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Auror Harry Potter groaned as he sat up, dazed and surrounded by eerie silence. His brain felt fuzzy, the disorientation lingering. He couldn’t quite remember what had just happened, only that one moment he was in his office, fiddling with an old Time-Turner confiscated from Borgin and Burkes, and the next—bam!—he was flung head-first into darkness.
Slowly, he looked around. Dust-coated furniture lined the room, curtains heavy with age hung over grimy windows, and a chill permeated the air. This was definitely not the Ministry of Magic.
“Brilliant,” Harry muttered, getting to his feet. “Just brilliant.”
As he adjusted his glasses, the door creaked open, and in strode a tall, pale figure. His skin was alabaster, his expression unreadable, and his dark eyes held a look of calculating skepticism.
It took Harry precisely two seconds to realize he was looking at a young Tom Riddle.
Harry’s insides turned to ice. He swallowed, thinking of every possible explanation for his sudden presence in Riddle Manor in the 1970s. "Auror training never prepared me for this," he thought.
Riddle’s voice cut into his panicked thoughts, smooth but laced with menace. “Kid,” he drawled, “who are you?”
Harry felt his throat tighten, his brain going blank under Tom’s scrutinizing gaze. He opened his mouth, intending to say something clever—or at least sane—but instead blurted out, “I’m…your…son from the future.”
The words hung in the air, ridiculous and heavy, echoing in the empty room as Harry’s internal monologue screamed, *Why in Merlin’s name did I say that?*
Riddle’s eyes narrowed, lips twisting into a smirk that hinted at contempt and amusement. “My son?” he echoed slowly, almost savoring the words as if they were a fine wine. “So, huh?”
Harry scrambled mentally for a believable follow-up, but all that came to mind was that *he should really learn to stop talking*. He was now cornered by his own ridiculous lie and the calculating mind of one of the darkest wizards in history.
“I don’t know how you got here,” Tom continued, looking unimpressed. “But I’ll generously give you a chance to prove it.” He leaned in, his gaze penetrating. “Prove that you’re my son, or I will punish you. Lord Voldemort does not tolerate liars.”
The seriousness of the situation landed with a thud in Harry’s stomach. Riddle’s words echoed ominously, and Harry’s mind supplied him with only one coherent thought: *Oh, you incredulous idiot.*
Tom folded his arms, looking at Harry with something between disdain and curiosity. “So, let’s not waste my time,” he hissed. “If you’re truly my son, as you claim, prove it.”
A slew of panicked thoughts raced through Harry’s mind as he searched for a way to convince Riddle—or at least stall for time. How does one even *prove* being Lord Voldemort’s son? It wasn’t like he had a birth certificate handy with “Heir to Darkness” written on it.
Then it hit him: Parseltongue.
If there was one thing that could prove any supposed “family connection” with Tom Riddle, it was the ability to speak to snakes. Harry took a steadying breath, his heart thumping. He narrowed his eyes and, with as much intensity as he could muster, hissed in Parseltongue, “I hope your nose falls off.”
The effect was immediate. Tom’s face went slack for a split second, his eyes widening in utter disbelief. Harry nearly snorted at the look of shock but managed to keep a straight face, channeling as much attitude as he could. If this act was going to save him, he might as well play it up.
“What did you just say?” Tom asked, his voice low but dangerously intrigued.
Harry tilted his head and hissed again, this time with exaggerated precision, “I said, may every pair of socks you own always be damp.”
Tom’s mouth opened slightly, his confusion evident. “Why—what? That makes no—”
“And may your tea always taste like pond water,” Harry continued without missing a beat, ignoring the incredulous look on Riddle’s face. His confidence grew with each ridiculous insult. “Oh, and I sincerely hope every broom you ever ride splinters right under you.”
Tom’s expression shifted into something resembling horrified fascination. He stared at Harry as if trying to decide whether this was some bizarre attempt at rebellion or genuine Riddle-esque cunning. Either way, it threw him off just enough for Harry to press the advantage.
“You can speak Parseltongue,” Tom finally murmured, his voice tinged with grudging respect. “Interesting.” He took a step back, eyes raking over Harry as though reevaluating every detail. “You certainly look like you could be my…offspring. But clever charms and lies don’t fool me. Let’s test how true your claim is, shall we?”
Internally, Harry groaned. *Fantastic,* he thought. *More tests from the Dark Lord, just what I always wanted.*
Tom held out his hand and gestured for Harry to follow, sweeping down the shadowy hallways of Riddle Manor like a sinister tour guide.
Harry followed Tom through the dim corridors of Riddle Manor, feeling increasingly like a mouse trailing a particularly menacing cat. Dust motes floated in the air, and the whole place smelled faintly of mildew and ancient secrets. Tom moved with a purpose, occasionally glancing back as if expecting Harry to vanish at any moment.
“Where exactly are we going?” Harry asked, trying to keep his tone casual and mask the growing panic underneath.
“To a place where I can determine just how… Slytherin you are,” Tom replied coolly, eyes glinting in the faint light. “You see, I don’t waste my time with impostors, and certainly not with liars.”
Harry kept his expression neutral, but his thoughts raced with ideas on how to get out of this—and mostly dead-ended on “very unlikely.” He tried to keep pace with Tom, who turned sharply down another corridor and stopped in front of a large, ancient door, pulling it open with a flick of his wand.
Inside was a room filled with bookshelves, all of them lined with dusty tomes and strange relics. A large wooden desk stood at the center, and on it lay several potion ingredients, a few menacing-looking instruments, and a small silver snake figurine.
Tom gestured to the snake. “If you are truly my son, then you’ll know the significance of this relic,” he said, his voice oozing with dark amusement.
Harry blinked, his mind scrambling. *A snake…what could a tiny silver snake mean?* Inspiration struck, and Harry gave a disdainful sniff, attempting to mimic Tom’s haughty tone. “Of course I know what it is,” he lied, hoping the dark wizard wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice. “It’s, uh, a…symbol of our family’s…mysterious legacy. In fact, it’s, um, enchanted to only answer to a true heir.”
Tom tilted his head, his expression betraying nothing. “Fascinating,” he said. “Then by all means, demonstrate your understanding. Activate it.”
Harry’s stomach dropped. “Uh, well,” he started, stalling, “I would, but… it’s not entirely safe to reveal such magic at this time. You understand, of course, I don’t want to… overwhelm you.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t press further. “Perhaps you’re right. Though I find it interesting that you’d be so protective of… my legacy.” He leaned closer, his gaze searing. “If you are my son, then you must have inherited my power. Show me.”
Harry fought the urge to sigh. He was definitely in over his head, but he had one last ace up his sleeve. Looking Tom dead in the eye, he whispered in perfect Parseltongue, “The only legacy you’ll ever leave is misery.”
Tom’s expression shifted as he listened to Harry’s insult in Parseltongue, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly. Then, to Harry’s utter horror, the dark wizard’s lips quirked into something resembling a smirk—perhaps even a glimmer of pride.
“Now, that’s more like it,” Tom said, his voice tinged with an unsettling amount of satisfaction. “You have my temper and my wit. But that doesn’t mean you’re free from my… scrutiny.”
Harry stifled a groan. Tom was either buying the “future son” bit or simply intrigued by the challenge. Either way, Harry knew he had to tread carefully; one wrong move could mean that Riddle would discover the truth and turn him into a cautionary tale.
“Your so-called cunning has impressed me so far,” Tom continued, his voice now silky with intrigue. “But if you truly are my son, then let’s see if you can match my… taste for power.”
“Uh… sure. Power. I’ve got tons of it,” Harry mumbled, internally wincing. The things he’d do to avoid detention with Professor Snape seemed laughably tame compared to this.
Tom nodded toward a locked cabinet on the far wall. “Inside there are several artifacts imbued with dark magic. Tell me, son, which one do you feel a connection to?”
Harry gulped, eyeing the cabinet with all the enthusiasm of a kid forced to pick between detention and a dungeon. But he walked over, feeling the weight of Tom’s gaze on his back. With trembling fingers, he chose a small, nondescript amulet, figuring it looked as unassuming as possible.
Tom watched him with a faint smile. “Interesting choice,” he murmured. “Not the most powerful, but I can see why it would appeal to you… its ability to deceive is second to none.” Tom’s eyes gleamed. “A wise choice. Perhaps you do have some of my instincts.”
Harry gave an awkward nod, trying to smile while inwardly wishing he had chosen something a bit less on-the-nose. But Tom seemed intrigued, even faintly amused. Maybe, just maybe, he’d bought Harry’s story enough to let him survive a bit longer.
“Tell me, if you’re from the future, what has happened to our… legacy? Surely you can share at least something,” Tom pressed, his eyes glittering with a strange intensity.
For a moment, Harry considered spilling the truth, but he stopped himself just in time. Instead, he sighed dramatically, giving Riddle a knowing look. “You become famous,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “Feared. Respected. Even the most powerful wizard in the world.”
Tom’s mouth quirked up into a smile, and Harry fought back the urge to roll his eyes. *Well, at least some things haven’t changed,* he thought.
Just when Harry thought he’d managed to pull off the act, Tom’s expression shifted to one of impatience. “Enough of your evasions,” he said, his voice like steel. “If you are truly my heir, then prove your loyalty. Take the Dark Mark.”
Harry’s stomach dropped. *Oh, not a chance.*
He took a deep breath, locked eyes with Tom, and in a last-ditch effort to escape, he hissed in Parseltongue, “I hope every cauldron you ever touch boils over, and that your Dark Mark looks like a potato!”
Tom blinked, caught off-guard by the strange mix of defiance and childishness in the insult. And before he could process it, there was a sudden, bright flash. The Time-Turner around Harry’s neck sprang to life with a shudder, and with one last defiant grin at a stunned Riddle, he vanished into thin air.
Back to the Present
Harry stumbled into his office at the Ministry of Magic, the familiar hum of wards and the faint smell of parchment welcoming him like a warm blanket after the nightmare he’d just endured. He collapsed into his chair, groaning as he fumbled to remove the Time-Turner still hanging precariously around his neck. The blasted device had nearly gotten him killed—or worse, adopted by Voldemort.
For a few moments, he just sat there, chest heaving, laughter bubbling up despite himself. “Merlin’s saggy socks,” he muttered, wiping at his face. “What the bloody hell was that?”
The images from the encounter replayed in his mind: Tom Riddle’s disbelief, the smug grin when he called Harry cunning, the absolutely ridiculous "tests"—and, of course, the look on Tom’s face when Harry vanished mid-Parseltongue insult. That part in particular sent Harry into a fit of uncontrollable snickers.
“‘I hope your Dark Mark looks like a potato,’” he repeated to himself, doubling over in his chair. “Merlin, that might just be the dumbest thing I’ve ever said—and I’ve said a lot of dumb things.”
Gradually, the hilarity wore off, replaced by the faint realization of how *insanely lucky* he’d been. He sat back in his chair, letting out a long sigh. “Okay, Potter,” he said aloud, raking a hand through his hair. “What did we learn today?”
He held up a finger as if ticking off a list. “One: Never touch random magical objects, no matter how shiny they look. Two: Lying to young Tom Riddle about being his ‘future son’ is not an advisable survival strategy. And three…” He trailed off, shaking his head with a groan. “You’re too bloody good at Parseltongue insults.”
His eyes flicked to the Time-Turner lying innocuously on the desk, now harmless and silent. He eyed it like one might a sleeping dragon. “Right,” he muttered, grabbing a quill and scribbling a quick note. 'DO NOT TOUCH. Extremely cursed. Ask Shacklebolt for approval before doing anything stupid.'
Satisfied with his very official warning, he slapped the note onto the device and shoved it into a drawer, slamming it shut as if the action might banish the memories. He stared at the desk for a moment longer before sighing and leaning back, letting his head thunk against the chair.
And yet, despite his relief at being back, Harry couldn’t help but feel an odd pang of curiosity. The encounter had been surreal, yes, but also…unexpectedly revealing. He’d seen a glimpse of a younger, less polished Voldemort—still arrogant, still calculating, but somehow…human. That was unsettling in its own way.
“Bet he’s sitting in that dusty manor right now, fuming,” Harry said to no one in particular, grinning at the thought. “Wonder if he’s convinced I was real or if he thinks he finally cracked.”
The idea of Voldemort questioning his own sanity over a supposed son from the future sent Harry into another fit of laughter. He had to clutch his sides to keep from falling out of his chair. “I’ve fought Death Eaters, basilisks, Dragons and bloody Dementors, and this is what gets him,” Harry wheezed. “A noseless joke and a disappearing act.”
Finally, as the adrenaline wore off and exhaustion began to set in, Harry took a deep breath and let himself relax. Propping his feet up on the desk, he closed his eyes and let himself drift off toward a well-deserved nap.
But just as he was about to slip into sweet oblivion, there was a loud knock on the door, followed by it creaking open. Harry groaned but didn’t bother opening his eyes.
“Oi, mate,” Ron’s familiar voice called. “Thought I’d see if you wanted to take a break. Got some treacle tart in the break room—”
Ron trailed off mid-sentence, his voice cutting through Harry’s half-asleep haze like a gong. Harry cracked one eye open to see his best friend standing in the doorway, staring at him with raised eyebrows and an all-too-knowing expression.
“What happened this time?” Ron asked, crossing his arms. “Potter luck again?”
Harry gave a dry, lopsided smile and closed his eye. “Potter luck,” he replied simply, not even bothering to elaborate.
Ron let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Right. You’ve got that look—the ‘stared Death in the face and made it your problem’ one. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. Just… don’t blow up the office, yeah?”
Harry chuckled softly, lifting a hand to wave Ron off. “Don’t worry, mate. No explosions. Just existential dread.”
Ron laughed as he left, the sound of his footsteps retreating down the hall. Harry let out a long sigh and leaned further into his chair, grinning faintly to himself.
“Yeah,” he muttered as sleep finally overtook him. “Definitely not telling anyone about this.”
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Back in the 1970s
Tom Riddle stared at the empty space where Harry had been. He had a look of incredulous rage mixed with reluctant admiration as he whispered to himself, “Perhaps… my son would be that infuriating.” A strange, darkly hopeful expression crossed his face as he considered his 'heir from the future.'
THE END