; he doesn’t even have his wand. He’s aware that he knows too little about his current predicament; he remembers nothing between pricking his finger on the sundial and staring up at this cell’s ceiling. But maybe if he plays his cards right, it won’t be so bad.

Firming his resolve, Tom decides to allow a small degree of his uncertainty to bleed through his poker face. That’s perfectly reasonable- anybody who suddenly finds himself in a cell would be nervous, of course.

“Who are you? Where am I?” Tom asks quietly, allowing his voice to rise a bit at the end.

“You’re in safe hands,” the man says, voice even. “I’m the Deputy Head of the Auror Department.”

So he is in the Ministry. Tom assesses the so-called Deputy Head Auror once again. He doesn’t doubt that the man’s title is deserved. Tom knows power- he has sought it out, traveled the world to sample its different flavors, submerged himself until he could see the indications of magical strength, dissect it with the sixth sense. The Deputy Head’s magical score does not seem significant to an amateur of the art, but Tom sees beyond the deceptively ordinary size. 

Tom has learned to think of magical signatures as tapestries, no two similar in their size, components and design. In all his travels, Tom has never seen one as complex as this man’s, or one with as many component threads, layers woven subtly together. The bulk of it is something warm, but there are also vestiges of an oddly familiar imprint that is somehow both deep and fresh, strands of powerful hereditary magic, and most notably on the edge- a vast, crushing force that could be no more than a new addition, that strangely calls to mind his time in Albania.

It’s deadly and beautiful, and that alone is enough to both draw Tom to the man and instill within him a sense of wary caution. However, the entire core is oddly compressed, as though the wizard either doesn’t acknowledge his own power, or is holding it in by force of will. It only piques Tom’s curiosity more.

Well, it’s not as though such a compressed core is enough to rival the Tom’s magic, but at full strength, perhaps it would be a worthy challenge.

He needs to find more about this man, but that can come later. First, he needs to separate himself from the Ministry’s watch.

“Thank you, sir…” Tom trails off.

Noticing his questioning glance, the Auror says, “You can call me Harry. And yes, you’re safe now.”

Harry. Now focusing once more, Tom analyzes the fact that he is apparently safe. Then what had been the danger?

“I’m glad to hear that. But where are my clothes? Did the Aurors take them?”

The man eyes him inscrutably. “No. We found you like this.”

Even more curious. And disconcerting. Harry observes him for a second, and says, “Are you feeling alright, Tom?” There is genuine concern there, but something else too that Tom can’t place.

Tom’s eyes narrow. “Surprisingly, I feel normal, if a bit exposed. How do you know my name?”

“Professor Slughorn showed me a picture of you once, Mr. Riddle,” comes the smooth response. “You’re a hard person to forget.”

Tom allows a ghost of a smile to flit across his face, but he is unconvinced. Something tells him that this man knows much, much more, for him to consider Tom such a danger. There’s a vague sort of tension in the air, and Tom realizes that this is a dance- they both want information from the other person, but neither is willing to show their cards. Very well.

“I’m a bit disoriented,” Tom says haltingly. “The last thing I remember was visiting Lady Smith. What happened?” There, a piece of the truth, but not enough to give anything away.

Harry considers him and responds, “It seems you were caught in the crossfire of an attack. The Auror Department responded to a break-in at Windfield Manor this afternoon, and I found you collapsed in the back room which adjoins the sitting room.”

“I see,” Tom processes, “Is everyone okay?” His concern is at least genuine to a certain degree. He needs both Hepzibah and Hokey alive to fully carry out his plan.

“Yes, we made it there in time.”

“And the attackers?”

The Auror’s mouth twists. “They all had portkeys on them. Although most of them were incapacitated, one was faking it, and activated the portkeys so they all disappeared.”

How very well coordinated, Tom muses, and marvels a bit in the fact that the Auror Department seems as incompetent as ever. Perhaps this decently strong Deputy Head Auror is not indicative of the bunch of them as a whole. Out loud he says, “I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure they will be apprehended very soon.” And inwardly, he wonders about this attack. He doesn’t remember it at all.

“That is our intention,” Harry says gravely. He seems to assess Tom one last time before rising to his feet. “We kept you here because you were unconscious, but seeing as you are fine, we’ll let you go.” He tosses Tom a set of robes and underclothes, and then continues, “However, it seems as your wand is missing- possibly destroyed during the skirmish, and that’s no situation any wizard should be caught in. I will escort you to Diagon Alley to procure a new one, however temporary.”

The possible loss of his wand hits Tom hard. He loves the elm creation, trusts it as an extension of his arm, and has practiced the most beautiful magic with it as his ally. Thankfully, he is fairly adept at wandless magic, but even he sees the sense in at least having a back up in the meantime. He vows to return to Windfield Manor as soon as possible. It’s highly likely that the incompetent Aurors overlooked his wand entirely.

Ideally, he’d much rather not be trailed by an Auror while in Diagon Alley. But there’s no way to turn him down without raising questions, for lacking a wand makes basic accessibility in the wizarding world difficult. Perhaps he can attempt to go with another Auror at least- there’s something off about this man.

As the Deputy Head Auror turns around to allow Tom the supposed privacy of changing (he’s aware of the monitoring spells that must be covering the room, so he doesn’t know why the man bothers to pretend), Tom says, “Surely you must be busy as the Deputy Head of the Department. I wouldn’t want to occupy any more of your time, sir.”

“No worries,” Harry insists, leading the way to the door. “My shift is almost over, and I had to do some shopping anyway. After you.”

Grimly, Tom heads out the door, breathing a tiny sigh of relief at how much more in control of his magic he feels without the wards. His magic expands a bit in excitement, and the Deputy Auror inhales sharply right behind him. Surely he didn’t sense that. In any case, Tom recalls his power and allows it to settle contently under his skin.

They walk through the Auror department, the Deputy Head brushing past him to lead the way. Tom is a bit surprised at how many of the Aurors smile and wave, calls of “Hi Harry” and admiring glances trailing his path. So he is honestly respected, even though he looks to be Tom’s age, which is quite young to assist in the leadership of an entire department. Strangely, Tom doesn’t remember this man from his time at Hogwarts- not his face nor his name. In fact, he doesn’t quite recall having seen any of the Aurors’ faces before, which is only another sign that something is very, very wrong.

They make it to what appears to be a departure point, and Tom asks, “Why here?”

Harry hesitates a beat too long before explaining, “We can only apparate out of this area. The wards don’t allow free passage in and out.”

Just before they turn to leave, a petite Asian woman with her hair in a tight ponytail and a sharp, inquisitive gaze steps towards them. Her eyes are calculating as they take in Tom’s appearance, but her voice is kind. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes, thank you,” Tom says politely.

She nods back in satisfaction, and turns to Harry. “I’ve already drafted the report. I know you want to give it a look over tomorrow, so I’ve left it on your desk.”

“Thanks, Cho,” Harry smiles, and it’s the first genuine display of emotion Tom sees from him. The smile makes his eyes warm, and softens the cautious edges of his face.

“Of course. Pass my regards to the kids.” Cho nods to them and leaves.

“If you could give me your arm,” Harry asks him, and Tom does so with the slightest reluctance. Side-along Apparition is unpleasant; along with the added physical discomfort, you have to trust that you are being taken to the correct destination. However, Tom can hardly reveal that he is able to apparate without his wand, and at least his companion is an Auror, so the risk of his being kidnapped is nearly nonexistent.

Nearly nonexistent, but not quite, Tom realizes with dread as the stifling sensation of being forced through a rabbit hole fades away and he finds himself in a place that is most distinctly not Diagon Alley. He’s unprepared when the Stupefy slams into him, and as he falls unconscious, he curses the attractive man with the sharp, emerald eyes.

--

Well, kidnapping successful, Harry thinks, forcing himself to stay calm. For the second time in two hours, there’s an unconscious Tom Riddle at his feet, and Harry is still half convinced that James pranked him this morning with the Daymare Delight (all the fun nightmares you’re friends never realized they wanted, but now during the day!) George had gifted him for his last birthday.

Harry rubs his scar agitatedly, and then scowls as he catches himself, slowly lowering his arm. It no longer hurts, but for it to even so much as twinge for the first time in a decade... He throws himself in the nearby armchair and rests his head against its back. The silent room offers no answers, but then again, Grimmauld Place has only ever robbed Harry of his solace, never gifting any in return. He’s only here now because it was the first place he thought of; somewhere that he could safely, for the most part, interrogate a young Tom Riddle.

Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort.

Harry is ruined, and he knows it. He can’t shake the conclusion that the unconscious man before him is truly Tom Riddle.

Several factors point to what would otherwise be an extremely unlikely conclusion. For one, the physical appearance is spot on: neatly parted black hair, dangerously alluring grey gaze, hollowed cheeks, and aristocratic nose- almost identical to the memory Dumbledore had showed him of Tom’s visit to Hepzibah Smith, when the man had been in his mid twenties. He is as coldly handsome as he was back then, and the allure is only heightened by his behavior- all subtle charm, careful words, and patrician grace.

To add to that, in questioning, the man had firstly responded to the name “Tom” so naturally, but had also volunteered the information that he was visiting Lady Smith. Not Lord Smith, Zacharias, but his wife- or so the Aurors monitoring their conversation in the cell would assume.

However, Harry knows better. If Tom Riddle is who he appears to be, then he was visiting Hepzibah Smith, Zacharias’ great grandmother. Such a detail is the first sign that this man is in fact Tom Riddle- Harry is reasonably confident that nobody but him knows of the details of Voldemort’s early life.

But above all else, it’s the familiarity of his magic that is the most convincing. How this could be a factor, Harry isn’t sure, but ever since the dark explosion that preceded Tom’s arrival, he has been incredibly sensitive to the presence of magic. It is as though magic has suddenly become a tangible, physical entity, one that Harry can see, but in the most peculiar way.

All the wizards Harry sees are swathed in a cocoon of substance, visible to Harry’s eye, but on a separate plane. There’s no other way to describe it. In a way, it is like the world that Harry has always been able to perceive has suddenly attained an additional layer which solely contains magic, that shimmers vaguely when he isn’t looking directly at it but bursts into definition when he focuses.

It’s all too strange and new for Harry to analyze properly, but the one thing he does know is that the dark, heady magic that surrounds Tom feels intimately familiar. Obviously, Harry could never see Voldemort’s aura in this way, but his instincts recognize the imprint of his power.

Harry’s life would be so much simpler if this man was just a Voldemort impersonator, but there is little likelihood of that being the case, regardless of the “this can’t be happening” mantra Harry had been chanting in his head the moment he realized what was happening.

After all, if someone really wanted a Voldemort rebirth scare, they wouldn’t bother with his younger alter ego. In fact, Harry’s pretty sure he is one of the only, if not the only, person alive who can link Lord Voldemort to Tom Riddle’s physical appearance. Even Ginny, Harry had learned, never saw Tom Riddle’s physical manifestation while the diary had been attempting to possess her- they only ever wrote to each other.

And then there's his scar, which had been getting lighter by the day... until now. Harry can't be a Horcrux any more- he had died to remove it, and the soul piece could not come back on its own. So for the scar to even itch, for Harry to somehow possess Voldemort's soul again (Harry reassured himself that even if the scar hurt, this was unlikely), it had to come from somewhere. As to why it latched onto Harry- that was another conundrum to tackle later. The only conclusion Harry could draw was that it backed up the fact that the man truly was Tom Riddle.

But what does one do with a wandless Tom Riddle in his mid-twenties?

Once upon a time, only a decade ago, Harry would have probably gone for immediate incarceration of some kind- his hatred for the man at that point had been all-consuming, the bitterness and constant fear clouding his judgment.

But that was then, and this is now- Harry is the Deputy Head Auror. The aftermath of the war has taught him restraint, leadership of the Auror Department steadied him with foresight, and the steady erosion of prejudice in post-war wizarding England has cultivated an appreciation for the value of cooperation. Then again, although the divisions between light and dark have lessened- not without compromise from both sides- the man before him was once the figurehead of their division. If Harry were still a bitter teenager, he would not have hesitated to lock the young Voldemort up somewhere far, far away.

While Harry is still fundamentally the same person, still the same boy who yearns for peace and a simple life and wants to protect the people he loves and who love him back, he looks at Tom Riddle (not Voldemort yet, just Tom), and sees new avenues of possibility.

By no means does that mean that he trusts the man. No, not at all, for he is more than aware of the horrors Tom has already committed in cold blood. Harry doesn’t like him one bit, even if he can understand the upbringing that drove Tom to his present state. But for all his dislike, Harry is certain that if this is truly Tom Riddle, he won’t imprison a man who is out of his time for no fault of his own. Sure, Tom Riddle, even at this age, has blood on his hands. Myrtle, his father, his grandparents, and perhaps more. For that, he ought to be punished, but now is not the time.

And if Harry knows Tom Riddle, which he does, for he has always felt a connection to the boy before he became a true monster, he knows that Tom is calculated. He has no incentive to murder and rage in his present scenario. Tom is a true Slytherin- he will always seek to make the best of his circumstances, so perhaps Harry can figure something out as he works to fix this.

Because surely, Tom’s existence here is an accident. There’s no way a naked body and a soul piece appearing after an artifact explodes is not a freak calamity. Harry isn’t sure if this is an accident that is reversible, and if it is, he’s not sure that he wants to send Tom back. As fickle as time is, perhaps a timeline without Tom Riddle would save thousands of lives, would ensure that Harry grew up with parents…

However, that’s not the point. The point is that Tom should not be here, and Harry needs to get to the bottom of this. For that, Tom’s cooperation is not required- truth potions and torture come to mind, but they are not ideal. Harry is fundamentally a good person. He is not one for locking Tom up in a prison, drugging him with Veritaserum, threatening him with death and torture. Voldemort always cited Harry’s warm heart as his greatest weakness, and Harry almost laughs hysterically as he wonders how Voldemort would feel at having that kindness directed at him.

With an inkling of how he wants to proceed, Harry fortifies his resolution with a deep breath and springs into action. He can’t put if off much longer. Besides, beneath the surface dread and frustration at Tom’s appearance, with all the problems it brings, Harry can’t deny the titillating thrill. He is curious, and the rush of adrenaline from the occurrence of the abnormal that overwhelms him is reminiscent of a departed friend who has suddenly returned.

With a wave of his wand, Harry sends two Patronus charms. One to Hermione and one to Ron, though he suspects they may be together. After all, it is a Saturday, and they are likely at home with Hugo and Rose. Harry’s jaw clenches to think of Ginny, who isn’t even home, and his own kids, but he doesn’t let his resolve waver. This is to keep them safe as well.

Clearing his throat, Harry passes his message to the Patronus stag, “Could you guys come to Grimmauld Place in an hour and find someone to watch the kids? Something serious came up.”

Harry doesn’t want them here quite yet. He’s sure that he can handle Tom on his own, and for some reason, he wants a proper conversation just between the two of them- without the Aurors in the department eavesdropping, and without Ron and Hermione either.

As the stag bows and bounds away, Harry reaches into the pocket of his Auror robes, which are magically expanded by a charm, and fishes out a long strand of pliable, metallic twine.

He goes over to Tom, hesitates for a second before levitating him into a sitting position in the armchair opposite his. Reaching for his arms, Harry loops his wrists together with the twine and seals it with a tap of his wand. The twine serves the same function as muggle handcuffs, except they completely shut down the user’s ability to perform magic. It had been Hermione’s idea, and she had proposed it to the Department of Mysteries. The handcuffs themselves, however, are highly restricted due to their powerful effects. Only high-level Aurors have access to them, and the handcuffs’ magical sealing capacities only last for two hours in total. To cut a wizard off from his ability to use magic is cruel, and is regarded as a necessary evil only in particularly sensitive interrogation cases.

With all the preparations made, Harry lowers himself into his armchair once more and braces himself. A whispered rennervate later, Tom Riddle’s eyelids begin to flutter.

There’s a lull where the man appears dazed and positively pliant, but it is only seconds long, for Tom’s eyes sharpen abruptly and his expression freezes over as he notices Harry, sitting only meters away.

Tom eyes narrow even more, and there’s even a flash of panic when he assess the cuffs on his wrists, bound in front of him. Harry doesn’t miss the way his fists clench, and admires how Tom nevertheless scours the room, trying to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

The silence is fraught with tension- neither of them wants to speak before the other, and both of them are stubborn men. As the minutes tick by, they simply stare at each other, grey eyes locked on green. Unsure of whether Tom has mastered Legilimency already, Harry throws up his Occlumency shields and waits.

Finally, Tom breaks the silence. “You dare to kidnap me,” he utters dangerously.

Harry simply shrugs. “It was for your own safety.”

Tom is clearly startled by this response, though he masks it with a scornful curl of the upper lip. “The Deputy Head Auror doesn’t think a civilian is safe in his department’s holding cell?”

“Not in this case, no.”

Tom raises a scornful eyebrow. “I am merely a shopkeeper’s assistant who had the misfortune of being caught in the middle of an act of belligerence. Surely you don’t fault me for visiting Lady Smith.”

"Listen, Tom," Harry sighs, “You shouldn’t have been there.”

The rage is there and gone so fast Harry barely notices it, but Tom's raised eyebrow remains. "If you’re suggesting that someone like me is not fit for Hepzibah Smith’s genteel presence, let me also say that I also should not be in this musty room with its dilapidated furniture and mind-numbing company."

"That's not what I mean," Harry frowns. There’s no other way to do this, it seems, but to tackle the hippogriff head on. "You're not from this time period."

Tom's absolute lack of response is insulting to the severity of the situation. "Excuse me?"

Tom Riddle is no fool, Harry knows, he's the furthest thing from it. So Harry simply lays out all the information the man needs to know. His response will dictate the next step of this game Fate seems so determined to play.

"Listen up, and don't discredit what I'm saying because you don't want to believe it. Today is October 31, 2005- why the two of us always tango on Halloween is beyond me, and yes, 2005. I recognize you, Tom Riddle, from memories shown to me in a Pensieve during my time at Hogwarts. You want to know what you're doing here? So do I. All I know is that I was in the middle of protecting the Smith family when a sundial collided with me and you suddenly materialized in my arms. Did you enjoy discussing your future Horcrux holders before you popped into existence way out of your time?"

Tom has stopped breathing and is now masquerading as a three-dimensional portrait, even if his face is blank. 

"Don't even try to deny it," Harry warns. "We'll discuss Hepzibah Smith and your Horcruxes later. For now, though, realize that I didn't leave you with the Aurors because that would be too dangerous. Incidents involving time are messy, and if anyone recognized you, you'd be in a lot of danger."

"Why?" The silky, quiet tone is deadly. And far too calm for Harry's liking. He's unable to repress a shudder at how similar it sounds to Voldemort's sibilant hisses of fury, recalled from the nights he spent in the back of the Dark Lord's head. Not for the first time, Harry wonders if he should just throw Tom in Azkaban and be done with it, no explanations provided.

"Why would I be in danger?" Tom utters again.

"Aside from the classic time travel hazards, you're rather notorious these days."

"Notorious?" Harry is thrown off at how displeased Tom looks. He waits for an explanation. Instead, what he gets is an amused smirk. "My dear Deputy Head Auror," Tom all but croons, and Harry is shocked to feel his cheeks grow hot, "Did Dumbledore put you up to this?"

"What?"

"This game we are playing right now," Tom elaborates, with an idle wave of his bound hands, "Let's just end it, alright? I don't know who put you up to it, but there are only so many merits to throwing someone into an implausible situation and cataloging their reactions. Even if such a character study has its benefits, it's rendered useless when the subject realizes that he is the equivalent of a Kneazle in a cage, to be observed and studied in artificial conditions. You can tell me that I am in the future, but I know that this is not the case. The farce is up, Harry. Let me go back to work."

"I'm not lying!" Harry all but sputters, cursing Tom Riddle's charm, as potent as his diary incarnation; it's as though Harry is still twelve years old when Tom's attention zeroes in on him. "You might not believe me, but it's completely true. You don't belong in this time, Tom Riddle, and I'm doing you a favor right now."

Tom is still amused, that bastard. "How will you prove it to me?"

"Why would I want to prove it to you?"

"Because in your own words, you rescued me from the Ministry. You were incentivized, for one reason or another, to keep me from their clutches, if what you're saying is to be believed. I imagine your goals are best realized if you can convince me that you're telling the truth."

As angry as Harry is to have been so easily read, he can't help but feel grudgingly amazed. A master manipulator, indeed. Thankfully, Harry is no fool.

"And shall I take Veritaserum, to prove it? Will you dig around in my brain- though I'm not sure you're a Legilimency master at this point in your life? Evidently the Daily Prophet won't be enough proof for you, and even if I take you to Diagon Alley or demonstrate the vast progress in Muggle technology, you will merely conclude that this is an extended illusion. I will not make myself vulnerable to you, Tom."

Tom's smirk is positively infuriating, "Then I guess we're at an impasse, Deputy Head Auror, sir."

"No, we're not," Harry disagrees. "If I am to convince you, one of us shall be made vulnerable, but it will not be me."

Before Tom can get a word in edgewise, Harry continues. "Myrtle, Tom Riddle Senior, your grandparents- I wonder if you regret their deaths, even a little. I wonder if you sleep soundly at night knowing you sent your uncle to a miserable existence in Azkaban. I wonder, when you plot to turn the diary, the diadem, the locket, and the cup into Horcruxes, if you fully appreciate the self-inflicted insanity that will result from your actions. I wonder if you're still lonely, deep down, and if you'll ever trust again, ever let yourself believe that there are people in this wide world that can grow to care for you- not because you're powerful, not because you're driven, but because they can see past your defenses to the lonely orphan who's only friends are his garden snakes..." Harry is breathing heavily, shaking with the words that have been bottled up in his chest for years, that have festered the more and more he reflected on the phantom of Lord Voldemort after the war. He takes a deep breath to rein in the emotions that have spiraled out of control. It seems that Voldemort will always waiting to push Harry beyond the precipice of sanity, is still trying almost a decade later.

"I have wondered so many things about you over the years, and I know far more about you than anyone else possibly could," Harry finishes in a calmer tone. "If you don't believe me still, that is your choice. We can go back to the Ministry, and I can hand you over, and that will be that. What will it be?"

Harry stares at Tom defiantly, trying to move past his unintentional display of emotion. Tom's face is a blank canvas, his body the unrelenting edifice of a jagged cliff. Emotions flicker behind grey eyes, but they are too complex and too muted to be understood.

Finally, Tom meets his question with another one. "What did you tell the Ministry about me?"

The question brings Harry back to that back room, where he had been staring down at Tom when Hawthorne had burst through the door, announcing that the battle was over, only to gape at the man in Harry’s arms.

Still recovering from shock, but knowing that the worst thing he could possibly say at the moment was “Yes indeed, I’m holding a young and very naked Lord Voldemort in my embrace,” Harry said the first thing he could think of. “I found him on the floor. I think he was caught unawares by the attackers.”

Thankfully, Hawthorne seemed to buy the story, and the rest of the team had been too distracted to care when the group of assailants suddenly vanished, portkeyed away. While their escape was concerning, Harry had a more serious problem on his hands, and left Cho in charge of the aftermath while he brought Riddle to a holding cell in the Ministry. He had cast a small prayer of thanks, grateful that the Smiths had been evacuated to St. Mungos already, so it was hardly as though they could react to the strange discovery of a naked man in their back sitting room.

Ideally, he would have taken Riddle elsewhere to question him, but Aurors had to follow protocol, and Tom had already been seen by the team. Harry had resigned himself to the fact that he would have to question Tom with the other Aurors listening in, and somehow not let the man give away his real identity. Even so, that initial conversation had been the perfect way for Harry to make sure that Tom Riddle was no imposter.

When Tom makes an impatient noise, Harry finally says, “I told them that you were a guest of the Smith family, and that your clothes had been stolen by a wayward spell. For all they know, you’re an innocent civilian.”

"That is a considerable risk,” Tom notes slowly. "If they find out that you have lied, you will be in deep trouble."

Harry shrugs. "It's not an issue."

“You know too much, and your emotions, however unnecessary, are honest. You feel strongly about me.”

“That is not a lie.” And it isn’t.

Tom considers him once more. "I will believe you, on one condition." The light is back in his eyes, and even Slytherin’s heir isn’t able to smother the light of excitement in his eyes at the possibility of time travel. Even Harry’s hard-hitting words are brushed aside for the moment, as Tom seriously analyzes the possibility that Harry is telling the truth.

"Yes?"

"Let me speak to the version of me in your time."

Harry's stomach plummets. "You can't." He resents the way the light in Tom’s eyes stops spreading, as though dusk has descended heartbeats after dawn, and resents himself for breaking the news, even if it's to a future Dark Lord.

"And why not?"

"Because you're dead."

An inhale, followed by a pause. "That is not possible. I-"

"Your Horcruxes are destroyed, every single one of them." Harry interrupts, not wanting to draw it out.

“They can't be. I will hide them—“

“In a cave, at Hogwarts, in the Gaunt shack, and with your followers. That sounds right, doesn’t it, even if you haven't yet planned it all out?”

Tom's mouth snaps shut, and Harry watches the specter of Death tease his proud shoulders.

“But I—“

“Everyone dies, even Lord Voldemort.”

As the minutes roll by, Tom grows pale, his skin an off-cast ivory, and it's the only sign of his distress; even Tom Riddle hasn't managed to control the flow of blood in his arteries. It may be more accurate to say that he hasn't tried, and won't try, because the blood that anchors him to life is sacred. Yet Harry has just told him that it is all for naught; that the crimson in his veins no longer flows in this time.

Looking at Tom's frozen figure, a swell of guilt crashes and burns in Harry's chest.

"I'm sorry," Harry whispers, before he's even conscious of his lips moving.

For all his distress, Tom's voice is steely, and if the chill in it is forced- well, it's not like Harry's about to point that out. "And pray tell me, why would you be sorry?"

"Because I killed you."

Chapter Text

Tom can recall most moments of his life with crystal clarity, but some memories slip into the void, regardless of how deeply he covets them. Unlike most people, whose recollections of mundane occurrences drain through gaping holes in their intellect, but are able to vividly recall instances of great significance, Tom has never struggled with remembering the day-to-day. Instead, it’s the turning points in his life that become blurred in his mind- they are simply too clouded by emotions that distort the cold details and leave his later analysis of that moment marred by irrationality.

And upon hearing “I killed you” leave Harry’s mouth, Tom knows that this will be one of those murky memories- he can barely think past the hysteria.

An inadvertent chuckle escapes his lips- one, two, and then there’s a peal of hysterical laughter escalating in pitch. He probably sounds insane, with uncontrollable tears of mirth rolling down from the corners of his eyes as he clutches at his stomach, bent in half.

Harry’s mouth is slack, his green eyes wide with confusion and edged with fear, and the sight sends Tom into hysterics yet again just as he is about to wind down.

“What…” Harry tries, utterly bemused.

Tom raises a hand, cutting him off, and is still snickering to himself as he wipes a wayward tear from his cheek. “Thanks,” he almost giggles. “I needed that.”

There is a tick in Harry’s jaw as confusion burns into affront. “This is not a joke,” Harry hisses.

“It isn’t? I think it’s a fantastic farce.” Before Harry can rage on, Tom elaborates. “You see, Harry, you’re as pure as they come, aren’t you? There’s no killing intent in your aura- some rage and some hatred maybe, but I doubt you’ve ever truly moved with the intent to kill. Maybe you’ve killed before, but it’s not because you wanted to- you probably did it out of some sense of duty or obligation. See, real murders, true murderers- that intent lingers with them. I knew from the moment that I saw you that you’re not a murderer. You are dangerous, I’ll give you that, but you are not a killer who takes pleasure in the act. For a high-ranking Auror, that’s impressive. For someone who claims to have ended my life, that’s downright hilarious.”

As Harry appears to think through Tom’s words, the smirk fades from Tom’s face. Unbidden, part of his mind works under the assumption that Harry has told the truth- that Tom is dead in this world, barely half a century from his own time. How disgusting, if this is true.

That for all he sacrificed, for all the insurmountable pain of creating his Horcrux and going where no human had gone before, he is still a mortal man, defeated by a blindingly pure and unwilling killer. This is humiliation in its finest form, but Tom must keep moving, keep plotting. If he pauses for even a second, age-old insecurities will surge through his limbs and reduce him to a shivering mess. The prospect of death induces boundless horror. Death is weakness, death is failure.

And Tom will not let this weak-willed, gentle Auror be his end. No, Harry must have had luck on his side, and Tom must have been betrayed. But he has a chance now, and surely this too is fate. He will discover just how Harry was able to kill him, and when he returns to his own time, which will surely happen, he will prevent this future from coming to pass. They say that men cannot play with time, but Tom Riddle is more than just a mere man. He will sculpt the sands of time to his image.

With this reassurance that his death will not happen, not when he can use his boundless powers to prevent it, Tom roots out every bit of terror and helplessness building inside of him, and shoves it into a corner of his mindscape, sealing it behind layers of fortifications that resemble Hogwarts’ high walls. He feels calmer already, his mind clear and ready to study this time and learn where his future self went wrong.

But Harry is talking again, having mulled over Tom’s accusation of purity. “And how did you guess this?” he asks seriously.

Tom waves his bound hands. “It’s a skill. I knew almost immediately.” He has no intention of revealing his sensory capabilities to Harry. It’s better to steer the conversation away, so Tom coolly adds, “I’m not wrong, though, am I?”

Harry very obviously bites down his curiosity, and when he finally replies, there’s a note in his voice that is painfully honest. “No, that sounds about right. I didn’t want to kill you. In a sense, it was forced upon me by factors beyond my control. But even if I didn’t take pleasure in the act, I eventually owned it. After all, you didn’t leave me with much of a choice.”

“You say I didn’t leave you with much of a choice. Was I that bad of a politician?” Tom asks sardonically.

“Politician?” Harry frowns in consternation. “You were never a politician. You were a Dark Lord.”

“Well, obviously,” Tom sighs, exasperated. This man knows nothing. “Of course I was a Dark Lord- even if my current self isn’t quite there yet. My magic is unmatched, my skill in the Dark Arts unparalleled. I have learnt more about the roots of magic than any wizard of our era and have travelled the world to build my knowledge.” Here, Tom pauses, unwilling to justify his true intentions to this stranger.

But for some reason, he feels that he can and that he should. For all the ridiculous talk of murdering and choices, Tom needs to win this man over. Regardless of whether he’s truly in the future or whether this is a well-researched scheme, this man’s support is necessary to his survival. So Tom takes a deep breath, glancing at Harry’s openly curious expression, and goes on.

“To be a Dark Lord is to be a master of the Dark Arts. That is who I am. But what I seek is power. And I will have it. Our wizarding government is run by incompetent fools- Britain has fallen behind other magical communities, to a humiliating extent. Change is necessary, and I am that change. In time, I will rise through the ranks, and I will become Minister.” Tom says it all with a tone of inevitability, because some things are inevitable, and this is but one of these things.

However, the completely gob smacked expression on Harry’s face is rather off-putting. “Minister for Magic?” Harry croaks.

“What, is the title obsolete these days?”

“Er, no...”

Tom fights the urge to roll his eyes. “I suppose that I never became Minister, judging from the way you’re looking at me like I’m the first Veela you’ve ever laid eyes on.”

The hint of red on Harry’s cheeks is oddly satisfying. He clears his throat and says, “I’m just surprised…”

Tom waits for him to continue.

“There’s no good way to put it, I guess,” Harry finally says, looking exceedingly awkward. “You essentially declared war on the government and murdered or tortured anybody who didn’t agree with your views.”

“Preposterous,” Tom frowns, tapping his fingers idly.

“Excuse me?”

“It is both troublesome and counterproductive to do so.”

Harry leans forward, suspicion in the drum of his fingers against his robes. “Explain.”

“Why should I?” Tom shoots back. “If you’re convinced that I’m a rampaging psychopath, I doubt anything I say will change your mind. I’m not wasting my breath.”

The room’s stuffiness is oppressive as Tom breathes deeply, still trying to process the accusation. It’s not that he’s aghast at his future self (if he has truly time travelled and this is not a ploy). After all, it’s all too tempting to follow that path of rage and destruction- he has contemplated it more than once. Rather, the feeling in his chest is disappointment- disappointment at the possibility that things turned out this way. Disappointment at his inability to resist the urge to destroy, disappointment at his carefully cultivated self-control failing him.

“I’d like to know,” Harry speaks up at last. He seems to have relaxed, the hostility fading away. “I’m honestly curious. Back then, we were at war, and it was hardly as though you’d take the time to talk to me or explain your insane decisions. This is a chance for me to understand you, I guess, and I’d really like to.”

There’s a wealth of feeling in those words, and Tom wonders at the precise nature of the relationship between Harry and his older self. Since he’s never been able to properly resist a chance to display his intelligence, he concedes.

“Very well, I shall tell you why I am sceptical of the future you describe,” Tom says, straightening. The words come easily, the pleasure at explaining his thoughts familiar and welcome. “The power I seek is the power to instigate change. For that, I need control. There are two ways to stage a revolution- from within and from the outside- by infiltrating the system, or rebelling against it.” These ideas were the product of hours of thought since the summer after his fifth year, when he had first realised that his hunger for control spread beyond Hogwarts’ walls.

“Realise, Mr. Deputy Head Auror, that wizards in England are complacent for the most part. They are satisfied with our government, our ways, because they have not travelled beyond our borders to see the greater magical world. Any attempt to institute radical change will be difficult. If you attempt it through rebellion, you can only win by eradicating the current system and imposing a new one. To do so, you necessarily rule through fear, for you will always be seen as the usurper of the previous regime. It is distasteful.”

“Distasteful?” Harry interrupts, but there is only honest surprise and no scorn in his tone.

“Indeed. Having to control a country through fear is unstable. There will certainly be people who want to rebel, who view the previous regime as righteous and seek to bring it back. Even if citizens obey, they do not truly trust.”

“And you actually want them to trust you?”

“Yes,” Tom responds simply. “People who trust you are easier to control.”

“You’re a right bastard,” Harry informs Tom simply, and Tom can’t hold back a smirk.

“Perhaps, but what I want is actually what is best for them.” He ignores Harry’s doubtful scoff and continues. “The second option, which is to rise through the system, is ideal. Politics is a game, won with alliances and pretty words. It is an easy game for me, and because the magical government has been established for centuries, it easily carries the faith of the people, even when it acts in questionable ways. It takes repeated acts of idiocy and incompetence for our government to finally lose the people’s trust.”

From the furrow in Harry’s brow, it’s clear that he’s thinking back, perhaps to his own experiences with the Ministry of Magic. Finally, he gives Tom a sharp nod. “I certainly see where you’re coming from. However, I’m not convinced that ceding control to you would bode well for us either.”

Tom grins roguishly. “But if I am elected Minister, then it is through legitimate means, is it not? You may be ceding control, but it is in a way that the system recognises. However, I’m not going to explain myself to you. You wanted to know why I would never fall to the level of glorified terrorism- now you have your reason.”

Tom is surprised to note that Harry is looking at him with a hint of respect, but it fades quickly when Harry sighs, almost defeated. “Still, it doesn’t change the fact that you ended up declaring war on the wizarding world twice, and that hundreds of Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and pure-bloods who didn’t stand with you were killed on your orders.”

This is where it gets tricky. Haltingly, Tom responds, “Simply understand that as I am now, I would never go down that path. Why the future me chose to do so, I cannot presume, but there must have been other factors involved.” It’s not exactly the truth, given that Tom is not that far from that path at all.

All his life, he has skirted around that gaping chasm in his brain, the one that urges him to hurt others and cause pain- he’s simply gotten better at erecting barriers around it, throwing up heavy fortifications reinforced in unrelenting steel. He now recognises this desire for causing pain as a weakness, one that is primal and counterproductive to exerting control over others.

Still, he is honest in telling Harry that he has no intention of succumbing to the base temptations of torture and murder - something must have bypassed his defences for him to give in so foolishly to temptation.

“Perhaps,” Harry allows thoughtfully. “As you are now, you appear quite different from the psychopath I knew and loved.”

Tom smirks at the sarcasm, and catches Harry’s wry grin. There’s something so wrong about trading smiles like a fool with the man who will kill him, but Tom has too little data to work with. When did Harry kill him? They look to be about the same age now- Harry must have been so young, and the thought is very unpleasant. Why did Harry kill him? Did he destroy the Horcruxes as well? And above all else, what made him into a raving, murderous lunatic? Tom wants answers, but he needs time to find them, and for that, he has to secure his safety.

Tom glances at Harry thoughtfully, barely holding in a vicious leer. The Deputy Head Auror is far too nice for his own good. And that kindness, is going to be his downfall.

Allowing himself a small sigh and forcing some vulnerability into his expression- not too much, that would be a giveaway, but just enough that it almost seems like he’s trying to hold it back, Tom says, “It must be trying for you, seeing me here now. I mean, it’d be so easy to get rid of me and prevent that war from ever happening, hmm? So, Harry, what are you going to do? I’m wandless and defenceless... Are you going to kill me again?”

Harry is fixated on the crumbling, evergreen wallpaper, brows furrowed. Finally, he sighs. “No. There’s something odd going on here, and I want to get to the bottom of this. I assume you do, too.”

Tom nods sharply.

“Alright, then our goal will be to send you back to your time.” Each word looks like it’s costing him, but Tom is impressed by the resolve in his voice. “We’ll keep this a secret and try and sort things out. However, you will need to cooperate with me- you’re going to have to listen to everything I say, okay? If word gets out, you’ll be in more danger than you can imagine.”

Tom knows he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but his damn curiosity gets the better of him. “Why are you helping me?” he asks. Generosity is never without a price- Tom learned that lesson the painful way.

When Harry smiles, it’s intriguing. There’s a world of pain and resignation in the crease of his lips, maybe even some self-loathing, but his green eyes are gentle. “I wonder as well.”

The man is an enigma, but for now, Tom doesn’t pry. Instead, he watches placidly as Harry removes the handcuffs on his wrists with a swish of his wand, summoning them back to his hand and placing them in his robes. “Don’t let my faith in you be misplaced,” Harry says, but even he doesn’t sound convinced.

Tom decides not to give him any further cause for doubt. He will listen to Harry- let him dictate the terms of this agreement, let him think he has the upper hand. And Tom will cooperate for now, because it’s in his best interests, but Tom’s acquiescence has only ever been fleeting at best. Once Harry is no longer his best option- well, that’s that.

His musings are interrupted when the fireplace surges green and a tall, ginger man emerges from the flames, shortly followed by a slender, female figure. He catalogues their threat level immediately: their magical presences are above average and echo each other- both toe the line of too bright, though the man has a hazy residue of something familiar. But their magic isn’t actively engaged, and they don’t seem like they’re a threat at the moment.

Whilst dusting off his robes carelessly, the man says, “Hey, Harry. Why did you—” Upon catching sight of Tom, his jaw becomes unhinged in a most unattractive manner, and his voice dies in his throat. He’s not exactly an impressive sight, with his unremarkable features and slightly thinning hair, but despite his ridiculous expression, his feet have automatically slipped into a defensive stance.

“Ron?” The woman is a study in competence, from the way her brown hair is bound in a practical bun to the minimalist but flattering hints of makeup gracing her features. She leans around the obstructing figure of the man (her husband? There are matching bands on their ring fingers) and fixes a hawk-like gaze on Tom’s reclining form in the armchair. “Who’s this?”

Time for damage control. Tom rises smoothly to his feet and strides across the room with three long steps. He pauses an arm’s length away from the couple, sensing Harry’s wary attention. Allowing a charming smile to dawn gradually across his face, as encouraging as a late winter breeze that carries the promise of spring, Tom extends a pale hand to the woman, first.

“My name is Thomas Gaunt, Madame. It’s a pleasure.”

“Oh!” she responds, cheeks darkening a fraction, but Tom is more than aware, and just the slightest bit impressed, that the caution in her eyes has not faded one bit.

“Thomas Gaunt…? I thought the Gaunt line ended several decades ago.”

She’s sharp. “My mother raised me abroad,” Tom says ruefully, mind working in overdrive. “She didn’t want me to be influenced by father.” He offers her a weary smile, and she immediately looks horrified.

“Where are my manners? I’m Hermione Granger-Weasley. Forgive me for asking such a callous question.” The look in her eyes doesn’t get any less suspicious, however.

“It’s nothing.” Tom is more fixated on the double-barrelled surname. He registers the second part, Weasley, in his internal catalogue of wizarding families. From the offensively carrot-hued abomination on the man’s head, he should have known he belonged to the Weasley family. Pure-blood pacifists, the lot of them, but not impermeable to the policies Tom wants to eventually push forward. However, Granger is entirely unfamiliar- she must be a muggle-born.

Meanwhile, Tom dips his head, then turns his full attention to her husband. “And you must be Mr. Weasley unless I’m mistaken.”

“Not at all,” the ginger says, having recovered his bearings. “I’m Ron. Thomas Gaunt, you said?”

“Indeed,” Tom nods, pleased with the impromptu alias. Thomas is certainly more sophisticated than Tom, and the Gaunt name could use some redemption. It’s unfortunate, though, that Ron appears familiar with the surname as well. He would have to make sure that the Gaunt family’s ends hadn’t become common knowledge in the past few years. “Harry was kind enough to rescue me during an attack of sorts when I got caught in the crossfire. I have him to thank for my safety.”

“Really?” Hermione says, trying for conversational but failing to completely shut the scepticism out of her voice. “That’s great, Harry.” Her next words come slower. “It’s been so long since we’ve met up at Grimmauld Place. It really brings me back. I was surprised when you told us to meet here.”

Harry finally speaks up, rising from his seat as he goes. “I know, Hermione. But given recent developments, there’s no place more fitting to be.”

“What?” Ron’s low voice mutters, “You’re telling me—” He yelps as Hermione smacks him lightly on the arm.

“Don’t be silly, Ron. Harry, if you and Thomas have finished with your business, why don’t the three of us go have tea? I’m sure he’s eager to get home.”

Honestly, this is taking it to a whole new level in lack of subtelty. The newcomers can only be Gryffindors; Salazar would be appalled. Then again, it’s careless enough of Harry to interrogate him in a room that anybody could stumble upon.

Harry’s next words are unwelcome. “It’s fine. This has to do with Tom anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Tom says, swivelling to face Harry. “I was under the impression that our discussion was confidential… you were quite insistent on maintaining secrecy.”

“I was, but I can trust Ron and Hermione. We can trust Ron and Hermione.”

Tom decides not to correct him- he doesn’t trust anyone other than himself, never has. “I’m in no position to disagree,” he says haltingly, “but it is my safety at stake, according to what you explained earlier. I would prefer if my presence were not common knowledge.”

“You don’t have to worry,” Harry says firmly. “I’m only telling Ron and Hermione. No one else.”

“Telling us what, Harry?” Hermione interrupts as Tom nods reluctantly, giving Harry his tacit approval.

Harry groans a little. “Don’t look at me like that, Hermione. It’s not my fault this time, I promise.”

Despite the tension, Ron snickers and Hermione relaxes a bit as well. “I didn’t say it was,” she returns playfully.

“Alright then,” Harry says, all levity gone from his voice. His back straightens, and Tom realises with a lingering shiver that Harry certainly deserves his position as Deputy Head Auror. “Before I go any further, I must ask that the two of you remain calm. There will be no violence, and you will evaluate the situation from beginning to end, in a fully rational manner. Whether you cooperate is up to you, but you must swear that this information does not leave this room. Are we clear?”

Tom revels in the unadulterated authority in Harry’s voice. Ron and Hermione don’t even hesitate; their blind faith in Harry is foolish, but enviable.

“Yeah, mate.”

“Of course, Harry.”

“Excellent. To sum it up, earlier today I was called in to protect the Smiths in Windfield Manor from an attack on their home. Whilst I was in a side room that contained various rare artefacts, one of the attackers summoned a sundial-like contraption, but it flew into me instead. There was an explosion of sorts, and when it cleared, Thomas was lying on the ground, naked.”

“Merlin…” Ron mutters, visibly struggling with a mental image of a naked Tom. Hermione, on the other hand, has an almost excited glow to her.

“I took him back to the Department and got him some clothes, but he’s currently missing his wand and all his other possessions. I then escorted him here to Grimmauld Place—” Tom sneers at the understatement— “and had a very long conversation with him about his intentions. I assure you two; he is not a threat to us, and our top priority is to figure out what happened to him.”

“Where are you from?” Hermione asks.

“The more apt question to address,” Tom responds, “is when am I from?”

A stunned pause. Hermione’s horrified gasp shatters the false peace. “You said your name was Thomas Gaunt…”

“Mione?” Ron swivels to his wife. “What’s wrong?”

“You!” Hermione says, with such potent vehemence in the single syllable that Tom is caught off guard.

“What’s going on?” Ron asks frantically.

“It’s him… It’s Voldemort!”

What happens next resembles a poorly choreographed scene from one of the few plays the orphanage had taken its wards to see during the height of summer- they’re one of the precious few fond memories Tom has of his dreary childhood, as the performers took their audience beyond the mundanity of London’s grey skies, despite their token acting abilities and the sloppy directing. Tom remembers watching King Lear from his seat on the dirt, unable to fully grasp the depth of Shakespeare’s art but still shaken by its brilliance- the way the old King had stumbled and screamed was evidence that this world was crazy, untrustworthy, wrong. Needless to say, Tom owned a battered copy of the play and many others at the bottom of his trunk; he was willing to embrace Shakespeare despite his <uggle status because he taught Tom how to wear his masks and play his part.

Right now, Ron is giving the Fool from King Lear a run for his money, recoiling so sharply that he cracks his skull against the wooden paneling above the fireplace. He doesn’t even spare a second to consider that his wife’s assessment may have been wrong before his wand is in his hand. A jet of red light shoots out from the tip even as he grabs Hermione and drags her back with him.

Yet she too has acted, and a conjured, silver net flies towards Tom, threatening to trap him as it expands at breakneck speed.

But all Tom does is stand immobile, because he feels rather than sees Harry’s magic flicker, and with a sharp blast of power, the armchair Tom had been sitting on flies past him and into the path of the spells. It bears the brunt of both and topples to the ground, now featuring a tight net and a brand new split in the cushioned cover.

Tom has no intentions of moving, but Harry’s hand is suddenly a searing brand on his wrist, pulling him behind his back as he moves to stand in front of Tom. He drops his hold on Tom almost immediately, and from the way his fingers clench at empty air, Tom knows that he felt it, too- the burning heat of initial contact, and then the odd rightness of skin on skin. Although Tom usually goes out of his way to avoid touching other people, he is not always successful, but never has he felt anything quite like this. It makes him want to explore this most curious reaction, and he files the thought away for later.

“That’s enough,” Harry says, calm but deadly.

“Harry…” Ron cries, “Have you gone mad? How could you protect him?”

Hermione is slightly less frantic, but only barely. “I understand that you don’t want to turn him in and cause panic, but you can hardly let him walk around like that. We need to immobilise him until we figure out what to do!”

“We’ll do no such thing,” Harry says firmly. “I’ve spoken to Tom at length, before you two arrived, and we’ve reached an agreement. Our top priority is to get him home. He is not a threat to us.”

“Not a threat?” Hermione escalates in pitch. “He killed your parents!”

“He’s responsible for Fred’s death! And Sirius, Remus, Tonks, Dumbledore, and all those other innocent people. He’s the reason you and Teddy are orphans…”

Tom spares a second to relish in the fact that Dumbledore is gone at last, but that satisfaction is swamped by… unease. He had not known that Harry was an orphan- it hits too close to home, and apparently because of his future self. He can’t see Harry’s face from this angle, but his shoulders are strained and his fists are clenched.

“You guys are right, of course. This… is not easy for me, far from it. But what would you have me do? What else can I do?”

“Not send him back, for starters,” Ron mutters.

“Don’t be stupid, Ronald.” Surprisingly, Hermione is the one to interject. “You know what happens to wizards who mess with time. Until we figure out precisely why he is here, we should operate under the assumption that he can and should be sent back.”

“But without him, we could prevent—”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Harry says tiredly. “Don’t think I don’t want to save them, save them all by taking the easy way out. But there’s no guarantee about what might happen if we tamper with the timeline. All that’s clear is that we would lose what we have now, what they all gave their lives to achieve- Mum, Dad, Dumbledore, Fred, and everyone else who fought and died. We can’t invalidate their sacrifices on a whim.”

The words sink in slowly. Tom had not realised that Harry had put so much thought into his decision, doesn’t know how he feels about this insight into the mind of his murderer. At last, Ron’s breathing evens out.

“You’re right,” he croaks, “I didn’t think.”

“You did,” Harry disagrees. “You just haven’t had as much time to think about this as I have.” The two exchange a shaky smile, and the tension between the three of them is gone as though it had never been there.

Hermione’s tone is business-like when she says, “Obviously, getting… this young Voldemort back to his own time is our top priority, but I’d feel better if you locked him up and put a guard on him.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Harry says. “He’s going to co-operate.”

Ron’s suspicious glare is almost comical. “He’s Voldemort, though, even if he isn’t a snake-faced, nose-less bastard on the outside. You give him any freedom at all, and all of us will be under the Cruciatus Curse in seconds.”

Tom twitches at the physical description. If Ron doesn’t stop any time soon, he has no right to blame Tom if there really is a Crucio in his near future and he’s the one who ends up noseless. It’s time to step in.

“Listen,” he says, as Ron and Hermione flinch at the sound of his voice, “I’m not the man you fought before. Harry’s filled me in already. It seems that in my later years, I was mentally unstable.”

Ron snorts, “You can say that again.”

Tom continues, undeterred. “However, the present me harbours no intention of declaring war on the wizarding world and amassing or contacting followers to that end. As of yesterday, my ambition was to enter the political realm. I have little to no respect for senseless violence. My only priority now is to get home, and I swear that I will not raise a hand against you.”

They appear to evaluate his words.

“An empty promise is not enough,” Hermione says. “Swear it with an Unbreakable Vow.”

“Absolutely not,” Tom counters immediately. “I will not bet my life on a stupid promise.”

“Fine,” Hermione retorts, undeterred. “At the very least, a Binding Vow.”

His distaste with the idea must be apparent, so she presses, “If you don’t, we have no way to trust you. To let you walk around freely is a concession on our part already. You will need to return the favour.”

The woman is smart, unfortunately, and the logic in her demand is sound. Nevertheless, even the thought of a Binding Vow makes Tom’s stomach clench with anxiety. Binding Vows are a deadly creation. Although failing to uphold a Binding Vow does not result in death, making it less dangerous than an Unbreakable Vow, it is still incredibly invasive. Unlike weaker vows, or even blood pledges, they are intrinsically tied to one’s magical core. The two parties have their magic tied together permanently until the stipulations of the vow are fulfilled, and every action is subject to the vow’s judgement. Any failure to abide by the terms, even if it’s accidental, drains one’s magic. Any outright violation of the terms, and one’s magic is fully and lastingly depleted- there’s no going back. For someone like Tom, who lives, breathes, and is deeply connected to magic in every way, the loss of his magic means complete devastation.

However, Harry is looking thoughtfully at him, and says, “I agree with Hermione. I would feel much more confident if you took the vow, and it means we’d be able to afford you more freedom as well.”

“There are less invasive vows out there. You are asking too much of me.”

“It’s this or nothing,” Harry says simply. “I know how much you value your magic. We will keep the terms applicable to this time period only, and with a Binding Vow, I can release you at any time. This is just a temporary measure.”

Tom doesn’t have a choice. “Fine, but I must approve of the wording.” Before Hermione can interrupt, he says, “Trust me, I have studied vows and bonds extensively. I refuse to end up magic-less because of a loophole or grammatical error.”

“Very well,” Harry says, nodding slowly. He summons a parchment and a quill. “Let’s get this over with then.”

“You’re brilliant, Hermione,” Ron whispers, and pulls her in for a kiss. Hermione’s face is flushed when she steps back, and Tom contains a shudder. To be so free with one’s affection is off-putting.

After following Harry over to the desk in the corner, they spend the next few minutes working out the wording. Harry is significantly more relaxed than earlier, more at ease around Tom with the promise of the Vow. Finally, they figure out a wording that satisfies both of them.

“I’ll be taking the Vow with Tom,” Harry says, dropping to kneel on a stretch of open carpet.

“But Harry—”

“It’s fine, Ron. It can only be me.”

When Ron and Hermione don’t protest, Tom briefly wonders about the implications of that statement but gets on his knees anyway.

“Alright,” Hermione says, clearing her throat. “Clasp your hands.”

When they do, there’s a coil of pleasant warmth beneath Tom’s skin, and Harry’s light shudder indicates once again that the odd sensation is mutual. However, neither of them acknowledges it.

Hermione places the tip of her wand on their interlocked hands.

Harry speaks, “Will you, Tom Marvolo Riddle, refrain from murdering, torturing, and perpetuating needless violence against others in this time period, with the exception of situations of self-defence?”

“I will,” Tom says.

A streak of blinding purple flame descends from Hermione’s wand and winds its way around their interlocked hands. Tom suppresses a wince at the corresponding, invisible restraint on his magic.

“And will you keep your identity as Lord Voldemort secret from everyone in this time period but the people in this room, unless given express permission to reveal it by me?

“I will,” Tom repeats.

Another brilliant violet chain, and another damper on his magic.

“And will you swear to never, in this time period, rekindle the War in any way- from contacting old followers to amassing a new following to threatening the peace of the wizarding world through coercion or by inciting violence?

“I will.”

The blaze from the third lick of flame illuminates Ron and Hermione’s stunned features, in disbelief that Tom agreed to these conditions. The fire dances across their palms, twisting to intertwine together, and with great unease, Tom feels the weight of the Vow sear through his core, binding him to the words.

He can see the consequences already- spider web-like tendrils extend from Harry’s aura and drift over into his magic, monitoring his every action, every intent. But to the others, all traces of the Vow vanish. Only Tom is aware of the unrelenting chains that now guide his actions, and as Tom stares into Harry’s conflicted emerald eyes, he wonders if he has just made a grave mistake.

--

Harry rises to his feet, legs shaky with the weight of the Vow. He did what he had to do, but there is no joy to binding Tom in his words. The glimpse of genuine fear in Tom’s eyes as he said “I will” has unsettled him, the vulnerability so out of place. It only serves as a reminder that this Tom Riddle is more than an imprint of a soul or a vestige in a Pensieve or a broken psychopath hell bent on genocide. This Tom Riddle has real hopes and real aspirations, and although Harry has spent the past decade idly hypothesising about his motivating factors, hearing them tumble from Tom’s lips is jarring. It makes them too easy to understand.

And he determinedly does not focus on the weird, translucent strands that are now tangled in both his and Tom’s magic. That’s something to analyse at a later date- right now, he needs a break.

“We’re done here, I think. Tom, you’ll be going by Thomas Gaunt- it’s a good alias.”

“But Ron and Hermione knew something was off immediately.”

Ron puffs out his chest. “That’s because the three of us carefully studied your background. Nobody else would notice anything off.”

Tom nods sharply, pale in the light. “That’s fine, then. If anyone asks, I’m Morfin’s grandson, born to his bastard son with a poor witch. I studied at the Akedemia.”

“The Akedemia?” Hermione’s desire to learn instinctively surpasses her suspicion. “That’s the wizarding school in Albania that dates back to the classical era of Ancient Greece, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Tom confirms. “I visited it during my travels recently.”

Hermione is ready to launch into a series of follow-up questions, but seems to realize at the last second that she’s speaking to a young Lord Voldemort. “How… interesting. Anyway, Harry, I can be in charge of studying the artefact that brought Tho here. Hopefully I’ll be able to identify its capabilities.”

“That would be perfect, Hermione. I’ll visit Zacharias Smith as soon as possible to procure it. In fact, I hid it before I left the manor with Tom. The attackers were after it, so it must hold some value.”

“All the more to study it as soon as possible,” she responds firmly.

“Thank you for doing this.”

“Of course, Harry,” she smiles, and Harry grins back, relieved to see Ron’s firm nod behind her. His two best friends are the only ones he truly trusts to keep this secret, for they have always been here for him, just as he will always be there for them.

“Meanwhile, where is Thomas going to stay?” Ron asks, trying for cordiality but failing.

“With me,” Harry responds. He raises a hand to cut off their protests. “It’s safest if I keep an eye on him.” He sneaks a glance at Tom to assess his reaction, but Tom only looks politely interested.

“But the kids! And what will you tell Ginny?”

“That Tom is hiding from the group that attacked the Smiths. They’re from the Mediterranean area, I believe, so Tom going to the Akedemia for school fits.” It’s all very convenient.

Ron scowls. “I don’t like the idea of lying to Ginny, even if it’s to keep her safe. You know how angry she’ll be if she finds out.”

Harry knows completely, flashing back to his attempts to protect her after his sixth year. “She won’t find out. And plus, I’ll say Tom’s an old friend from way back- it’s not a lie, and she’ll readily assume we met during Auror training.”

Ron chews on his bottom lip, but eventually nods. “I guess it’s okay.”

“Well then,” Hermione claps her hands together, “let’s get a move on. It’s Halloween- you know the kids are looking forward to a fun night out.”

Kids- right, his kids. Harry groans and messes up his hair in agitation, a habit he never quite managed to break. “I’d forgotten completely. Dammit.”

“No harm done,” Hermione laughs. “When we dropped Rose and Hugo off at the Burrow just now, they seemed to be having fun helping Molly bake cookies.”

“Good,” Harry mumbles, feeling awful. In his haste to get to the bottom of Tom’s appearance, he’d managed to neglect his kids for almost three hours. Thankfully, there is still time until nightfall, and their Halloween plans aren’t ruined.

“To the Burrow, then,” Ron states, tossing a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace. All too soon, he and Hermione have stepped through, leaving Harry alone with Tom.

“You have kids?” the quiet question startles Harry as he reaches for the jar with the Floo powder.

“Yeah, three,” Harry explains, an inadvertent smile lighting up his face. “I’ll introduce you to them in a bit. They mean the world to me, so be nice to them.” The last few words are slightly threatening.

Tom nods. He is eerily calm, the distress from finding out that he is dead in this time nowhere to be found. It’s disconcerting, to say the least.

“Good,” Harry says, not sure how he feels about Tom getting to know his children, despite his earlier assurances. “We’re going to The Burrow. After you.”

It’s unfair how Tom tosses the powder into the fireplace with the utmost grace and sweeps away with an elegant swirl of his robes.

With much less finesse, Harry shoots through after him, and Tom steps out just in time to avoid Harry’s tiny stumble onto the Burrow’s hearth. Harry is flustered, embarrassed about his ineptitude with the Floo for the first time in years, but his chagrin is forgotten when Lily appears in the doorway.

“Daddy!” she shrieks, rushing across the living room on her little legs.

Harry grabs her and swings her in a circle. “If it isn’t my little princess!”

Al and Jamie sprint towards him, likely racing each other once again, and both of them end up clutching one of his legs.

“Finally,” Jamie shouts. “You’re late!”

“I know,” Harry laughs, patting his head as he sets Lily down. “Sorry I took so long.”

“All done?” Al asks, as Hugo and Rose rush over to Ron and Hermione. The two of them promptly drag Hermione into the kitchen, eager to show her the result of their baking. Ron drops onto the sofa, watching Tom with all the charm of a territorial Hippogriff.

“All done. Daddy will take you guys out for our Halloween adventure, like I promised.”

The three kids cheer in unison.

“Welcome back,” Molly smiles, walking into the room with a plate of cookies. She pauses upon seeing Tom, who is standing stiffly next to the fireplace. “Who’s this?”

Better to get it over with. “Molly, kids, this Thomas Gaunt, is an old friend of mine who will be staying with us for a while. He’s being targeted by the people who staged the attack today, and our house is the safest place for him.”

“Hello, Thomas. I’m Molly Weasley, Harry’s mother-in-law, but you can just call me Molly.” Molly smiles warmly, passing the cookies to Harry and swooping to embrace Tom in a hug that ends very quickly, by her standards.

Ron chokes a bit from the sidelines, but that’s nothing compared to the utter shock that crosses Tom’s face but is gone in a flash. Harry feels a pang of empathy- that’s how he felt when he first met her as well. Tom is noticeably rigid, but when Molly leans back, he recovers his bearings enough to bestow an utterly charming smile on her.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Molly,” Tom says quietly.

“Likewise, Thomas! Help yourself to a cookie- they’re chocolate chip and fresh from the oven.”

“I’m good, thank—”

Tom’s polite refusal is cut off when he suddenly finds his hand full of a warm chocolate cookie. Al stands in front of him, looking shy but determined. “Cookie is yummy. Try. Al helped.”

Slightly mortified, Harry passes the cookies back to Molly and steers Al back by his shoulders. “Al!” he exclaims. “Did you even introduce yourself?”

Al smiles sheepishly and sticks a slightly sticky hand up towards Tom. “My name is Al. Nice to meet you.” Out of all the kids, Al is far and away the polite one. Ginny and Harry’s attempts to instil some degree of etiquette in the kids have only really rubbed off on their middle child. Then again, Al has just forced a cookie at a stranger, so there’s still room for improvement.

Tom’s fake but smooth smile is still plastered on his face when he sinks down to a knee so that he’s at eye level with Al. He gingerly shakes Al’s chocolate covered hand. “Hi Al, I’m Thomas.”

“And I’m Jamie!” Jamie squawks, abruptly latching himself onto Tom’s arm. It’s a plea for the attention to refocus on him, and he’s largely successful. “Are you staying with us?”

“I am.”

“Really? How long?”

“For a while, I imagine,” Harry says, trying to make Jamie disengage from Tom with little success. “Are you excited?”

“Yes!” he cheers. “Sleepover!”

Ron’s snort pretty much sums up how Harry feels about that mental image- Tom and his kids in matching nightcaps, rolling around in front of the fireplace on red and gold sleeping bags… How absolutely terrifying for everyone involved.

“Now, now Jamie,” Harry says, struggling to keep a neutral expression. “Tom will be taking the guest room, so it’s not like when Rose and Hugo stay over and you guys take over the main sitting room.”

Jamie’s utter disappointment ends when Lily waddles over to Tom and places her hands on his shoulders in a grave manner. Tom stares down at the little girl, frozen in a crouch and blindsided by the physical contact.

“Up.”

It’s the first time that Harry’s ever seen Tom at a loss for words, and something tells him that when it comes to his kids, it won’t be the last.

“Lily…” Harry tries to pull her away, but she’s not having it.

“Up!” she calls, a little louder this time. There’s no way to deter her when she gets like this.

The command has Tom’s hands tentatively at her tiny waist, but he doesn’t exert any force.

“UP!”

“It’s alright,” Harry groans. “Go for it.” He isn’t exactly thrilled about having the Dark Lord pick up his precious daughter, but from the dynamic between the two of them, Lily is doing a great job establishing herself as the Dark Lord’s Dark Lord.

With slightly trembling arms, Tom lifts her up by the armpits and holds her awkwardly against a shoulder. He has a brief moment of panic when she twists around to face forward, but all she does is pinch his cheek with utmost stateliness. “I’m Lily.”

“Nice to meet you, Lily…”

The unease in Tom’s voice makes Harry kind of hysterical.

Lily regards Tom very seriously, tilts her head, and gives him a small smile. “I like.” And that’s the cue for Jamie and Al to try and capture Tom’s attention again.

“Are you sure about this, Harry? I haven’t heard you mention Thomas before,” Molly asks quietly while the kids pounce all over Tom.

“I am, Molly,” Harry smiles, turning to face her. “It may not be ideal to have him stay with us, but it’s the best solution. Plus, he’s an old friend, so I wouldn’t want to let him down.”

“Alright then,” she nods. “Do you trust him?”

How is he supposed to answer that? No, of course he doesn’t, even with the Binding Vow. Harry trusts this version of Tom more than he trusts the Voldemort that he had known in his own time, but that doesn’t mean much.

“Of course,” he says, trying for a reassuring tone. It seems to work, and yet Harry feels awful- when had he learned to lie so successfully?

But there’s no time to dwell, because Jamie is now tugging on his leg.

“Daddy! Trick-or-treat!”

“Alright, it’s time!” Harry claps twice, drawing the kids’ attention. He had been exhausted only moments ago, but being with the kids always energises him. “Let’s go home and get your costumes ready so we can go trick-or-treating!”

“Come and get some cookies, first,” Molly says, and Jamie and Al trail her into the kitchen immediately.

As Harry walks to the couch where Ron’s planted himself, Hermione appears with Rose and Hugo. He hugs both of them, chuckling at their calls of “Uncle Harry!” and complimenting them on their matching orange and black outfits.

“Are you going to be alright?” Hermione asks.

“I’ll be fine,” Harry tells her, and he means it. “I’ll probably take Tom to Diagon Alley to get some supplies tomorrow, but I’m not worried about tonight. The kids seem to like him, anyway.” Indeed, Lily is still in Tom’s arms and has his neck in a death grip. It doesn’t look like she’s going to let go any time soon.

“Let us know if you need anything, mate,” Ron offers, and Harry nods in thanks.

Once Jamie and Al return from one last romp in the kitchen, Hermione helps him Side-Along Apparate the kids back to Harry’s house, a large cottage in Godric’s Hollow. There’s an awkward moment when Tom reluctantly takes Harry’s arm, seeing as he is wandless and does not know their destination, and Harry swears he can feel the intensity of Tom’s touch through his robes, a sensation that is unfortunately becoming familiar. Lily’s gentle weight in his other arm (it had taken severe coaxing for her to part with Tom) is the only thing that enables him to focus and avoid a nasty case of splinching.

Their arrival back home is a frenzy. Harry directs Tom to a sofa in the living room and promises that he’ll give him a full tour that evening. For now, he has to make sure that the kids are ready for their Halloween mischief. He tells them to go put on their costumes, and as they run upstairs, he prepares their treat bags and rushes to change into his own, equally outlandish outfit.

His tradition of taking the kids trick-or-treating on Halloween had started off on a complete whim, but had rapidly attained its own significance. Back when he lived with the Dursleys, Harry had been ritually excluded from all holiday festivities, and Halloween would have been no exception. Year after year on most holidays, Harry would press his ear against the cupboard door, wondering why he felt so hollow as he listened Dudley fool around in the living room with his friends.

On Jamie’s first Halloween, Harry and Ginny had taken him around the neighbourhood for an evening stroll—celebrating the fact that they had been able to, unlike Harry’s own parents, confined in their house with their infant son—and they had ventured from the wizarding section of Godric’s Hollow and into the growing muggle area. Jamie had been mesmerized by the kids traipsing from house to house in costumes, and the Potter family spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out what strange ritual they had walked into.

After a strategically worded conversation with a kind mother of two, Harry learned that the kids were in fact “trick-or-treating,” a North American traidition that was slowly trickling over to the UK. Dressed in costumes, children would go from house to house asking for a trick or a treat, and they almost always walked away with pockets full of sweets- the trick aspect was only there for show.

Of course, Jamie, at the tender age of one, had immediately flailed his chubby arms with the dire intent of joining in, and Harry capitulated like the overly doting father he was. Ginny had merely laughed and teased, declaring that this would be a new father-son tradition, and that was exactly how it turned out.

Since then, Harry makes it his priority to always be there on Halloween, and take his kids on a wild romp through the Muggle neighbourhoods of Godric’s Hollow.

He soon realized that trick-or-treating was also the perfect way for his kids to connect to the Muggle world. It’s a foray into Muggle culture, and he and the kids plan their costumes meticulously, discussing the bounds of Muggle knowledge and how they perceive common wizarding phenomena like ghosts and werewolves.

But for Harry, trick-or-treating is above all, a rewriting of Halloween’s significance for himself. All Hallow’s Eve is the anniversary of his parents’ death, the day that marked him forever and bound him to Voldemort’s soul. To celebrate it with his children is to validate his parents’ choices, to laugh in the face of Voldemort’s legacy by proving that he has lived on, and to make his parents proud by raising his own children.

To that extent, it’s very ironic that he should now find himself trick-or-treating with Voldemort himself.

Harry glances over at Voldemort as he re-enters the room, costume ready for its moment of glory. Tom is leaning idly against the wall in the fireplaces, offering minimal verbal responses to a bouncing Jamie. Dressed in a heavy coat with a yellow, plastic helmet on his head and a long toy hose clutched in his arms, the little boy is practically a ball of excitement.

“Thomas, what is your costume?”

Tom blinks.

“Thomas isn’t coming,” Harry swoops in, trying to distract him to no avail. He tries not to blush as Tom raises a slow, judgmental eyebrow upon seeing his outfit.

Jamie looks aghast. “Thomas! You have to come!”

Al pops up at his side, clad in a full-body suit covered in a fur and stripe design. His outfit is complete with little feline ears on a headband, a swishing tail, and paw inspired gloves. “You ate my cookie. I pay. You must come.”

The logic is questionable, but Harry has a feeling that despite Al’s cat costume, the boy has the makings of a snake, instead.

Tom doesn’t seem to have an adequate response to Al’s preferred payment method, so Harry feels it’s safe to ask, “You’re welcome to come along, if you’d like.”

Tom’s polite mask is indecipherable, but Harry thinks he is intrigued, if only slightly. “It would be impolite of me to wait in your house alone. I will accompany you.”

Al looks very satisfied indeed. Harry thinks he hears him mutter, “Cookie power.”

“Great,” Harry says, just as Lily regally steps in, clad in plastic armour and brandishing an inflatable sword and plate shield. “There’s my little warrior,” he chuckles.

Lily slashes her sword in his direction, strikes a pose, and bows.

“Gather over here then,” Harry says, and the three kids rush over to where Harry is sitting on the couch, with a safe distance between him and Tom. “Let’s review before we go. Jamie, what are you?”

“A fireman!” Jamie beams, “A muggle person who stops fire!”

“How?”

“With this hose—” he thrashes it violently, “—that carries fast water. Boom!”

“Very good. And you, Al?”

“A brown cat. Meow.”

“Just a cat?”

“Cat, not human. No transform.” Al rolls his eyes as if to say- Dad, I know already. Hurry and get with the programme.

“And you, Lily?”

“Warrior. I fight.”

“Yes you do, and you look very fierce.”

“You’re warrior princess!” Jamie tells her enthusiastically.

Lily glares and tips her small nose, so like Ginny’s, in the air with an expression of uninhibited disdain. “Not princess- just warrior. I save princess.”

“Alright, kids,” Harry cuts in, before Al can get involved, too. “What am I?”

“RABBITY!” Three screams sound in unison, and Lily looks incredibly satisfied with herself. It had been her turn to choose Harry’s costume, and she had drawn inspiration from her new favorite bedtime story, Babbity Rabbity and her Cackling Stump. So of course, Harry is Babbity Rabbity (the female rabbit) and Lily’s current role model. Babbity is actually a witch, but her animagus form is a rabbit, and Lily’s eloquent and not at all coercive persuasion skills finally led Harry to agree to be a rabbit for Halloween.

Which explains the fluffy, white bunny ears poking out from his tangle of black locks, the squishable pompom of a tail on his lower back, and his soft gloves masquerading as paws. The rest of his outfit is normal (thank Merlin- woollen button shirt and jeans), since he convinced the kids that he simply must tone it down as an adult—and he wouldn’t want to steal their fire—but Harry’s sure the ears alone are enough to make him look ridiculous.

Still, if Tom is coming too… “It seems like we need a costume for Thomas as well,” Harry says innocently. “Any ideas?”

Tom opens his mouth ominously, but Jamie beats him to it. “Vampire,” he giggles. “Thomas is vampire.”

Al loves it. “Yes- Muggle vampire- Dracula- suckkk your blooooddddd.” He holds his fingers to his mouth in a passable imitation of fangs.

Tom actually looks pleased. Harry rolls his eyes- of course the budding Dark Lord would take resembling a Dark creature as a compliment. Harry had been gunning for something more embarrassing, but he just sighs and turns to Tom, focusing on the quick transformations he’s going to have to make. He and the kids buy their costumes from Muggle costume shops, as per tradition, but there’s no time to do that for Tom.

Harry pretends not to notice the way Tom tenses as Harry raises his wand at him, or the sudden sense of danger that accompanies the subtle motion. A few waves and prods of his wand later, Harry is satisfied with his handiwork.

Tom’s robes now feature an elaborately high neckline (the kind Harry catches Draco Malfoy flaunting when they pass each other in the Ministry), but his cloak is drawn up around him to hide the wizarding robes beneath. At the neck, the black cloak morphs into the flaring red hood that Muggles so adore on their vampires, and a simple Disillusionment charm leaves Tom with sharp fangs and an eerily pale complexion. It’s unfair how he still looks coldly beautiful.

The kids proclaim their satisfaction, so Harry distributes their treat bags and calls them into one last huddle.

“We’re almost ready to go, but first, we have to make our oath. Are you ready?

Three quick, eager nods.

“3, 2, 1.”

With the utmost dignity and aplomb, the family chants in unison, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Harry smirks at Tom’s befuddled expression, and then rushes out the door after his kids, leaving Tom to catch up.

--

The entire evening is shaping out to be absolutely absurd.

Tom isn’t exactly sure why he agreed to join this little excursion in the first place, but he definitely regrets it. He has almost been knocked over by little terrors on three separate occasions, has endured a hands-on examination of his costume on two, and has had to tolerate multiple smirks from a self-satisfied Harry.

It’s not Tom’s fault that he is easily distracted, walking around this Muggle neighbourhood. So much is different from his time- he finds himself reluctantly impressed.

The streetlights illuminate neat, evenly paved streets, and the cars that sit in the driveways and zoom by are vast improvements on the blundering, dirty vehicles that Tom is used to seeing in London.

It’s clean too, and this little village is peaceful in a frustratingly scenic way. More and more kids emerge as the night progresses, bouncing from house to house in their costumes, their bags of sweets getting progressively heavier. They’ve been walking for ages now, and Tom simply trails after the little family, determinedly avoiding conversation on the ever-darkening streets.

On occasion, he glances up at the night sky, which practically bursts with starlight. The dazzling pinpricks of light are the only sign that there is some unsaid mystery to All Hallow’s Eve. Ancient Gaelic wizards used to call this night Samhain, a night of magic—the unadulterated, timeless kind. Tonight is the sort of night where things happen, Tom knows it in his bones, but the air in this Muggle neighbourhood is so tranquil that Tom would doubt his senses if he were a lesser wizard.

From time to time, his eyes drift away from the surroundings and fixate on the little family. Harry and his kids, with their glowing auras, are beacons in this dark street, their magic flaring with an internal shimmer that transcends physical barriers. The Muggles have no magical aura at all, so they do not register on that plane of Tom’s heightened sensory radar, just the little family of four.

To be fair, even Harry’s magic alone means Tom would never lose sight of the group, but the kids are nurturing their small auras, unique to wizarding children.

Speaking of the kids… Tom dislikes them greatly. They are too loud, too brash, and far too happy. Jamie is a bully waiting to happen, Al is a manipulative little bastard (much like his father), and Lily and her barnacle like tendencies seem determined to make Tom’s life miserable.

Some idiots think kids are pure and precious. Sixteen years at an orphanage taught Tom to laugh in the face of such unadulterated stupidity. Kids are vile creatures devoid of morality- they prey on the weak and put others down to further their own self-esteem. There is nothing innocent about the young, and this applies to Harry’s children as well.

Unbidden, Tom wonders about Harry’s wife. He’s met the man’s mother-in-law, but his wife has yet to appear. She’s a ginger- he’s gathered that much, but beyond that, nothing. Oh, but she’s certainly a Gryffindor, so there’s that too.

His musings are rudely interrupted when a little body crashes into him. The youngest demon is staring up at him petulantly. “Up.”

This time, Tom will not give in. He shakes his head firmly, authoritatively. “Not this time.”

“Up!”

A couple, holding onto their two kids by the hand, chuckles at him as they walk by. Tom hates this.

“UP!”

Tom hastens to pick her up (again), if only to get it over with. He will not be a public spectacle, and already Harry is rushing towards them, all falsely apologetic. Tom doesn’t give him a chance to get into doting, beleaguered parent mode. “It’s fine.”

And it almost is, until they get to the next house, and Lily makes it clear that she wants Tom to carry her all the way to the door. Up until that point, Tom had been standing by the road at the edge of the drive, while Harry took the kids up to the actual door. However, Lily is getting slightly cranky after all the activity, and it seems her only wish is to have Tom be her permanent chauffeur.

“Just this once,” he tells her, allowing the slightest hint of his most menacing Slytherin glare to slip through. Honestly, he’d rather drop the brat on her stupid hindquarters, but if he’s going to get on Harry’s good side, he can’t afford to.

Lily seems to accept the deal—at least a little cowed by the bit of fury Tom has allowed to leak through. It’s very gratifying.

So the five of them approach the next house, and Jamie and Al fight over the privilege of pressing the doorbell. They wait with bated breath for around ten seconds before the door is pulled open and a kind-faced, ageing woman greets them with a bowl of candy.

“Trick-or-treat?” the kids call excitedly.

“Wow,” the woman exclaims with good humour. “You guys have the best costumes I’ve seen all night!” She drops generous fistfuls of sweets into their open bags, and Tom leans down so Lily can pull hers open as well.

Jamie looks like he’s in heaven at the abundance of Mars Bars, but it’s Al who calls, “Thank you, Madame!”

“No problem,” the woman laughs, and as she straightens, she says to Harry and Tom, “Your kids are adorable- the five of you make a lovely family.”

… Excuse me?

Tom is stunned and repulsed. He doesn’t waste time denying it, just turns so sharply that Lily has to clutch at his shoulders, and strides away, following Jamie’s and Al’s footsteps.

He hears Harry’s voice but doesn’t make out any words, and it’s only a matter of time before Harry catches up. However, he doesn’t say a word to Tom, and Tom’s not sure how to feel about the entire situation. Both the assumption, and the fact that Muggles in this era seem to tolerate same-sex relationships.

Tom sets Lily down, and they hit up two more houses before Harry calls it a night. Jamie offers some token protest, but it seems that they are all satisfied with their haul and want to dig into it immediately.

The group that returns to Harry’s cottage in the wizarding end of Godric’s Hollow is tired but satisfied. At least the children are- Harry and Tom are trapped in their own heads. The kids immediately dump their sweets into three little piles on the ground, and are all over it in seconds, sorting through them by type. Al soon takes the initiative in trying to trade his least favourite chocolates for some of Jamie’s prized Mars Bars.

Tom sits on the sofa, soaking in the warmth from the fire and still disturbed by the woman’s comments. He has to contain a start when Harry appears a few metres away, saying, “I need to head out briefly for a personal matter. Can you watch the kids? I’ll be back within half an hour.”

They’re the first words he’s said to Tom since the incident, and it’s not like Tom can turn them down. Plus, there’s something faintly distraught lurking in Harry’s eyes, and Tom is not about to test how deep that unease spreads.

“Of course.”

Harry gives him a grateful nod and pulls on a Muggle jacket before slipping out the back door. The stance of his shoulders screams “Do Not Follow,” but Tom is not one to follow rules or keep minor promises, not when he has a puzzle to solve and the puzzle is presented to him in the guise of a bespectacled Auror. He glances at the children, who are already nodding off against the plush carpet. They’re in no danger- his absence will not be missed.

Tightening the cloak around his shoulders, Tom slips out the back door only seconds after Harry, just in time to see him turn onto the high street. He trails him at a reasonable distance, although Harry is in no danger of catching him. It’s plain to see that he’s lost in thought, caught up in a world of his own.

After a few minutes of Tom ducking through the shadows, they arrive at the edge of what appears to be a cemetery. Harry goes up to the rusty gate, pushing it open and slipping through gently. Tom follows, a few dozen paces later.

The cemetery is surprisingly expansive, rows and rows of headstones stretching out in not so parallel lines. Tom can’t easily make out the words on the headstones in the darkness, especially at the speed he’s moving, but from the vestiges of magic he detects in the air, it is clearly in part a wizarding cemetery.

Harry moves deeper and deeper, following what must be a familiar path. At some tombs he appears to pause for a split second, a quick show of respect, but otherwise he does not falter as he heads for his intended destination. By this time, the wind has picked up, whistling sharply through the few trees and sending the dead leaves on the ground into a frenzy, but there is no mist- the night air is sharp and expectant. It does not conceal; rather, it waits for the inevitable.

At last, Tom sees Harry stop. He stands for a long moment, and then sinks to his knees slowly. Tom is too far away to make out any details, but going any closer is a risk. However, Tom has never been one to hesitate when he is so close to an answer, so he calls upon his wandless magic for the first time in this era—he’d rather Harry not learn about this ability quite yet—and casts a silencing charm around himself, along with a mild Disillusionment spell.

That settled, he sneaks closer. At last, he is able to make out the two headstones before Harry. They are carved of fine white marble, with inscriptions that seem to shine in the dark. James Potter… BORN 27 MARCH 1960… DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981… Lily Potter… BORN 30 JANUARY 1960… DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981… The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

October 31^st , that’s today… and his parents? James Potter…

Potter… The sight makes Tom realize that he had ever learned Harry’s surname. An image of Charlus Potter comes to mind, the energetic keeper of the Gryffindor Quidditch team and a year above Tom. He had been of a heavier build, with a much wider jaw than Harry, but otherwise, the familial resemblance is striking.

He lets the name dance in his mind—Harry Potter, Harry Potter. Such an ordinary name for the descendent of a pure-blood family, but so oddly fitting as well. Tom focuses back on the man in question, who is full out kneeling now, entire frame shaking with uninhibited emotion. He’s repeating two words like a mantra, a desperate prayer. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

It would be sad if Tom felt such a simple emotion.

As it is, he has seen all he has to see. It is almost disappointing, to realise that Harry was here for something so mundane, so human.

He turns to leave, but suddenly finds himself staring into deadly emerald eyes.