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Harry stumbled his way out of the floo of Grimmauld Place, located in the west wing library, and collapsed onto a blue-grey couch. He blew out a puff of air, tilting his head back, his nose nearly brushing the shelf behind him. He closed his eyes, feeling exhaustion tug at his bones. The curtains were not drawn, allowing the light from the moon to spill onto the floor.
The warm hum of firewhisky filled him, not enough to disorientate, but certainly enough to make him feel an artificial pleasantness. He detested the feeling. To not be perfectly in control of his body was discomforting, and even this vague loosening of his limbs bothered him, his instincts screaming at him. If there was one thing more dangerous than being an Auror who was known to track down dangerous witches and wizards (and thus on every criminal's hit list), it was being one while impaired.
He had just come from a social gathering with Ron and Hermione. Hermione officially published her research on the relationship between blood, genetics, and magical inheritance, and they were throwing a party to celebrate the accomplishment. This normally would not be an issue, except for the fact that there were other people there too; people he was not very familiar with outside vaguely recognising that he had seen them before in the halls of Hogwarts. And with those other people came questions. Many probing, too-curious questions.
( ‘I couldn’t believe you separated. You were the perfect couple.’
‘Are you alright? Why ever did you divorce?’
‘Are you sure you won’t regret it?’ )
His divorce with Ginny was a mutual thing, born from differences of the heart, their future paths no longer aligning. They were still friends, and they would continue to be friends, but that spark and attraction was just no longer there (Harry knew that it was really his fault, the aftermath of the war trailing after him like loose bandages. He could hardly blame Ginny for tiring from constantly trying to rewrap them).
What his divorce was not, however, was anyone else’s business, especially not nosy reporters who didn’t know when to back down. He could hardly be faulted, with his tongue filled with the tingling fire of alcohol and the echoing gossip of voices circling him like vultures, for losing his grip on his temper. In fact, it was a miracle that he had been able to hold out as long as he could, his distaste for being needled only worsening in adulthood.
Safe to say that what was originally a pleasant gathering had turnt into a silent and awkward affair, the very air thickening with it. No one bothered him with questions anymore, but he could feel the sharp sting of quick glances and held back words. At some point he hadn’t been able to take it anymore, and he left without a word. Hermione would understand, he knew. Not being at the party wouldn’t somehow diminish how fiercely proud of her he was, even if he could already imagine the articles that would be coming out in the morning.
He opened his eyes, head still hanging back, staring at the upside-down titles of the books behind him. He reached out a hand, running his finger down the spines, eyes reading the titles and yet not, his mind too distracted. He pulled out a book. It was made of hard-bound leather, and it felt strangely warm and tingly in his hands, but that was probably the alcohol talking.
He flipped it open to a random page and then squinted, the light in the room not nearly sufficient to read the contents. He lifted it up and held it as high as he could, hoping some of the moonlight from the window would allow him to make out at least some of the words.
Still no luck.
Bang .
Harry flinched, the sound sending his muscles tensing. It also, inadvertently, caused him to loosen his grip on the book. It was a rather thick book, and said thick book was sent dropping straight onto his face. Harry closed his eyes on instinct, just in time for it to slam into his nose and glasses.
He let out a groan, sitting up abruptly. The book slid to the floor. He removed his glasses, which were now cracked, lightning splitting across the glass, feeling a trickle of warmth begin to form on his nose. He leaned his elbows on his legs and then rested his head in his hands, uncaring about how blood began to drip down from his nose onto the floor. Tonight was just not his night.
A light rustle.
He blinked, looking at the book on the ground, some of the pages bent from falling and covered with specks of blood. It seemed…it seemed to be moving, slightly. He slid his wand out of his pocket, repairing his glasses and then casting a lumos .
It was moving, the pages shifting and swaying.
Harry leaned himself forward, as if in a trance, feeling himself being pulled towards it. And then he shook his head and moved back, pressing against the pillows, breaking whatever hold it was attempting to get over him. It was a familiar feeling, memories of the tempting yet dark thrall of the locket echoing in his mind. It was just his luck that he pulled out a dark, and probably cursed, book from the shelf, though this was the Black Library, so he supposed he shouldn't have been too surprised.
Suddenly one of the pages tore itself out from the book, the sound of tearing paper filling the air. It floated upwards, as if catching an invisible current of air. He was barely able to catch a strange symbol of a bird with bramble in its talons before the page burst into what looked like flames, but they were far brighter, filling the room with blinding light.
When the not-flames died down Harry froze, looking around the room. It was the same, and yet he could not help but feel like something was different. And then his ears caught the barest hint of the soft and careful crooning of strings, and the breathy whispers of whistling winds, overlapping in a graceful melody.
There definitely wasn’t music playing before.
Harry approached the door of the library, the sound of it getting louder. And then he began to pick up voices and the click of heels on the ground. He cracked open the door slightly, in a way that he knew wouldn’t creak. He peered through the gap and looked out into the hall.
A man and a woman were walking, wearing finery and jewels, dressed for some sort of extravagant event. He didn’t recognise either of them. When they disappeared around a corner Harry opened the door fully and stepped out, brows furrowed.
What the hell were people - strangers - doing in his house? And how? They shouldn’t have been able to get past the wards.
He followed where they disappeared off to, the sounds of music and laughter and chatter increasing in volume, until he reached the double doors to the ballroom. Pushing them open, he was greeted with the sight of many other strangers, and an extravagant party. His eyes quickly scanned around the room, examining every single person - not a single one he recognised - mind trying to work out what exactly he was seeing.
And then his eyes zero in on one person in particular, dark and tall, his back facing towards Harry as he conversed with a group of people.
He knew exactly who that was. His very image would haunt him to this very day, sometimes, in his strange and nightmarish dreams. One would’ve thought it would have been a point of bonding between him and Ginny, their shared experience with the Diary Horcrux. Instead, it became one more wall, highlighting the different ways they chose to cope with the war.
But if Tom Riddle stood there, right before his very eyes, there were only two explanations for where he was: trapped in some sort of mental curse, or back in the past. Or perhaps he was asleep on the couch, and this was all a dream. He was unsure which one he preferred. Regardless, it was best for him to integrate, so as not to tip people off - well, too many people, considering his very existence probably made some already suspicious. At least he was still wearing his formal attire from the social gathering.
‘Who are you?’ said a voice, and Harry snapped his head to the side, looking into the murky eyes of a woman. She wore dark and heavy colours, and yet they didn’t drown out her pale skin. He squinted, staring at her face. It was very familiar.
‘Oh, I’m…erm…’ Harry hedged, unsure how to answer, ‘I’m someone’s plus one.’
One of the woman’s perfectly plucked eyebrows lifted. ‘Oh really? Whose?’
His gaze instinctually snapped back over towards that dark and tall figure. ‘Tom Riddle’s,’ he said, making sure to keep an air of confidence. ‘Sorry, I’m not late, am I?’
‘...Not at all, the party has just begun.’ Instead of walking off to mingle with the other guests, however, the woman hooked her arm in his. ‘I’ll bring you to him,’ she said, the corner of her lips raised, and then she began to walk. Harry cursed internally.
‘Tom, dearest,’ she said.
Riddle turned around. ‘Oh, Walburga, there you are,’ he gave a glance at the people he had been talking to, a clear dismissal. ‘I didn’t see you when I arrived, so I apologise for being remiss on saying my proper greetings.’ With a smooth motion, he plucked a flute of champagne from one of the waiters’ trays, offering it to her.
Harry resisted showing surprise on his face. His impressions of Walburga had only been built from that horrid portrait of hers, and the occasional bitter words that Sirius had let slip out. This Walburga, however, was most certainly not acting like a screaming banshee, and her face had yet to shed its baby fat to reveal sharp cheekbones. Though, granted, the same could be said for Riddle. He wasn’t quite sure how old they were, but he was pretty sure they had not been out of Hogwarts for long. He wasn’t quite sure how to feel about being older than Riddle, but he was quickly settling on amusement.
‘Not to worry, Tom.’ She delicately took the offered flute, taking a small sip. ‘Besides, I’ve brought you your partner.’
‘My…partner,’ he responded, eyes meeting Harry’s.
Harry gave him his most charming smile - full of teeth and murder - and said, ‘So sorry about being late, Tom. You know how Nagini gets.’
At that Riddle straightened a bit. ‘Yes, she can be a lot.’ He walked towards him, looking him up and down. ‘Thank you, Walburga, for retrieving him.’
A flicker of surprise flashed in Walburga’s eyes, as if she couldn't quite believe that Harry was actually Tom’s plus one. She smiled and let go of his arm. ‘Of course.’
Riddle held out his hand. ‘Shall we?’
With one last glance at Walburga, who was staring at him with intrigue, Harry took it, and then they were suddenly dancing. It was much easier to dance while being led, he found, though that still did not completely make up for his natural ineptitude for it. Riddle’s perfect mask, however, did not drop even when Harry stepped on his foot for the fourth time.
‘So, tell me, partner ,’ he began, sliding his hand to his lower back, leaning closer, ‘What brings you here?’ Those dark eyes stared into his, the colour in the crossroads between grey and brown, and then he felt the faintest prodding of another mind against his, attempting to weasel its way in.
After the war Harry had made sure to master occlumency, the shame from being unable to learn it when it most mattered haunting him. The way Snape had taught it did not work at all for him, nor did the way it was generally taught in books. Instead, he had carved his own path towards it. Perhaps it was not strictly correct, but it worked for him, and Hermione vouched for his defences, and that was good enough for him.
‘Impatient,’ said Harry, feeling how Riddle withdrew when there were no thoughts to be stolen. ‘You didn’t even let me get a word in edgewise.’ Despite the invasive attempt, Harry didn’t feel particularly angry. His actions were to be expected, considering he was Tom Riddle, and besides, it wasn’t like he succeeded.
‘...My apologies,’ said Riddle. ‘I couldn’t help my own curiosity.’
Harry gave a hum, but ultimately decided not to pursue that any further. He looked at his surroundings. ‘I guess you’re wondering how I know about Nagini. And you.’
‘Amongst other things.’
He looked back up at Riddle, thinking. ‘What will you give me in return to know?’ he said, feeling a spark of mischief. Whether it be a curse or a dream or truly the past, this was an opportunity he couldn’t pass up.
The hand on his back tightened. ‘So, that’s how you’re going to play.’ Suddenly Harry felt himself become unbalanced, Riddle turning him into a dip. His form blocked out the lighting from the chandeliers, covering Harry in his shadow.
‘Alright.’ he gave a smirk, pulling Harry back up so that they were chest to chest. He leaned in, breath hitting Harry’s ear. ‘Then let’s play. I do so love a game.’