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Chapter Text

Harry loved the Room of Requirement.

When Neville stumbled across it a year ago, Harry had fallen in love with Hogwarts all over again. At the time, it seemed as if the castle itself was looking after them, creating a safe space to do whatever they wanted, far away from the clutches of Umbridge and everyone else.

He loved it even now, standing before the wall that had opened for Draco Malfoy as well. When he’d found out, it felt a little like betrayal. The room was supposed to be their safe haven, not a harbor for Death Eaters.

Pushing the emotion down, Harry closed his eyes and, with all his might, wished for the room to open up and show him the place Malfoy was using. He had already tried this a few days before when he’d caught Malfoy vanishing off the map at this exact spot. By chance, Harry had been nearby and had sprinted there as fast as he could, arriving just in time to see the door vanish out of sight, finally giving Harry the proof he longed for.

But then, when he had tried to open it, the wall hadn’t budged the slightest bit, forcing Harry to return to the common room with empty hands. So, he had resigned himself to try again, this time when Malfoy wasn’t inside the room. 

That was today. He’d even skipped History of Magic to make sure Malfoy wasn’t even in remote proximity and now stood there all alone in the corridor.

But it would all be for nothing if the door didn’t appear. Harry leaned forward, pressed his hand against the stone wall, and squeezed his eyes shut, make tiny specks and swirls appear behind his eyelids.

It was impossible to picture an unknown place, like one would normally do with the Room of Requirement, so instead Harry focused on Malfoy. He imagined him walking up to the room and pacing before it three times to open it. He concentrated on all the frustration this thing had given him over the last few months, the anger he’d felt when thinking of Malfoy, the apprehension, and the desire to have him caught.

Nothing happened.

Resigned to the fact that this would be another failed attempt, he slowly lifted his hand from the wall when suddenly the texture beneath his fingers began to change. Harry gasped and tore his eyes open, taking a few surprised steps back. Before his eyes, a pattern spread over the stone wall, black color appearing over it, almost like tipped over ink spreading on a piece of parchment.

A moment later, a door stood there, separating itself from the rest of the wall, and sprung open. It looked different from the one to the Room of Requirement. That door had always looked quite welcoming, with its playful scrolls and bright color. But now, looking at the black, polished surface of the door before him, Harry felt an odd sense of foreboding.

Warily, he crossed its threshold and took a few steps in the gigantic room that lay behind. With a snap, the door fell closed behind him, and Harry jumped away from it, startled by the sound. He glanced around the room, carefully making his way across it.

Everywhere Harry looked, there were objects. There must’ve been thousands in his field of view alone, judging from the stuff strewn all across the room, placed on cupboards, and littered on the ground. He stepped over them as he walked around, making his way past the literal towers of books stacked all the way to the ceiling. Unmoving portraits were leaned against cabinets or strewn on the floor, and hundreds of trophies, clothes, and gems had been stuffed into drawers or placed onto cupboards, filling the entire room.

He walked past an ancient-looking cabinet covered by a dark, soft-looking cloth. Harry suppressed the urge to reach out and trail his hand over it. Furniture and books seemed to be the most common item in the room, judging from all the broken tables, chairs, and cupboards lying around. Had they been broken by gone-wrong pieces of magic and placed in here, or did the room itself break them into pieces?

Various trinkets and foul-looking potions were tucked away in the pantries, and even jewelry could be seen hanging out from the shelves or lying on the floor. Harry wondered himself if all those objects were created by the room, or brought here by other students and why someone would just leave their jewelry lying around in here.

His eyes fell on a beautiful tiara a few steps away from him, lying spread out on a velvet cushion, and Harry reached out towards it. If it was an illusion, would it simply vanish as soon as he picked it up? Or would he be able to take it out of the room?

Harry leaned in, eyes fixed solely on it and its embedded crystals, glimmering in the dim light of the room. It almost seemed to whisper, drawing him in. Just before his fingers touched it, however, Harry stopped himself. 

What if this was all an elaborate trap from Malfoy?

He tore his hand back from the object and straightened up. No, he shouldn’t touch anything in here, not until he was certain that it was safe. Who knew what Malfoy could’ve done to this room, trapping the objects with hexes that go off as soon as someone comes too close.

He had to find out what exactly Malfoy was doing in here. He would have to find clues, or yet better, see it himself. But that was probably impossible. Harry had the feeling that no one could enter this room as long as someone else was in here, which was why he hadn't been able to enter it a few days ago.

He stepped back from the tiara and walked away. Before turning to corner behind a large, upright piano, however, he glanced back and gave it one last wistful look.

There seemed to be no end to neither room nor number of objects, Harry thought while walking, ducking under the arm of an enormous white statue that blocked the way. Glancing up at it, he saw it was a witch with her wand thrust out and old-fashioned cape billowing behind her. Harry wondered who it was, though with her head missing, it was impossible to tell. Only the stump of her neck remained there, sitting on her shoulders.

Coming out beneath the arm, Harry nearly bumped into a silver vitrine and Harry stared down with horror at what seemed to be a human skull behind the milky glass, eye sockets fixed on Harry. He gave it a wide berth, an icy shiver running down his spine as he turned his back to it. Glancing back, Harry was very relieved to see that the skull hadn’t moved, its hollow eyes still locked onto the statue.

He kept walking like this for a bit, making random turns and circles behind the clutters of furniture and books, always keeping an eye on the white statue and the far-away wall where the door was, just in case he had to make a sudden exit. He had touched nothing so far, but slowly that seemed to be foolish. Malfoy couldn’t have possibly trapped the entire room, right? If something had happened, it would have been at the entry, not so far back into the room.

So Harry began touching things slowly, cautiously reaching his hand out, ready to snap his hand back if something happened. 

He trailed his hand over a beautiful silver harp, its strings flickering in the light. Then, he ran his fingers over the strings, and the sound that came out was crooked and a little weird, but Harry was thrilled by them, nonetheless. A wide, delighted grin spread across his face as he skipped around the room, stroking his hand over the soft quills hanging in a drawer, or the small crystal prisms of a chandelier, the glass splitting light onto Harry's arm.

He ran his fingers over a black sideboard as he passed, hand trailing behind him. He rounded the corner, a smile on his face, and suddenly found himself facing a large, empty mirror frame.

Empty, because Harry could not see his own reflection, and it showed the same surroundings that Harry could see behind the mirror. But even so, something shimmered in the frame, almost as if a thin sheet of silk was stretched inside of it.

Harry stepped closer and curiously touched the golden frame, feeling the ornaments carved into it. A soft light shone out from the inside of the mirror, onto Harry’s hand, reminding him of the crystal prisms from before. Then suddenly, the sheet shook and fluttered, as if swaying in the wind. But there was no wind in the room.

As if in a trance, Harry raised his hand from the frame to poke the silk sheet, but his hand was met with nothing. A strange chill ran over him, instead, and when he reached out further, putting his whole arm into the frame, coldness seemed to envelop it, feeling a bit as if he were touching icy water.

Logically, Harry knew that nothing good would come from this mirror, likely cursing him and his whole family as soon as he stepped foot into it, like many old, mysterious objects did. But, well, it wasn’t like Harry had much of a family left to care about.

So he stepped into it with little thought, giving in to the strange lure the mirror had on him. Immediately, a cold passed through him, enwrapping his whole body, and holding him in between the frame. He shuddered and twisted wildly, reflexively fighting against its hold, and forced his way out. He jumbled out of the frame and down onto the stone floor, his knees hitting the ground. Immediately, warmth returned to him and Harry sat there for a few moments, gasping for air.

He glanced around at the mirror and the sheet now trembled violently, swinging back and forth, ripples running across it. Harry pushed himself up and made his way past the frame, squeezing himself between it and a locker, careful not to touch it again, and headed back in the direction he had come from. 

The atmosphere had changed. Harry's delight and giddy curiosity had vanished and was now replaced by a bitter sense of dread. He quickened his steps, rushing past by the vitrine with the skull inside and ducked beneath the statue. Once past it, Harry hastily glanced back and was relieved to find that he could no longer see the mirror. 

Then, taking a few more steps back, his eyes swayed up to the statue of the witch and the head sitting there proudly on her shoulders. Her long, curly hair was flopped back in the wind, as was her cape, and she was staring fiercely at something in front of her. Had she always been intact? He could’ve sworn her head had been missing just minutes ago. 

Harry shook his hand and forced himself to turn away from the statue, keeping walking. He needed to get out of here, and that as soon as possible.

He made his way across the room, past the endless mountains of objects, eyes fixated on the wall at the end of the room, where the door was. He was lucky it was still visible over the wall of objects, otherwise, he doubted he would’ve found his way back again.

He frowned at himself. Wandering so deeply into an unknown room, without even finding a sign of whatever the hell Malfoy was doing here, was risky even for his standards. Not to mention the whole mirror incident. Hermione would have a meltdown if she knew. But luckily for her, Harry had not the slightest intention of telling her.

Harry rounded the corner of yet another cabinet full of weird trinkets and potions, steps quick and fierce, and crashed face-first into something. 

His glasses slipped off his nose onto the floor, and Harry stumbled back a few steps, cursing loudly. Touching into yet another probably cursed item was just the thing he needed right now. He stooped down and picked up his glasses. Setting them onto his face, he glanced up and found himself face to face with Tom Riddle.

His breath left him all at once and a wave of icy dread overcame him, freezing his limbs in place, not unlike the coldness from the mirror before.

Tom Riddle stood there, just a few meters away from Harry, staring at him with a surprised expression on his face. He looked as if plucked straight from Harry's memories, school uniform and all, if not a bit younger. But that couldn’t be. 

Nightmares never aged. 

Also, Riddle had never looked this surprised in the chamber.

Hundreds of thoughts flashed through Harry's mind as he stood there, staring at the living image of Tom Riddle. Was this the price for stepping through the mirror, cursed to relive his worst nightmares? But why not choose Voldemort then, instead of this kid version of him? 

It couldn’t be a boggard either, because Harry knew for a fact that teenage Tom Riddle was far from his worst fear. 

He had gone through far worse than that.

Riddle was the first one to move, taking a few steps back. At once, the confusion washed away from his face, as if it had never been there in the first place. Instead, a smile appeared on his face, too gentle to be real. “Who would you be? And how did you find your way into this room?”

Harry gulped. Would he have to speak to the curse the mirror had placed upon him, or could he just stay quiet? He decided not to chance it. “My name’s Harry.” It was strange, giving his name to someone wearing the face of his parent’s murderer.

“Nice to meet you, Harry. Are you a Hogwarts student as well? I’m sorry, but I don’t recall ever meeting you before.”

‘What do you mean, “as well”’, Harry thought and stared at him in confusion, ‘You’ve long since graduated from Hogwarts.’ The silence stretched between them until Harry slowly answered, “You wouldn’t. I don’t think we ever met.”

“But you recall me, yes?” Riddle asked and smiled. Harry didn’t reply, unsure how to tell him that, of course, he’d know the man who’d been hunting him for the past six years. But Riddle was undeterred and went on, “Now, Harry, how did you find this room? I’ve quite believed that I was the only one who knew of it.”

Harry gulped again, “Stumbled across it by accident.”

“Oh, is that so?” Riddle smirked at him, and in contrast to the warm smile from earlier, this one sent a cold shiver down Harry's spine. This was just what his body needed to finally snap into action, and Harry took a few hasty steps back.

“Er, bye then,” he said as a quick farewell, hopefully forever, and darted away. He rushed around a bookshelf, and turned straight towards the exit, not caring if Riddle saw him. He brushed past the mysterious cabinet once more, this time with no cloth covering it. Glancing back, he saw Riddle still standing where Harry left him, staring at him. Harry had nearly reached the wall now, and, taking the last few steps towards it, he grabbed the handle and pushed it down. Hopefully, whatever strange curse had befallen him would end as soon as he left the room.

He leaned back, pulling against the door, but it didn’t budge. He leaned back even further, putting all his weight against it, but it was no use. The door wouldn’t open.

Harry looked back once more and saw that Riddle had left the spot and was walking slowly towards him. Harry turned to pound against the door, sending magic towards it. He tried to will it open just as he had before, focusing with all his might on escaping this room, this nightmare.

But it didn’t open.

Chapter Text

Cold dread pooled in Harry’s stomach as he watched Tom Riddle walk closer, face revealing nothing but curiosity. 

Harry squeezed his eyes shut and tried to take a deep breath. If he only knew what kind of curse the mirror had placed onto him, so that he could get rid of it. As far as he could see, it was some sort of vision, one he could touch. It was the only logical conclusion at the moment, explaining why the statue suddenly had a head now and why his greatest nightmare–albeit as a teenager–was currently striding towards him, creepy look and all that.

Maybe if he broke whatever spell the mirror had put on him, the door would open as well.

But what spell was it?

Harry wracked his brain for something, anything, to counter the spell, wand gripped tightly in his sweaty hands. With a glance back at Riddle, he turned away from him and whispered a quick “Finite Incantatem”. Nothing happened, and Harry rattled down a few other spells under his breath, all those that he knew could counter curses, but when he tried to push the handle down, the door still didn’t open.

“Whatever are you doing, Harry?”

His ears were ringing as he turned back around and shot Riddle a nervous look. He didn’t have any bloody time. “Nothing. Just remembered I’ve forgotten something back there.”

Riddle stopped, standing just a few steps away from Harry. Feeling slightly cornered, Harry ducked away, away from the door. Without another word, he turned around and walked back to the back of the room. Maybe Riddle wouldn’t follow him there. 

What if Voldemort was behind all this? It would have been simple to assign Malfoy with the task of luring Harry into this room, to the mirror.

True, he couldn’t have known Harry would find it, or even step through it, but he couldn’t deny the lure the mirror had had on him, a little like the diary back in the second year, whatever that had been.

Harry straightened himself up. Vision, yet another of Voldemort’s little survival games. Whatever Riddle was he could still be defeated. Maybe once he was down, the door would simply unlock by itself. Or so he hoped.

He turned straight around and started walking back towards the door. Riddle was still standing there, watching Harry with a curious look on his face. Probably wondering what the hell Harry was doing. As subtly as possible, Harry grabbed the wand from his jeans and, without giving himself time to hesitate, sent a blinding red curse flying across the room, right at Riddle. It was a wordless Expelliarmus, the best nonverbal spell Harry could manage.

Riddle had his own wand out a moment later and deflected it with little difficulty or confusion like Harry had hoped for. He smirked ominously, as if having expected something like that, and took a few easy steps to his right, eyes not leaving Harry. He held his wand lightly in his hand as shot hex after hex at Harry and circled him almost playfully. 

Harry, however, strode right towards him, all the while flinging spells at Riddle, casting them with more and more vigor the longer it went on. They were all effortlessly deflected by Riddle’s shield, bouncing off into all directions, making Harry’s eyes hurt and his ears ring. 

Books blasted in all directions, cupboards were being knocked over by their spells, and one move of Harry’s sent a whole chandelier crashing down on Riddle, who ducked out of the way just in time to avoid most of it. Harry didn’t know why exactly Riddle fought back, but he didn’t particularly care. 

Harry, slowly running out of ideas, sent two spells right after each other, an Expelliarmus and an Aguamenti. Riddle only deflected the first one and was sprayed with a gush of water, soaking his clothes and hair. He was confused for the entirety of one second, and in the next had already dried himself off with a quick spell and an annoyed look on his face.

That one second, however, was all Harry needed, and he ducked behind a cupboard, hiding from Riddle’s view. There, Harry leaned against the wood for just a second, gasping for air as quietly as he could, and thought of his next move. Then, a moment later, Harry pushed himself off the wood and darted out from behind the cupboard, wand fixed on Riddle, and yelled Sectumsempra. 

This fight had been going on for long enough.

Riddle’s eyes were wide as he dove out of the way of the spell, missing him by a mere hairsbreadth, and Harry cursed. The world swimming before his eyes, he ran forward at Riddle, shoving him down on the ground, and threw a few inexpert punches at him, not caring where they landed. He only managed to land one of them, right at Riddle’s temple, and his hand ached when Riddle caught it just a moment later. He spun Harry around and pinned him to the floor instead.

“You fight like a child, Harry. Though I have to admit, that last move was quite good. What kind of spell did you use there?”

Harry fought against his hold, trying to free his legs and kick him, but Riddle kept all his weight firmly placed on Harry's limbs, effectively restraining him.

Riddle sighed, “Look, we can do this the hard or the easy way.” He squeezed Harry's wrists one last time and then drew back, releasing Harry’s arms and legs. Harry immediately reached for his wand, but Riddle kicked it away. “No, none of that right now.”

It landed a few steps away from Harry, far enough that it could’ve been at the other end of the room for all Harry cared. He wouldn’t come that far with Riddle’s wand fixed on him. “What do you want, Riddle?” Harry asked reluctantly and straightened up.

“Ah, so you do know my name. Say, why have I never seen you around the castle before?”

Harry rubbed his aching wrists. “What do you mean?”

“You are a Hogwarts student, right?” He looked at Harry, frowning, “You’ve said so, before.”

“Sure.”

“So then, what do you not understand?”

Harry stared at him for a few moments. This whole situation was entirely absurd. Why would any vision created by Voldemort have him at wand point, rendered completely powerless, only to let him go and ask strange questions? Could he be a ghost, after all? Just a strange one, one that could touch people and use magic? No, that wasn’t it. “What’s today’s date?”

Harry blurted the question out with little thought, much like he seemed to do many things that day. Riddle looked even more puzzled than before, and slowly said, “It’s November 7th, 1944.”

Oh god. Harry groaned as he ran his hand through his hair. This wasn’t a vision, after all. Suddenly, all the strange things Harry had discovered after stepping through the mirror made sense. Like the intact furniture strewn all across the room that he could’ve sworn had been broken before, or the head of the statue, missing before Harry had entered the mirror, but now sitting back in its place. But this was the biggest hint of them all. Could it really be that he went back in time? Just by passing through some lousy, empty mirror, had he really traveled through the grasp of time itself, something that people had been trying to achieve for centuries? 

And why land here, fifty years in the past, in the same room as Tom Riddle, of all people? It seemed too outlandish to believe.

“Ahh, yes, now I remember,” Harry deflected awkwardly after realizing he’d been quiet for too long. If he really had traveled back in time, it was crucial to not let Riddle find out. “Why you’ve never seen me before, you asked? Well, I have to admit, I haven’t been the most interesting person around. I’m in Hufflepuff after all.”

Harry could literally watch Riddle’s curiosity dim in seconds, and forced down a victorious smile. He’d figured that Hufflepuff would be the most unappealing house to Riddle, and by putting himself in there, he had a good chance to actually get away with this. 

“In that case, what’s your last name? I’m sorry to say that I’ve never seen your face among the Hufflepuff students, but I might just recognize your name.”

Harry gulped and said the next best name that came to his mind. Normal people didn’t hesitate while thinking of their last name. “It’s Macmillian.”

“Harry Macmillian, then?” Riddle said, and Harry had to concentrate hard not to burst out laughing at how ridiculous it sounded out of Riddle’s mouth. “Nice to meet you.”

To Harry’s surprise, Riddle held out his hand towards him. Leave it to the mass murderer to politely introduce himself after a near-death fight. Well, perhaps it hadn’t been that serious for Riddle. Harry reluctantly reached out and shook it.

It didn’t feel nearly as cold as Harry remembered from the graveyard.

“Yeah, nice to meet you too.” he said with the straightest face he could manage, and walked over to his wand, picking it up from the ground, “If you’d excuse me now. I still have some things to do.” He ducked away, and, without waiting for Riddle’s answer, turned around and walked back towards the statue.

If Harry’s theory was right, he wasn’t able to open the door right now, in the past. Whatever the mirror had done to him, it was keeping him in the room until he was back in his own time. Well, that’s what he hoped for.

When Harry glanced back, he saw Riddle standing there, watching him, not unlike a few minutes before. He fastened up his steps, and just hoped he wouldn’t follow Harry to the mirror.

Ducking under the statue’s arm, he glanced up at it again, and really, the head was sitting in its place. Ignoring the skull that was–unfortunately–still sitting in the vitrine he rounded the corner and walked back to where he remembered the mirror standing. 

A strange feeling of relief filled him when he caught sight of it and stepped forward. Glancing around one more time to check if Riddle had followed him, brought his hand up to its frame, hesitating. This really wasn’t the time for that, Harry knew, but what if it didn’t send him back into his own time, but yet a completely different one? How would he ever find home? 

Harry shook his head. Everything was better than to stay here, trapped inside a room with a young Voldemort. So, without giving himself a second to hesitate, he set foot into the mirror for the second time that day. Again, freezing cold filled his body, like sharp needles pricking into his skin and stealing away his breath. Gasping helplessly, Harry stumbled out of the mirror’s other side and brought his arms around his chest, to try and force the remnants of the cold away.

Immediately, he backed away from it and ran towards the exit. He rushed past the now headless statue, past the spot where Riddle had stood just minutes ago, now nowhere to be seen. The door swung open as soon as Harry stepped close to it, and he crossed the threshold feeling like crying.

He slumped against a nearby wall, sinking down onto the floor and gasping for breath as he watched the door vanish into thin air.

Chapter Text

Harry woke up the next morning gasping for breath, hair plastered to his forehead and sheets tangled between his legs. He jolted up and hastily threw them off. The heart in his chest pounded wildly in his chest as he stood up and made a beeline for the bathroom.

The room was dim and the sky beyond the windows was still pitch black, the bedframes casting long, dark shadows on the floor. Harry almost tripped over the clothes scattered near Seamus' bed, and swallowed his curses, swallowing down his curses so as to not wake anyone.

He stumbled into the bathroom and threw the door close behind him as quietly as he could, darting over to the big sinks. Shudders came over him as he splashed ice-cold water onto his face, trying to scare the last remnants of the nightmare away.

He hadn’t slept well that night.

When he’d finally fell asleep yesterday, after much tossing and turning around, his sleep had been plagued with nightmares. Long-forgotten memories from the Chamber of Secrets had appeared in them, although instead of the Chamber, the basilisk now came slithering out of a mirror, intent to bite Harry’s head off. Tom Riddle had also been a very prominent figure, laughing maniacally on the sidelines or even offing Harry on his own.

Not things he preferred to dream about, thank you very much.

He sighed and pushed himself off the sink, drying his face with the cloth hanging next to the sink. As he trotted back to his bed and dressed, he was acutely aware of the new bruises and his aching limbs yesterday had brought him. They were one more reminder that yesterday had been no bad dream, no matter how much he wished it was.

Glancing down at his messy and grimy bed, Harry sighed and instead made his way out of the door, carefully avoiding the clothes, books, and other questionable objects that were strewn all across the floor. 

Breakfast wouldn’t start for a while yet, but maybe the house-elves in the kitchen would be kind enough to give him something to eat.

When he caught sight of Malfoy on his way down, striding down the steps with his head held high like the condescending ass that he was, white, blazing anger overcame him. Harry had to physically halt himself, right in the middle of the stairs, to keep himself from rushing over.

In a way, he wanted to put all the blame on Malfoy. If that stupid git hadn’t been sneaked around suspiciously, after all, Harry would never have set foot in that strange room, stepped through the mirror and landed in the past, meeting Tom Riddle again, for the second time of his life.

Some part of Harry wanted to storm over and either threaten information out of Malfoy or hex him. Maybe both. He gripped the railing tightly and forced himself to calm down. Malfoy wouldn’t likely have any more information about the mirror than Harry himself did, and hexing him wouldn’t help this situation at all, no matter how tempting it was.

No, if he wanted to find out anything, he’d have to do it himself. No use in beating Malfoy up and informing him of the fact that Harry knew about the Room of Hidden Things. 

Seems like he had some research to do, then.

Most of Hogwarts were still asleep, and so the corridors quiet and dark as Harry made his way over to the library, a warm muffin in his hands. Passing by windows, he could see the sun going up, casting warm colors over the sky and the Great Lake.

Carefully pushing the heavy door to the library open, he muttered a quick greeting to Miss Pince sitting behind a desk and went to search.

He was looking for something about time travel, hopeful to find some explanation of what had happened to him yesterday. He had the feeling it wouldn’t leave him alone otherwise.

Harry walked past the empty chairs and study tables to the front of the shelves and began reading the labels. The golden plates glinted as he passed them, slowly making his way to the back of the room with a sinking feeling of frustration when he found nothing promising. He had almost given up and turned back around when he spotted the word "Time" on the labels. 

He swiftly turned into the section and sped up. Running his hand over the book spines, he skimmed their titles as he passed. Much to his disappointment, almost all of them were about the concept of time, or spells that could show time, such as the Tempus charm. Then, at the end of the section, he came across a single book called ‘The History of Time and Magic’. Thinking that the title sounded equally mysterious as yesterday's mirror, he picked it up, and, glancing back at the other books, walked over to a small alcove beside the shelf.

Inside the alcove was a large, thick window through which the sun shone brightly onto the book on Harry's lap. He opened it eagerly and turned to look for the index, which was placed at the back of the book, for some reason.

Strangeness of the book aside, most of it only seemed to cover the history of time and magic itself. But, much to Harry’s joy, there also seemed to be a bit about Time-Turners, and he quickly flipped through the stained pages, searching for it.

The chapter wasn't long, however, covering just about three pages, maybe less, and he’d read through it quickly. There, he discovered that Time-Turners didn’t have nearly the same range as the mirror from yesterday, as they could only turn back a few hours. Apparently, the Ministry had put an Hour-Reversal Charm on them to avoid tearing the fabric of time.

Harry looked at the few pictures on the pages, hopeful to find some more information. It was impossible to make out much of them. The ink was faded and one picture was even partially torn out. Hermione and Madam Pince would both have a fit if they’d seen them.

There, however, on one image he could see various time turners of different sizes and shapes, some quite different from the ones he and Hermione had used in their third year. 

There were ones with a round glass ball in the middle, or ones that were stretched out rectangular, or even a mixture of both. He even saw a red one, which came closest to the faint, warm light the sheet inside the mirror had given off. However, whether the Time-Turner itself glowed in red light or if it was just colored glass, wasn’t said in the description. 

Other than that, however, they showed very little similarity to the mirror. By now, Harry suspected that the mirror was an entirely unrelated, possibly undiscovered, patch of magic. Great.

He sighed and shut the book. He had too many questions and no answers. First, were the 1940s really the only time the mirror could travel to? What if one concentrated really hard on one event, like with the Room itself? 

If he ever decided to go back, he’d give it a try. Harry snorted and stood up. As if he’d ever go back there voluntarily and risk meeting Riddle.

Harry left the alcove quickly after that, keen on leaving the library behind. He walked back to the place where he’d picked the book up and put it back. It had been fairly unhelpful, all things considered, but that was hardly the author's fault. Harry doubted there were any books about the particular type of magic the mirror used. 

How would one go about detecting the magic type of object, anyway? Maybe you could look at inscriptions or runes on the objects, or something like that. Or were there spells that could simply tell you, like those diagnosis spells Harry had seen Madam Pomfrey use? He doubted it. That sort of spell sounded too straightforward.

He chuckled and turned into the main corridor of the library. Gigantic shelves shot up to both sides, golden labels marking their subjects. Harry marveled at them. 

Magic truly is marvelous, Harry thought as he watched books flying through the air, finding their place on the shelves completely on their own. There are study tables nestled throughout red-carpeted rooms crisscrossed and walled with full bookshelves, a few of the secret passages that Harry had stumbled upon by accident. He suspected Filch and Madam Pince used them to move quickly inside the library.

As Harry glanced over the library in passing, his eyes caught Hermione striding away from one of the study tables, two heavy books tucked under her arm. He froze mid-step and looked around frantically for somewhere to hide. But nothing but long bookshelves and tables surrounded him.

Not the most ideal hiding places, if he was being honest.

So he decided to keep walking as discreetly as possible–which, being Harry, meant little–and hopefully, Hermione wouldn’t even notice him.

“Harry!”

He stopped dead in his tracks and, with a thousand swear words running through his head, turned to face her, trying to plaster a nice smile on his face.

Now, don’t get him wrong. He loved Hermione over everything and suspected he and Ron would both be dead a hundred times over if it wasn’t for her. But, well, Harry had an inkling she wouldn’t be so pleased with the recent events.

“Hi, Hermione,” he said, his smile growing strained.

She, however, only grinned widely at him. “What are you doing in the library? I thought you and Ron hated it here.”

“Yeah, er, I really hate the light and all that. It’s way too dark here.” He scratched his neck absentmindedly. “I was just doing some research. I stumbled over an interesting, er, subject a few days ago.”

“Which one?” she asked, and Harry swore she had literal stars in her eyes at the thought of him doing research. 

He stared at her blankly for a few seconds, mind turning to come up with something convincing. “Fluxweed?” he said almost questioningly, fiddling with his sleeve, and Hermione’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“The plant we looked at in last week’s Herbology lesson?”

“Er, yes?”

She sighed, “What is it really, Harry?”

The hand fiddling with his sleeve froze, and he let it fall down to his side. Should he tell her? Maybe she’d have some clues about the mirror’s mechanics or advice for his next steps. But no, she probably wouldn't believe him, anyway. She hadn’t believed him about Malfoy, and she wouldn’t about this. So, better wait till he had some solid evidence.

"Look, can I tell you another time? I have something else to do first."

She fixated him with a stare that made the hairs on Harry’s neck stand up and slowly said, “If you’re sure... You’d come to me if it was life-threatening, right?”

He smiled and lied through his teeth, “Of course I would, Hermione.”

A few hours later, Harry stepped up to Gargoyle standing on the third floor and muttered the password to it. After a moment, it stepped aside, and Harry continued up a steep, circular staircase, entering the Headmaster’s office.

He stopped beside the door and knocked against it. “Professor?”

With wide eyes, Professor Dumbledore stuck his head out from behind a shelf. “Harry! Did we have a meeting planned for today?”

“Er, I think so, yes. Did I make a mistake?”

“Ah, no, don’t worry,” He smiled and walked behind his desk, “I had some things on my mind lately, that’s all. Now, please, take a seat.”

Harry hesitantly walked away from his spot at the door and sat down.

“Now, what did we have planned for today?” Dumbledore muttered pensively and glanced over at Harry, “Would you mind recalling last time's subject?”

“You, er, showed me a memory of picking Voldemort up at the orphanage.”

“Ah, yes. Back when everyone still knew him as Tom Riddle, of course. He didn’t change his name for quite some time,” Dumbledore paused and leaned backward in his chair, “Then, I think it’s about time I tell you of the time I remember best; his stay here at Hogwarts.”

Harry leaned forward, curious, and Dumbledore continued.

“You see, if it weren’t for our initial meeting in the Orphanage, I would have found Tom to be quite charming. Despite his disadvantageous past, he quickly gained the trust of fellow Slytherin and the teachers alike, all through sympathy, slow flattery, and his brilliant mind. I, however, was always wary of him, which Tom noticed as well, of course, and so he never tried to charm me as he did the other teachers. 

“By the time of his third year, he had gathered a group of students around him, the forerunners of the Death eaters. They were young, impressionable, and thirsty for power. Perfect for Tom to manipulate and use to his wishes, you see. Well, and after that…” Dumbledore trailed off and glanced up at the ceiling, lost in thoughts.

“Professor?” Harry called tentatively, which seemed to snap Dumbledore back to this moment.

“Excuse me, Harry. This time of my life often comes together with bad memories, especially of the things Tom did after he left Hogwarts. Sometimes, I wish I would’ve done something different. Perhaps, if he’d a listening ear by his side during his youth, much would’ve turned out different. But, we’re not here to talk about that, are we?” He gave Harry a small smile, “Now, I acquired this information many years after Tom had already left Hogwarts, but as you quite know, Tom didn’t much like his Muggle father. It was part of the reason he changed his name to Voldemort, as I think.

“When he found out about his heritage, and thus his status as a Half-blood, Tom was furious. So much so that he traveled to his father’s family mansion and attacked the Riddle family one evening while they were dining, killing them all in the process. He did it with a very concise plan in his mind, framing his half-mad uncle by taking his wand and altering his memory. 

It was during the same year in which he discovered the Chamber of Secrets and the basilisk, with which you have unfortunately made acquaintance. In the later months, that resulted in the death of Myrtle Warren, closing the school and causing the expulsion of Hagrid. Now, I don't know if she was the first person Tom killed, but along with the murders of his family that same year, I am quite certain it was the most murders in a row so far in his young life.

And then, during his sixth year… well, that’s a story for later. Now, Harry, I’d like to show you a memory. It’s from Professor Slughorn himself, and it’s a big part of the reason I wanted him to return to Hogwarts this year….”

Later that night, Harry laid on his back and stared up at the top of his bed, head brimming with thoughts. 

If Dumbledore’s theory was correct and Slughorn’s memory was faked, that would mean Voldemort had really made those things, Horcruxes Dumbledore called them, to keep himself immortal, of sorts. That was how he had survived for all this time, coming back and making Harry’s life hell. That’s how he had been able to come back from the dead and kill Cedric, Sirius, and so many other people. Dumbledore himself had told him that in order to kill Voldemort one would have to destroy all those things one by one, un-immortalize Voldemort of sorts. But how many more lives would be lost until that happened?

No, it would be much better to destroy the problem at its roots.

Because of the memory, Harry knew Riddle had waited at the very least until winter break to create those Horcruxes. That meant Harry still had some time. Not much, but it would be enough to figure out a plan and carry it out. 

He would have to be careful around Riddle, based on his own experience and what Dumbledore told him. Even at seventeen, Riddle was a very skilled wizard and Harry didn’t think he’d have a chance at beating him in an all-out battle.

So he knew exactly what to do.

He would travel back in time, befriend Riddle, and then, at the most unexpected moment, Harry would kill him.

Chapter Text

Tom made his way up to the seventh floor, fiddling absentmindedly with his wand.

He had taken these stairs often over the course of the past week. Lately, something almost seemed to pull him back to the ‘Hidden Room,’ as he called it, and when he eventually gave in to it, it was always under the excuse of studying. But then, when he found himself sitting there tensely, head jolting up at the smallest sound, and his eyes lingering on the spot he’d first encountered Harry, it almost seemed as if Tom was awaiting his return.

Which was ridiculous, really. Harry was a nuisance, more than anything, a threat to his space and privacy. Logically, Tom should be hoping that Harry never set foot in the room ever again.

Frowning to himself, Tom stopped before the door on the seventh floor. He stepped in front of it three times, waited and pressed the handle undeterred, when the door appeared in front of him. He was no longer astonished or surprised by its sudden appearance, not like he had been the first few times. With a creak from the cold metal handle, it pulled open and entered the room in one swift motion. 

The loud clang of the door falling close echoed around the room, cutting through the silence. Usually, the room was very quiet, but that didn't make him feel uneasy. On the contrary, it was a nice change from the bustling sounds of the common room, which never really went quiet, or the library with its forced silence. Here It felt nice, almost peaceful, he thought, when the steady thud of his footsteps was the only sound he heard.

The air seemed different as well, heavier somehow. The scent of books and dust filled his lungs while walking. It felt different from the thick, laden air in the dungeons or the light breeze that came through the gigantic windows all over Hogwarts. 

Tom knew its scent changed, depending on where he was in the Hidden Room. He long since knew to heed the potions spread all across the enormous room. They were expired and smelled foul, sometimes like rotten eggs, sometimes oddly similar to Crup dung, an animal they had looked at in Care of Magical Creatures last year. It had been around the same time that Tom had stumbled upon the Hidden Room.

He walked across the room, his mind wandering back to Harry. It had been a shock, bumping into someone else in this room, when he’d always been so sure that he was the only one who knew of its existence. And Harry, indeed, was yet another mystery. After their encounter, Tom had waited outside the room, arms crossed and leaning against a wall, waiting for Harry to exit the room. But he never had.

He had looked for him in the Great Hall the next day, and when he didn't show up, he had even bothered to plaster on one of his nicest smiles and ask some Hufflepuff girl about Harry. But as far as she had been concerned, a boy named Harry Macmillian didn’t exist.

It was annoying, infuriating, and, most of all, puzzling. 

Why had the sight of Tom, someone Harry had never met before in his life, caused so much raw panic? He had seen it in Harry’s eyes, that terrified look as he backed away from Tom and attacked him, for no logical reason at all.

Not for the first time this week, he regretted not going after Harry that day. The boy had walked away so quickly after their little fight, and Tom had thought it to be better to wait for him outside and catch him unprepared, rather than following him into the depths of the room. It could have well turned into a chase, and had Harry wished to hide from him inside the room, Tom was sure he had no chance of ever finding him again.

But it seemed that he’d never had a chance of that, anyway.

His wand gripped tight in his hand, Tom finally turned the corner, past a large cabinet filled with candle-sticks and vases, and entered at his lounge.

Well, ‘lounge’ was a bit generous. It was nothing more than a small corner with a sofa, an armchair, and a coffee table. He’d arrange the furniture himself, shortly after finding the Hidden Room. It had been his little study place for the past year, void from any people that could distract him. 

It was the main reason he returned to this room as often as he did, for he was better off studying with no one else around. Seeing him place top in class with ease, without seemingly ever having to study, played well into the impression that the other students had of Tom.

He set his bag down on the table and sank into the armchair. Although valuable, sometimes maintaining this image of perfection around people was maddening. 

His emotions were always perfectly regulated, his voice kind and sympathetic, and, more often than not, a smile was just another way of toying with people. That, along with a neat appearance and the air of brilliance surrounding him, all sorts of people were easily lured in by the figure of Tom Riddle, quick to do anything he wanted. 

He would never allow himself to lounge like this in the common room. No, Tom Riddle was brilliant, perfect, and certainly above such things as lounging in armchairs.

Chuckling at the image, he reached out to his bag and took a book out. Having already finished his homework, the only thing he had to do today was read. It was why he’d stopped at the sofa and not at the study table, which was a few steps over. It stood behind a large bookshelf, which was filled with Tom’s own books, those too personal to leave in the dormitory. As much as his other year-mates trusted him, Tom wasn’t about to return that so quickly.

It was why Harry’s existence was so much trouble. Tom’s private spot, something no other student in the castle had access to, was now no longer safe. He’d have to move his things somewhere else, and that as soon as possible.

He sighed and flipped the book open. He had borrowed it from the library the day before, along with some other books he planned to read here in the next few days. 

If Harry didn’t turn up before then.

He shook his head and begun to read the first passage. The book was about magical tattoos, picked out of curiosity more than anything else, but it proved to be quite interesting. Apparently, magic had the ability to support tattoos in the same way as images; It could make them come alive.

There were multiple methods one could go about making a magical tattoo. Few actually worked with ink and needles as muggles did, as the more common option was to just burn the tattoo right into the skin. It held far longer and was much quicker than the other method. Tom always found it fascinating how many more things there still were to discover about magic. 

There was one chapter in particular, however, that piqued Tom’s interest. It told a story about a ruler a few hundred years ago, back when Wizardkind was still divided. Apparently, this ruler had been very skilled in magic and had invented some sort of a magical mark that he placed on his informants, which could be used as a form of communication between him and his subordinates. It practically revolutionized espionage in its subtlety.

Tom sat up in his seat and flipped the page. If that story was true, and he could figure out the mechanics behind that mark, he might be able to use it on that group of followers he was gathering. 

How useful would that be during critical situations like wars, when he could simply order his subordinates around from afar, a safe distance away from any fight or trap? They were all replaceable, after all, everyone but him.

He’d bet he could improve it even more, somehow. Have it react to a different spell in addition, for example, which would expand the possibilities so much. Then, the mark would be able to do many more things except just sending information. 

An additional spell could animate the tattoo, make it move on the body, or project the image up onto a wall or the sky. Maybe, with a bit of twinging, it would be able to serve as a shortcut for spells, some sort of automatic reaction of the body to extreme stress. To torture, for example. It would make Tom feel much more at ease if his spies, upon being tortured for information, would just drop dead on the spot. It would open up a whole new world of possibility, and it would make controlling the Death Eaters so much easier. Maybe it could also be used for mind manipulation? Some sort of reduced form of Legilimency, perhaps? That would–

“Hello?”

Tom jolted up, dropping the book and reaching for his wand, when he caught sight of who had spoken. “Harry?”

The boy was glancing out behind the cabinet, eyes wide and staring at Tom’s wand, and chuckled nervously, “Yeah, it’s me.”

Tom let his wand sink back into his pocket, and stared at him for a few seconds, “You have found your way back, then, it seems,” he said and gestured towards the sofa next to him, settling back into his armchair. “Please, be my guest.” 

Harry stared at him for a second before walking over and flopping down onto the sofa, crossing his legs beneath him. Yes, that was exactly what Tom had meant by lounging in the presence of others. Baffling.

“It is quite surprising to see you here again,” Tom started, locking eyes with Harry, “You disappeared so completely without a trace last time, Harry, I hadn’t been able to help but wonder if you were just a fidget of my imagination. But, to be honest, I’ve never had quite such a vivid imagination,” he chuckled as said this, an easy-going smile on his face, but his eyes were fixed on Harry, waiting for his reaction.

Harry scratched the back of his head nervously. “Ah, yeah, sorry about that. I was in a bit of a hurry.” 

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Ah, is that so? But that’s not everything. You made such an excellent job at disappearing, that the other Hufflepuffs, upon asking them, didn’t even know you existed.”

Harry stared at him blankly for a few long seconds and then murmured, “Well yeah, they wouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked with a flash of excitement.

“I guess there’s no harm in telling you,” he sighed, then continued more loudly, “You see, it’s a bit of a secret, but I’m not actually a student at Hogwarts.” He paused, “I’m the personal student of your, er, Defense teacher.”

“Professor Merrythought?” Tom asked in surprise.

“Yeah, her. You see, I’m a distant relative of hers, and when my parents died, she had to take me in. ‘Doesn’t like talking about it though.”

“Your parents died?” Tom said with the most sympathetic voice he could manage.

“Yeah, killed by a dark wizard.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“No, it’s fine.” Harry waved it off with a small, sad smile, “Anyway, I don’t actually live in Hogwarts, but every once in a while I visit her here,” he paused, “The castle itself has always fascinated me, though, and so I learned as much about it as I could.”

“So, you found out about this room by reading?”

“Yup.”

Tom hummed in agreement and was about to ask the next questions when Harry cut in, “You’re not so good with this whole talking thing, are you, Riddle? Every conversation we had so far just felt like a huge interrogation. “

“It’s the most efficient way of dealing with mysteries like you, in my opinion.”

“See, there it is again. No normal person would call someone a ‘mystery’.”

Tom fixed a grin on his face, “Oh, but I just did, didn’t I?”

“I don't think you could count as a normal person, Riddle.”

“Oh?” How would you come to such conclusions? You barely even know me,” Tom smirked and leaned forward, staring at Harry.

He gulped, “I’m just good with people.”

“Hm.” Tom let it be and put his book down on the coffee table. He’d have to finish it later, but Harry was a priority at the moment. 

He didn’t even know what fascinated him so much about the boy, especially now that most of his questions had been answered. Was it the fact that he found this room when Tom thought he was the only one alive to know about it? Tom himself had found it in an ancient text, hidden beneath layers and layers of books in the library. So it would make sense for someone dedicated enough to be able to find it. But even so, something didn’t add up about all of this.

“Wow, you even got a lamp here. You brought all these things here yourself?” Harry said, tearing Tom out of his thoughts. He looked up at Harry questioningly, who lifted his arm and gestured around to the sofa, bookshelf, and the other furniture standing about the lounge. His other arm was lying off the armrest, hidden from Tom’s view.

“With a featherlike charm, yes. I wasn’t quite certain it would work in the beginning, though.”

“Why’d you think that?” Harry said with an odd tone of voice and seemed to be fiddling with something behind the armrest.

“Well,” Tom paused, thinking about it. “To be honest, when I first entered this room, it felt rather strange. Crossing the threshold had felt a bit like stepping into ice-cold water in the beginning, and only later I found out that I could probably feel the ancient magic of the room as if it was infused in the air.”

"The magic?" said Harry, jerking upright in his seat.

“Yes. This room is rather special, wouldn’t you say? Appearing in whichever form you want, giving you whatever you want. It is no less than pure magic.” He chuckled then, thinking of the next part, “As I said, at first I thought that the magic in here was so potent that any form of spell or magic would completely throw it off.”

“So that cold, water-y kind of feeling was the magic of the room?”

“I believe so, yes. Why do you ask?”

Harry glanced at him with wide eyes and shuffled in his seat. “Er, I’ve felt that too, before. But not when entering this room.”

“Oh?” Tom leaned forward in his seat, curious. “When then?” 

But Harry didn’t answer. Instead, he had turned away from Tom and stared off into space. 

Frowning, Tom asked again, “Harry?”

Harry snapped around, and jolted up, out of his seat. He held his arm tight behind his back as if hiding something there. His other hand was trembling. “I’ll tell you next time, alright? I have to go now.”

Tom frowned, “Already?”

“Yeah.” And that's all he said before turning around and walking away, and when Tom caught sight of the arm behind his back, it was empty. Just before turning behind the cabinet with the candles-sticks and vases, however, Harry looked back once more and called a quick, “See you.”

And then, not waiting for his reply, he vanished behind the corner, leaving Tom behind with a strange sense of déjà vu.

He fell back into his armchair, an odd sense of disappointment in his chest. He tore his eyes away from the cabinet, and, forcing the emotion down, turned to open his book once more.

He had more important things to do than to worry about a strange boy after all.

Chapter Text

Cold sweat run down Harry’s face as he bolted away from Riddle and towards the mirror. He glanced around frantically, checking if Riddle was near him, following him, loosening his tie with one hand. 

He’d been so close to killing Riddle back then, wand already in his hand behind the arm seat, and Riddle monologuing about something, not watching Harry. It would’ve been the ideal moment to attack, stun, or even kill him right there on the spot. But he hadn’t. 

He had been listening to Riddle with only half an ear, going over spells and possibilities in his mind, when suddenly something Riddle said had jumbled his thoughts over, making him forget everything.

Apparently, the coldness he felt when stepping through the mirror was magic.

It was a clue about the mirror, more than everything he’d had before. But that very thing had been plenty for his stupid mind to get caught u pin the moment and blurting out something he had no explanation for.

Really, Harry had reckoned that meeting Riddle would be overwhelming. It would have been stupid not to. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the sheer intensity in Riddle’s eyes when he looked at Harry or his questions. He should have foreseen it, really, that Riddle would go and investigate his cover story. He was amazingly lucky that he’d just accepted the random story Harry had made up on the spot. 

Stupid, stupid.

At least he’d been friendly enough, Harry thought, and with one final glance around, stepped through the mirror. It hadn’t been that bad for a second meeting. He stumbled out of it, shuddering at the coldness, and turned to make his way to the front of the room. Especially considering I’ve tried to attack him the first time around.

Now he‘d just have to keep it up.

“Are you alright, Harry?”

Harry startled, his fork falling out of his hand and onto the plate with a clatter, and looked up, “Huh?”

Hermione glanced at him worriedly over the table, setting her own fork and knife down onto the plate. “You haven’t said a single thing since we sat down for dinner, Harry. Is there something on your mind?”

Harry nearly laughed out loud at that. No, it’s just that I’ve been talking to the murderer of my parents an hour ago. What about you? Instead, he brought out the best smile he could muster and said, “No, it’s nothing, Hermione. I’m just a bit tired.”

Honestly, with all the lying he’s been doing nowadays, he could almost understand why the hat had wanted to put him in Slytherin.

Hermione tentatively smiled back and said, “Well, then you better go to bed early today, instead of playing those silly games with Ron.”

That made Ron look up from his plate. “Hey, those games aren’t silly!”

“They are if they distract you from all the work you have to do.”

Ron grumbled, ducking his head down, and Harry gave an honest laugh. “They’re fun, that’s what counts. But still, I might really go to bed early today, Ron.”

“Alright, I’ll ‘ust play a ‘ame with Seamus inste’d. Wha’do you say, mate?” Ron said between two mouthfuls, and looked over at Seamus, who happily joined the conversation. They started talking about the new version of chess that came out a few weeks ago, before changing over to how Jones, the captain of the Harpies has lost three teeth in last week’s match, laughing.

Hermione just rolled her eyes and pushed her plate out of the way. Then, she conjured a small book out of nowhere and, after shooting Harry a quick smile, started reading it in right there, in the middle of the Great Hall. 

Harry grinned back, his exhaustion suddenly feeling much more bearable. Even if he couldn’t tell his friends exactly what caused it, they were still there to cheer him up. With a much lighter head, he picked up his fork and continued eating.

He would need enough energy for tomorrow, after all.

Harry stood in front of the mirror, thinking.

It was early in the day, Harry having set out soon after lunch, leaving his friends behind in the Great Hall with the excuse of studying. He felt much better now, after getting a good night’s sleep yesterday, listening to Hermione for once. Seems like her advice wasn’t all that bad sometimes.

He only wished he could ask her about this as well, he thought as he ran his hand along the mirror's frame. She would definitely have something to say about his plans. She’d know what the consequences of going back in time are, especially after what she’d done in the third year with that time turner. Harry could bet she had done her research before using it. The thought almost made him smile.

Hermione would know exactly what to say to him in this situation, and Harry just wanted to give in and ask her. She would know if killing Riddle, someone who would bring so much death and destruction, was the right thing to do.

But, even without asking, Harry was aware that she would disapprove. She’d tell him that it was too dangerous to meddle with time and to abandon the mirror and his mission at once, and to never go back there, to Riddle. 

And that was exactly why he couldn’t tell her. 

Because how could he, knowing that this opportunity existed, just walk away and leave it be? How could he just leave when he knew how many people could be saved with this, no matter what it would mean for Harry, no matter if the time-paradox would end up killing him.

How could he just walk away?

So he stepped forward and through the mirror frame, shivering as he walked out of its other end. It was getting easier every time he did this, now that he no longer fought the mirror’s hold. Last time, he had tried out his theory, but even though he’d wished with all his might to go back to his last year, picturing Dumbledore’s army and all that they’ve done in this room, he still landed in the forties. So it was the mirror’s magic who controlled where it brought Harry, and not him. 

He just wondered why the mirror would want him to go back there.

Considering Riddle’s words from yesterday, it was possible that magic itself was choosing his destination. Maybe it was so that Harry could go back to the past and get rid of Riddle. Did it hate him, for all the things he’d done to the wizarding world, for breaking his soul apart into seven pieces? Could magic really feel such things? He didn’t know.

Harry stepped away from the mirror and walked around a big bed frame that was leaned a big shelf of sorts, and towards the left end of the room. 

Finding Riddle had taken ages last time, and if Harry hadn’t stumbled into his general direction and had seen the light burning, he would’ve searched the room for days without finding him. But now, fortunately, he knew to some extent where it was, and it only took a few missed turns and a little searching to find the place.

The first thing he noticed when stepping closer was that the light wasn't on.

He slowly approached the cabinet which stood between him and the place and glanced out carefully with his wand gripped tight in his hand. He almost expected to see Riddle there, sitting in the armchair and waiting to ambush Harry in the dark with cold eyes and a curse on his lips.

What he found instead was a deserted place with an equally empty armchair.

He let out a sigh of relief and lowered his trembling wand. Breathing deeply and trying to calm his anxiously beating heart, Harry stepped out of the cabinet.

Honestly, it had been a surprise he had survived yesterday. As a precaution, Harry’s wand had always been within reach, in case Riddle suddenly decided he’d grown bored with him. It would’ve only been expected, really, with the way Voldemort had always treated him. 

Harry stepped closer to the coffee table and noticed an empty cup and the newspaper standing on it. He frowned.

Really, this place was surprisingly cozy. If he would’ve guessed how a young Voldemort would furnish his place, he would have thought there to be a lot of metal, darkness, and stone. 

Never in his life would he have thought of this warm place, with a soft carpet and furniture made out of dark oak. The lamp illuminated the whole place with a flick of Harry’s wand wasn’t cold and sterile as he would have expected, but warm and bright. It hovered there above the coffee table, attached to nothing but air. The place had a distinct magical feeling about itself, like Hogwarts itself did.

Shaking his head, Harry made a beeline for the bookshelf which separated the couch and study table. He had noticed it yesterday already but was glad he could take a closer look at it, now that Riddle wasn’t here.

Stepping closer to it, Harry noticed something odd; a lot of the books he’d seen yesterday were gone. The most notable absence was that of a black, thick book he’d noticed last time that had a drawing of the Grim Reaper on its cover. He had almost chuckled out loud when he noticed it, because even if this place didn't at all fit in with the image Harry had created of Riddle, at least the books matched it.

But now, when he looked through the books, it seemed as if Riddle had deliberately sorted them out. The only ones remaining seemed to be either old school books or harmless, second-hand one’s Riddle must’ve bought in his first few years at Hogwarts.

Harry sighed and walked away from the shelf, sinking down on the couch. Leaning his head over the back of the sofa, he glanced up at the far-away ceiling. Maybe he shouldn’t have come here so early. It made sense for Riddle to not yet be here, but it was still disappointing. Harry just hoped he would appear sometime later, or else the whole trip would be pointless. 

Unable to stay seated there, waiting for Riddle to arrive, Harry stood up again. It shouldn’t be hard to find something to do in here, right?

An hour later, after wandering through the room once more, still unsure whether it had an end, Harry sat down on the couch and set a newfound kettle and a box filled with tea leaves down onto the coffee table.

When Riddle entered the space of half an hour later, Harry was just pouring in a cup of tea, grieving the absence of sugar. In the corner of his eyes, he saw Riddle literally freeze, and Harry smugly noticed that he looked just as surprised as when he first stumbled into Harry last week.

“Good afternoon,” Harry said nicely. “You want some tea?”

Riddle stared at him for a few more seconds before clearing his throat and saying, "Good afternoon, Harry. What are you doing?"

“Ah, I got here early and decided to look around a bit. There’s some really interesting stuff around here, you know? I found some tea leaves, a kettle and a cup, and thought ‘Why not make tea?’.” He glanced up at Riddle and forced up a nice smile, “So, you want some?”

Riddle looked at the box with tealeaves, suspicious, “I’d rather not. If you wish to poison yourself with unknown tea, then do it.”

Harry shrugged and took a sip of the cup. “Suit yourself.”

Riddle walked over, putting his books down onto the small coffee table, and settled into the armchair. “I didn’t think you’d return so quickly. What brought this about?”

“Ah, well, I’m staying here in Hogwarts for the next few weeks and got bored this morning. Normally I don't like to stay in the castle, ‘cause I can't go to school here but since I found this room, it's been really fun.”

“Why aren’t you attending classes? Wouldn’t make sense, staying where Professor Merrythought is?”

“Auntie doesn’t want me to go to her lessons. And anyway, I’ve always been schooled from home, so it’s not that big of a deal.” He paused for a second, searching for another subject. His eyes fell down to the book’s Riddle had set down onto the coffee table. “You study here?”

“Yes, normally, but now that you’re here I can’t quite do that,” Riddle gave a quiet chuckle, and Harry moved his arm out of Riddle’s sight, fumbling for his wand.

He should kill him right now. Riddle would be off guard, now that they’ve met again and nothing happened. “Why not? I don’t mind.”

“Yes, but it is no problem. I am ahead in most subjects and do the homework in advance,” Riddle said, and Harry leaned forward. It would be so easy. Just a quick spell and Riddle would be laying there, petrified, or even dead. It would be so easy. 

So why was he still hesitating? 

Riddle was a future mass murderer, hell, from what Dumbledore had told Harry a few weeks ago he already was one. He had killed his father, his grandparents, and Myrtle, and would kill countless others in the future. It would be right to kill him. He didn’t deserve to live. 

Yet, he hesitated.

Harry settled back in his seat, putting the wand back. Not yet, he thought. He wasn’t ready. “Oh, so you’re that smart.” he answered after a few seconds too long, “Maybe I should take my homework with me next time, see if you can help me.” 

Riddle smiled at him, “Maybe you should. Though I’m not sure how much of a help I would be.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d be able to help me. My teachers have long since given up on me.”

Riddle politely chuckled and changed the subject, “So, Harry what do you think of last week’s events? It was common talk at the Slytherin table, but I thought it would be quite interesting to hear an outsider’s perspective on it.”

Harry gulped. What the bloody hell was Riddle talking about? Damn you, Professor Binns, for only ever speaking of the Goblin Wars. Harry had no clue what had been going on in the 1940s, let alone this specific week in November. 

Trying not to sound too desperate, Harry said, “Er, I don’t really know what you mean. Lots of things have happened lately, and I’ve not really been up to date with all of it.”

Riddle looked surprised, "I was referring to the fact that Grindelwald crossed the borders of Britain a few days ago."

Harry cursed inside his mind. That was too big of an event to just not know about. Merlin, maybe he should’ve researched the 1940s. “What do you mean, you want my opinion? I obviously don’t like it.”

“Yes, I thought you’d say that.” Riddle said, sounding thoughtful, “See, the Slytherins can’t seem to decide if Grindelwald’s arrival is a good thing or not. Though few would dare to openly support him.”

“Well, for me his politics are dangerous,” Harry said, grasping at straws, “I’m a half-blood after all.”

Riddle suddenly sat up straight, “You are?”

“Yes? You got a problem with that?” ‘Isn’t he a half-blood as well?’ 

“No, no, not at all, I’m just not used to it.”

‘Bullshit’, Harry thought, but before he could decide whether he should say something about Riddles blood status, he’d had already moved on.

“So, what are your favorite subjects?” It seemed like he had given up on trying to talk about politics and Harry breathed out in relief, settling back in his seat.

“Defense, I guess.”

Riddle settled back well and smiled, speaking in a tone Harry couldn’t quite place. “Mine as well. Professor Merrythought is a very skilled teacher.”

Harry forced up an enthusiastic smile. “Yeah, she is! She teaches me from time to time, during holidays.”

Riddle smiled as well and said, “Might you be interested in a duel sometime, then? You were really skilled in that fight we had on our first meeting.”

Harry flinched, smile falling from his face. “Er,” he stuttered. Merlin, he had completely forgotten about that.

Riddle just looked at him expectantly.

“Sure, er, we can do that. But uh, about that first meeting…” he said slowly, his hand going back to the wand hidden in his sleeve. “I’m sorry about attacking you all of the sudden. I wasn’t thinking straight.”

Riddle said nothing, just looking at him. 

Harry nervously continued, fiddling with his wand. “Y’see it was my first time in here, and I touched some stuff that I shouldn’t have.” He paused. “And er, I might have been hallucinating a bit?”

It sounded like a question, and Harry was unsure whether Riddle would buy it. He sat there tensely, ready to jump out of his seat and fight if he needed to, watching Riddle’s movements. Merlin, he was glad he hadn’t decided to attack before. Now that he knew Riddle hadn’t forgotten about their fight like Harry had, it was probable that he would’ve been ready for Harry to attack again.

Riddle sighed and eyed the teabags and kettle standing on the coffee table, “That really doesn't surprise me as much as it should.” 

Harry gave a nervous chuckle. “Yeah. I’m sorry I didn’t bring it up before. It was a bit awkward,” he paused, “I’ll bring some proper tea with me next time, if you want, as an apology?”

Riddle glanced at him, startled, “You don’t have to. It is quite alright. Besides,” he said, gesturing to the tea box, “If you’re still feeling healthy, then it seems we have perfectly fine tea here,” Then, almost as if teasing, “You’re not hallucinating right now, are you, Harry?”

Harry felt blood rush to his face. “I’m fine, thanks!”

Riddle chuckled and continued, “Though maybe you have gained immunity to suspicious substances by now, judging from your history?”

“I’ll just bring some next time, yeah?” he said, scowling, and then, hesitantly, he asked, “Is there some kind of tea you want?”

“Flavours, you mean?” Riddle looked caught off guard, “That’s difficult. I mean, I do like chamomile, but for this setting, a good Earl Grey would perhaps be more fitting…”

He rambled on, and as Harry sat there, listening to Riddle rant about different tea flavors, he realized something with sinking horror;

The man before him was decisively different from the Voldemort Harry knew.

And that would make killing him much more difficult.

Chapter Text

Harry made his way out of the common room, books tucked beneath his arm.

Hermione had sent him away, together with his homework and a stern warning that she wouldn’t help him do his homework this time. It wasn’t his fault that he completely forgot about it until today, but someone tell that Hermione.

He had left Ron behind in a similarly desperate state as Harry himself was in, hunched over a table, staring down at his essay and laughed at by the twins.

Harry gave a deep sigh as he walked past a big window, looking out at the darkening sky. It was too late to ask any of his other friends for help, and not doing it wasn’t an option either. An angry Professor Macgonegall first thing in the morning would be like hell.

So, he made himself on the way to the only hope left. 

Strange that he’d ever think of Riddle as a source of hope.

A few weeks had come and passed ever since Harry had befriended Riddle, and he felt more conflicted than ever. More than once, he’d had the chance to kill Riddle, but never actually followed through with it. Couldn't bring himself to, always found himself faltering in the last moment, wand trembling.

He didn’t know why. It wasn’t that he feared regret or the consequences that killing Riddle would bring. He wouldn’t mind risking his life if it meant Voldemort would be dead and stayed that way.

Problem was, he couldn’t see Voldemort in Riddle anymore. And so he couldn’t bring himself to go through with killing him.

Sometimes, he almost forgot who Riddle was, who he would be. It was easy to only see the brilliant mind, the quick retards, and the charming smile. And in those moments, Harry found himself staring at Riddle, unable to find the monster he would become. Then, he couldn’t see the killer in Riddle.

Was it pity? 

Dumbledore had told him of the little boy he’d met at the orphanage, utterly abandoned by both father and mother, and Harry knew exactly how that felt. Maybe some part in him even felt as if there still was something inside Riddle that could be saved. As if he wasn’t all bad.

His conflicted morals seemed to grow worse every time he met up with Riddle. Which was quite often, unfortunatly. They saw each other every few days, and each time the hole Harry had dug for himself seemed to only get bigger and bigger. 

Harry sighed and pushed the door to the Room of Hidden things open, shoving his morals deep down. 

He would need to ignore them for the next few hours.

Tom had seen many strange things in the few weeks he’d known Harry, but the face he made now, throwing a pile of books on the coffee table before them, was one of the strangest.

He glanced up from his own scroll of parchment and raised an eyebrow at Harry.

“Can you help me with my homework?”

Tom straightened up in his seat, surprised. Harry never asked for help. Even if it was only a helping hand after one of their duels, or a quick healing spell after hurting himself, he never let Tom help him.

Leaning back, he put on a nice smile. This could be beneficial for the progress of their relationship. “That depends on the subject.”

Harry sat down on the couch. “It’s transfiguration. I forgot I had to do it ‘till tomorrow.” 

Tom felt his eye twitch and did his best not to feel irritated at Harry’s indolence. With a deep breath and a sharpening of his smile, Tom spoke, “Alright, let’s see if I can help you. But only for a favor.”

“What kind?” asked Harry hesitantly, shuffling in his seat.

“I haven’t quite decided yet.” Harry looked at him suspiciously, lifting an eyebrow. Only fair, Tom thought and added, “Don’t worry. I won’t ask anything unreasonable.”

Harry still seemed wary, but a few seconds later he gave in and sighed, “Sure, then. But don’t try anything weird.”

“Of course, Harry,” he smiled and stood up, “Now, shall we go to the table over there?”

Harry following behind him, they made their way over to the small study table which stood behind Tom’s bookshelf. Sitting down, Harry put the books down on to the table and Tom curiously grabbed the top one. “Quite a collection you have here,” he said, turning it around. “I never knew Bedelia Reviee had published books on that matter.”

“Er, yes, I think it’s a new one,” Harry snatched it from his hand and put it back on the pile, “I just took them with me just in case. But,” he handed over a scroll of paper, “depending on how good you are with Human Transfiguration we might not need them.”

Tom took the scroll and swiftly rolled it open. At once, his eyes were confronted with a page of messy, slanted writing and he squinted down at the paper. “Is this your handwriting? I have to say, I expected something a bit more… refined from a homeschooled student.”

Harry looked huffy, “You can’t read it?”

“No, that should be fine. It’s just… different than what I’m used to.”

“Bet you just stare at your own writing all day long,” Harry grumbled, “Of course you’d be used to better.”

Tom smiled at Harry, “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment”

“I was trying to say you’re a narcissistic ass, but sure,” Harry said with a scowl.

Tom chuckled. Harry certainly had grown more confident in the last couple of weeks, hadn’t he? He seemed to become more and more open every time Tom did something nice for him. It made him want to try to always be polite, even in Harry's most infuriating moments. 

Though he wasn’t quite sure why, he’d be the one to put in more effort, not Harry. That was how friendship usually worked for Tom, after all. That was if Harry could even be counted as a friend. He certainly wasn’t like any other friends Tom had.

Harry grinned back at him and then gestured to the paper in Tom’s hands. “Now, can you do something about that mess there? I already wrote that introduction there this evening, but I was getting stuck on the whole Human-to-Object thing.”

“Well, it’s quite simple, really.” Tom began, putting the scroll back onto the table. “You have to apply the same logic as for the transformation of animals into inanimate objects. It would require a lot of practice to implement, but it should still come easier than other spells for Human Transfiguration.”

Harry hummed doubtfully, settling back in his seat, “And that logic is?”

“Well, if you would transfigure a cat into a candle, for example, you’d have to take the material, the size, and, of course, the awareness into consideration. The candle would still feel aware like a cat would, but now of its form as a candle instead of a human’s. We know that from the experiences of humans who were transfigured into an object. They change form, but their being itself is still the same.

“For me, when I wish to transfigure an animal into an inanimate object, it’s as if I take the animal and push it into a different form. Based on the accounts of others, I've heard that sometimes it feels like warping or kneading the animal it into the desired form–”

“Wait, wait, wait.” Harry interrupted him, pulling a feather and ink out of nowhere and opening the parchment. After jotting down a few sentences, Harry glanced up and asked, “Can you repeat that?”

Tom cleared his throat and started from the beginning. It felt nice, having someone listen so attentively to everything he said, so very different from the feeling the Death Eaters gave him. With them, it often felt as if his words, or even Tom himself, were being worshipped. 

And while he often relished that feeling, he found that having Harry listen to him, not as a follower, but as something almost like a friend, felt better than that. 

When Harry, instead of just accepting his words without questioning them, would look up at him with rapt eyes and ask him questions, Tom found himself almost feeling giddy, for some reason. 

He scowled at himself and grabbed a book from the stack, turning it in his hand. Then, his eyes fell from the book onto Harry’s hand, the one who was steading the parchment, and the faint scar on it. 

Weird.

With a glance up at Harry, who looked completely absorbed in the text, he scooted closer. It seemed to be words of some sort. Did someone carve them in there? He frowned and tried to read them. It seemed to be in the same shaky, messy handwriting of Harry’s. Did he do this to himself? But why would he?

He knew from experience that asking Harry about his scars didn’t go down well. He had done so before, after all.

He remembered the moment well, when, in the midst of one of their duels, Tom had shot a Ventus at Harry. The spell made a strong wind gust from Tom’s wand, so strong that everything around him, including Harry, got pressed back, away from Tom. Harry's clothes had billowed in the wind and he had been forced to lift a hand to shield his eyes from the gust. 

Even his hair, which normally lay stubbornly on Harry's face, had been pushed back by the wind, revealing an odd scar beneath.

In his surprise, Tom had let go of the spell, and Harry had stormed forward, knocking him onto the floor. It had been one of the first times Harry had won against him, and so he’d looked utterly elated when glancing down on Tom, a grin on his face. 

But it had vanished just moments later when Tom had lifted his hand, as if in a trance, and brought it up to Harry’s forehead, brushing the hair away. Immediately, Harry had flinched back from Tom’s touch, stumbling up on his feet.

And until Tom had gotten to his feet and asked him about the scar, Harry’s whole face had been closed off, turning away from Tom. The words had died in his throat and he hadn’t even complained when Harry gave a nonsensical excuse and had stormed away, leaving Tom behind. He hadn’t seen him again that day.

So, no, he didn’t think asking Harry about yet another odd scar would be a good idea.

He turned to look up at Harry again, shaking his head only to see him already looking at Tom with a puzzled expression on his face, “Are you alright, Riddle?”

Tom cleared his throat. “Yes, of course, excuse me. So, as I was saying…”

About an hour later, Tom had his head propped up with his arm, looking over at Harry tiredly. He had just finished reading through the easy, and pointed out a few mistakes to Harry, and was now watching him go over them again. 

He only narrowly stopped a yawn when Harry did, and instead leaned more on his arm, turning his head to look down at the dark oak of the table.

"Is someone tired?"

Tom lifted his head and glared at a smirking Harry, "You're the one yawning, not me."

“I’m not the one nearly falling asleep.”

Tom sneered, “I wasn’t.” 

“Sure, sure,” Harry dipped his feather into the ink and continued writing, “You know, I’m nearly finished here. You can go if you want.”

“I’m fine.”

Harry glared at him. “I mean it, Riddle. It’s already been late when I got here, and you got to school in the morning. I don’t wanna be the one to blame for your grumpiness.”

“I am never grumpy.” From the corner of his eyes, Tom saw Harry roll his eyes. He ignored it, and instead continued in his nicest voice, “But it would be fairly unproductive for me to stay here if you don’t need my help anymore. And anyway, when you arrived here, I had been just about to retire. So yes, you’ll fully be to blame for my lack of sleep tomorrow.”

“See? Grumpy.”

“Oh, shut up, Harry,” he suppressed a smile, and stood up. “Don’t stay here for much longer. You need enough sleep as well.”

“Believe me, I won’t. As soon as I’ve got something of an acceptable essay I’ll be out of here. Sleep well, Riddle.”

“You too,” Tom mumbled and walked away. Before stepping behind the bookshelf, however, he turned around, “By the way, if you ever need assistance with your homework again, I would gladly be of help.”

Harry stared at him for a few seconds, looking absolutely puzzled, before breaking out into a wide grin, “Thanks, Riddle! But I suppose you’d ask more favors of me every time?”

Tom grinned back sharply, “Of course I would. Don’t be stupid,” He turned back around, “See you, Harry.”

“Bye!” 

And with that, Tom stepped out into the darkness that laid behind his lounge. The mountains of objects seemed oddly eerie in the darkness, but Tom wasn’t scared, not like he assumed Harry would be. He walked past display case filled with skulls, vile potions, and jars with pickled eyes. The eyes looked at him as he passed and Tom looked back, a smile on his face.

No, Tom was only scared of one thing. And, he thought, smile widening sharply, it was about time he got rid of it.

When Tom arrived at the dungeon, he entered the common room with cold determination pooling in his stomach. But he was only halfway across the room when someone approached him from the side. 

“Excuse me,” the person hesitantly spoke up, and Tom felt a flash of anger at the interruption.

“Yes?” he snarled and saw as the person took a step back. Tom turned face to face to them and noticed it was one of his followers, Rodolphus Lestrange.

“There had been plans for a meeting tonight. Have you forgotten?” Tom glared at him and he nervously continued, “I just wanted to ask if you wished to hold it now, my Lord.”

"No. We can do it sometime else, I don't care. Leave me alone now.” And with that, Tom stepped away from Lestrange and entered the dorms. Crossing the way over to his bed in the far corner, he took a folded nightgown out of the trunk and put it on. Then, he pulled the curtains to his bed close, and settled down onto his bed, finally allowing a sharp grin to take place on his face as he stared up at the ceiling. 

It was time for some planning.

Back in the Room of Requirement, Harry just finished with his essay and was rolling it up slowly, careful to not smudge the ink. Then he buckled it and his books beneath his arm and walked away, turning the light off with a quick spell. 

It was strange, seeing the room covered in darkness. It never got as bright in here as outside with no sunlight shining into the room, hence the warm lights Riddle had put up all around the lounge, but it never was this dark. 

Normally, the Room of Requirement didn’t seem affected by time at all. It hadn’t been when he and the other members of Dumbledore’s Army had trained in here, and it wasn’t during his meetings with Riddle. It seemed timeless, not part of the rest of the castle. 

That he found the same objects standing when switching between the times certainly didn't help either.

A loud creak sounded from somewhere behind Harry and he jumped, glancing around, startled. Finding nothing out of place, he hesitantly turned around towards the exit again, fastening his steps. 

He wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.

Finally, the mirror came into sight, and Harry practically flew towards it. Standing before it, he glanced around carefully in the darkness before it and took his wand out. He cast a spell to be sure that Riddle wasn’t waiting around somewhere, watching Harry, and sighed in relief when he stepped through the mirror.

He had learned the spell exactly for this, to make absolutely sure that Riddle never found out about the mirror. 

When he finally reached the exit, Harry cast a quick disillusionment charm on himself and his things. He wasn’t quite sure what time it was, and if curfew was already in place, but he’d rather not risk it. Then he pushed the door open and exited the room, a smile on his face. This evening had been rather successful, he thought. Riddle had been more open with him than ever, maybe because of the late hour. Maybe he should do this more often, get Riddle to put his guard do–

“Petrificus Totalus!”

A red light shot in his direction and hit his side before he could dodge, freezing him halfway out of the door. Another spell swiftly undid his disillusionment charm and left Harry standing there, feeling oddly helpless and scared. 

He felt a drop of sweat run down his face as footsteps sounded from his right, and he wanted desperately to brush it away, grab his wand and make a run for it.

“Potter. I should have known.”

Harry cursed himself in his mind. 

He completely forgot about Malfoy.

Draco Malfoy entered his field of vision, his wand held tightly in front of him. Harry didn’t know if it was out of fear or anger. Probably the latter. 

“What have you been doing inside that room?” he snarled, stepping closer. Ah yes, it was definitely the latter.

He paused, as if awaiting Harry’s response, and Harry glared at him.

“Ah, yes, you can’t speak.” He swiftly undid the charm, but as soon as Harry got his wand out, books falling forgotten onto the floor, it was kicked from his hand. A second later, Malfoy was upon him and pressed the wand to Harry’s throat threateningly. “Now, you better answer me, Potter.”

Harry glanced at the wand and said, “Er, homework?”

Malfoy scowled and dug his wand firmer into Harry's throat, making him gasp for air, “Try again.”

“I mean it,” Harry said desperately. “Those’re my books down there!”

Malfoy didn’t even look at them, “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, that’s your problem.” Harry said between gasps, “Now, let me go.”

Malfoy ignored him. “How did you find this room?”

“You already know that! The others and I had lessons in there last year–”

“No, that was another room.” Malfoy interrupted him, “I meant that specific one.”

“It’s only a room, Malfoy! Who says I haven’t created it for myself?”

“That is not just any room, Potter! Don’t you dare talk your way out of this.”

“Why, ‘cause it’s the same one you use?” Harry said and smiled down at him. Big mistake.

Malfoy smashed him right against the nearest wall, Harry's head crashing painfully into it. "What were you doing in there? What do you know, Potter?!"

“I don’t know anything, Malfoy!” Harry cried angrily, closing his eyes in pain, “Leave me alone!”

“You’re the one not leaving other people’s business alone. This room is mine,” he growled, “do you understand?!”

Harry glared at him and had already opened his mouth when loud steps rang out in the corridor beside him. A prefect.

Malfoy seemed to notice it too and glanced around, panicky. He pulled his wand back and said, “This isn’t finished, Potter.”

A moment later, he was gone, vanished behind a corner, and Harry put his disillusionment charm back just in time when the prefect rounded the corner, wand outstretched in his hand. 

Harry stood there against the wall, being as still as possible as he waited for the prefect to leave the corridor. Then, he pushed himself off the wall and slowly and rubbed his throat. There was sure to be a big, fat bruise there tomorrow.

Maybe this wasn’t such a great evening after all.

Chapter Text

The next few days, Harry avoided the Great Hall, instead opting to go to the kitchen to eat. He watched out to never leave the Gryffindor Tower without one of his friends by his side, both to lessen the probability of a fight and to have a backup in case one did break out. He swallowed down his pride and annoyance at having to stay passive like this, and suppressed the desire to reach for his wand whenever he saw Malfoy in the corner of his eyes. Then, during class, he avoided Malfoy’s stare.

Because he still had to go to class, of course, no matter how little he wanted to. 

Sneaking off to meet Riddle had grown much more complicated now, pretty much impossible. He couldn’t leave the common room alone as it was, much less sneak off to the exact spot Malfoy was frequently lingering about. It was all so annoying.

But it would be even more annoying to fight Malfoy. Harry didn’t have any energy left to deal with him at the moment. He would just have to wait and see if Malfoy’s frenzy lessened enough for him to leave the common room without friends. 

At the pace that they were going at, Harry doubted it.

Harry sighed and laid his quill down on the table, glancing at Professor Sprout with a tired expression and half-closed eyes, very much ignoring Malfoy sitting somewhere on his right. It was all so very tiresome.

How could he have been so stupid to forget about Malfoy in the first place? He should’ve been on guard, watching out for any sign of Malfoy, and maybe then he would’ve at least been able to defend himself properly. But as he was, forgetting the very reason he was there in the first place, he hadn’t even been able to fight back.

Harry propped his head up on the table and looked over at the plant sitting before him. It was an ugly thing, thick, thorn-covered vines growing out of a stump that swung around violently when provoked. Harry didn’t want to go anywhere near it. In the background, Professor Sprout babbled on, talking about the dangerous and disgusting plant they would be looking at in this lesson. Or Harry assumed it was dangerous or gross, at least. It always was either of those things in Herbology.

In his boredom, Harry only narrowly avoided glancing over at Malfoy, who was glaring at him intently, just like he had for the last few days. The whole time, Harry had managed to ignore him to the best of his abilities, but now, in the last lesson of the day after having to deal with Malfoy’s hateful stares for the whole last week, Harry’s patience was wearing thin. Suddenly, the idea of glancing over and provoking Malfoy seemed much more appealing.

So, despite knowing better, Harry glanced away from the plant, the table, Professor Sprout, and whatever else he’d looked at to kill his boredom, and looked at Malfoy. Over the plants arranged in the middle of the table, Harry caught his eyes and lifted an eyebrow as if to say, ‘What’re you gonna do?’.

And Merlin, he knew that it’d have consequences later, but at that moment, he couldn’t find it in him to care. It was way too much fun to see Malfoy visibly shaking in anger as Harry smirked at him and then turned back to Professor Sprout.

Merlin, Malfoy was really staring at him all the time, wasn’t he? Harry wouldn’t be surprised if there were be rumors going around about that in a few days’ time.

Shuddering at the idea, Harry turned his attention to the Professor, actually listening to this time, just in time to hear the last words of her sentence when she suddenly spun around and looked at him.

“–ouldn’t you agree, Mister Potter?”

“Huh?” Harry said dumbfounded, chin lifted off his hand, and giggles rose all around the room as Professor Sprout smiled smugly at him.

“I am just curious if you support Miss Brown's answer to my earlier question?”

“Er, which one?”

The smile widened. “I asked when the best time to harvest Snargaluff pods would be.”

Harry stared at her for a moment, before eventually replying, “No idea, honestly”

“Ah,” she said, as if she expected that answer. To be honest, she probably had. She turned away from him again and continued her lesson. Harry turned away again, back to the plant in front of him, which he now guessed were called Snargaluffs.

Both gross and dangerous plants, Harry thought as he watched one of them catch a fly with its tentacle-like vine and shifted back in his seat. His eyes drifted over to his right once again and caught Malfoy’s, who was looking at him rather smugly. Harry scowled at him and rolled his eyes. Very obviously. So that Malfoy had most definitely seen it.

It kind of felt like playing with fire, provoking Malfoy like this. But Harry had been handling hellfire ever since he’d stumbled across Riddle and had begun expecting to be killed every other day. 

This was nothing but a match-flame compared to that. Nothing he couldn’t handle.

He knew that wouldn’t be the end of the story, but he decided he’d have his fun with Malfoy for as long as he could.

It was, in fact, not the end of the story, and Harry almost wanted to feel mad about it.

He had lasted about two days before Malfoy had caught him in one of the corridors outside the Room of Requirement. 

It was the day he and Riddle planned to meet up for one of their duels, something Harry couldn’t really ignore. That’s why he had been forced to make himself on the way to the seventh floor today, sneaking through the corridors with the Invisibility Cloak draped over his shoulders.

But, exactly because he was underneath his cloak, he hadn’t been as careful as he could’ve been, not paying special attention to his surroundings, nor using his newly acquired Corpus-revelation spell to check if anyone was nearby.

And that was how Malfoy eventually caught him.

Harry had walked peacefully along the corridor, minding his business with his head miles away, when suddenly, he felt himself stepping onto something wet and sticky. He stepped back, tearing his shoe off the ground, when a moment later, a loud wailing noise rang out, echoing painfully off the stone walls. Immediately, he stepped away from it, ears ringing and looking around frantically for some sign of whatever had caused the noise, only to see Malfoy burst out of a nearby corridor and dart straight towards the spot where Harry was standing.

A trap. Of course.

Panicking, he dove out of the way, nearly slamming into a nearby wall. Never had he been so glad for his Invisibility Cloak as when he ran towards the Room of Requirement and saw Malfoy searching for him frantically in the spot he’d just been standing in. By the time he had reached the entrance of the Room of Requirement, however, Malfoy had realized Harry was no longer standing there and was dashing towards him. Just in time, Harry managed to pace before the door three times and yank it open, trying to escape into the Room. He knew that once the door fell close behind Malfoy, he’d have no way of reaching Harry again. 

But then, just as he stepped over the threshold, Harry was yanked back by his cloak, back out of the door. Only just, he grabbed onto the cold metal of the doorframe, saving him from falling down and sprawling onto the floor. 

Then, in a move of desperation, Harry let go of the cloak, Malfoy falling back and onto the floor, and used to momentum to scoop it back up and run through the door.

As fast as he could, Harry sprinted inside the room, ducking behind a cupboard that was lying sideways on the floor. His back was pressed harshly against the wood of it as he gasped for breath, gripping his cloak tight to his chest and waiting to hear the heavy thump of the door falling close.

“Potter!”

Well, there goes that.

With a smile on his face, Harry peered out from behind the cupboard, looking for any sign of Malfoy. Finding none, he pulled his head back and leaned it back against the firm wood, trying to stifle his loud breathing.

Then, suddenly, a red light shot towards him from his left, slamming right into the floor before Harry. Cursing loudly, he shot up from his hiding spot, turning his head to the direction the spell had come from. Malfoy stood there, wand stretched out before him and a frenzied look on his face.

Better to run, now.

Another spell whizzed past him, this time crashing into the display case behind Harry, its milky glass exploding into little shards and splattering all over the floor.

“How’d you find me?!” Harry yelled, and ducked behind a table, running away as fast as he could.

“You’re not the only one who knows this room, you know!”

Harry scoffed quietly and turned around, sneaking straight away from the direction Malfoy’s voice had come from.

“You can’t outrun me forever, Potter!”

Swallowing down his response, Harry dove behind a small cabinet, just big enough to cover Harry, hopefully far enough away from Malfoy to give himself a breather.

Harry didn’t know what to do. Running back to the exit would only prolong the problem, and though he was perfectly fine with that, he still had a meeting with Riddle as planned today. But he could hardly run towards the mirror either, with Merlin-knows-what spells still sticking to him.

No, they’d have to resolve this right now. 

Though Harry didn’t quite know what there even was to resolve. Pent-up aggression? Because the way it was now, it didn’t look as if they’d be able to just talk about this. Not with Malfoy running around, crashing Harry into walls and cursing him.

Sighing, Harry stood up and walked back towards the direction Malfoy had last stood in, probably on his way to make a huge mistake. But well, in a fair battle of magical strength, Harry thought his chances weren’t that bad. Especially with the stuff he learned from Riddle in the last few weeks. Weird, that, learning spells from someone you would eventually have to use them against.

“Malfoy! I’m here!”

Then, closing his eyes with a deep breath, he cast the Corpus-charm, which gave him an acute sense of every living being around him. Namely, Malfoy hiding behind a cabinet a few steps away, watching Harry like the creep he was.

He spun around and walked towards it. He felt Malfoy backing away from it, turning to sneak away. Talk about a chase reversed.

“I know where you are, Malfoy. There’s no use in running away. Now, do you wanna talk about this or fight?” Harry spoke firmly into the silence. One should always offer a peaceful way to end things, even if the chances of the opponent taking it were rather slim.

His question was answered a few moments later, when Harry was forced to open his eyes, seeing as a red light shot out behind the cabinet that only missed Harry’s shoulder by a hairsbreadth. The Corpus-charm vanished then, and Harry sprinted towards the cabinet. Fighting it is, then.

Malfoy seemed to have given up on running away as well, standing behind the cabinet and waiting for Harry. A blue light awaited him when he got there, and he ducked out of its way and fixed Malfoy with a glare. It slammed into a tower of books behind him, which came tumbling down and spraying books towards them both. He moved forward, before springing the right to dodge yet another one of Malfoy’s spells, flying towards him at high speed. (If it was Riddle facing him, the spells would have come much more frequently and faster, to the point where Harry’s head would have hurt from trying to keep up with them.) Shaking his head, Harry raised his wand in Malfoy’s direction and mumbled Caecho under his breath, making a blinding, white light erupt from the tip of his wand, which had Malfoy closing his eyes and stepping back. Perfect.

In the time in which Malfoy had recovered and opened his eyes, Harry had moved forward. With a quick spell, Malfoy was thrown back and sprawled onto the stone floor, head bumping against it.

Harry was standing over him a second later and fixed his limbs onto the floor with a fixing charm. 

“Well? Are you satisfied now?” Harry asked, crossing his arms and looking down on Malfoy. Stars were probably dancing before his eyes at the moment, making it hard to focus and think. Harry would know, since he’d been on the receiving end of the Blinding Spell himself a few too many times. 

Malfoy frantically yanked on his arms and glared at Harry, not replying.

Harry sighed and crouched down next to Malfoy. “Look, I have no interest in fighting you. Just tell me what you want, and we’ll see if we can figure something out, alright?”

Malfoy glared at him for a long moment, staring into Harry’s eyes with more hatred than a human should ever have business possessing. Harry stared back, of course, with a smile on his face. He had no plans whatsoever of letting Malfoy get out of this without talking to him, and Malfoy seemed to know that too, because a second later he let out a deep breath and stopped fighting against Harry’s spell. “Fine. But undo the spell first.”

Harry smiled, “Of course. But I’ll take this.” he bent down and plucked the wand right out of Malfoy’s hand before letting him go.

Malfoy slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his head where he hit the floor with one hand and fixing his hair with the other, staring at Harry with obvious suspicion in his eyes.

Harry sighed. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to attack you out of nowhere. I’m not you after all. Now tell me, what brought all of this on?”

Malfoy crossed his arms and stepped back, leaning against a nearby cupboard. “I want to know what you’re doing inside this room.”

“I quite like it in here, thank you very much,” Harry snapped back.

Malfoy’s eyes twitched. “That may be. But you want something from it, don’t you? What do you know?”

“Nothing much,” Harry said, nervously running his hand through his hair. Lying wouldn’t achieve anything right now, and he wanted to get this over with once and for all, even if it was a hassle. If he wanted Malfoy out of his hair, he would have to tell the truth. Not all of it, though, of course, but still the truth. “I followed you in here, but haven’t actually found anything. And then, while going through the room, I’ve come to enjoy spending time in it.”

He looked away from Malfoy, out into the room. He glanced over the big atlas standing around on a nearby shelf, or the ornate duck lying on the floor beside him, probably some ancient pureblood’s toy. Malfoy said nothing.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? This room, I mean.”

“I guess,” Malfoy said quietly, “Look, you can’t stay in here. I have something to do, and I can’t do it with you snooping around all the time.”

Harry glared at him. “Who’s in this room isn’t up for you to decide.”

“I don’t care. I want you gone.”

“Well, I don’t want to,” Harry shot back.

“Quit being a nosy little prat, Potter, and just stay out of my business!”

Harry scowled, “Did you not listen to me?! I’m not in here for your business anymore!”

“Sorry if I don’t believe that immediately! And anyway, just you being inside this room is a nuisance!”

“Well, sorry for just existing in here, Malfoy!”

“That’s not what I–” Malfoy broke off, running his hand through his hair in frustration, “Ugh, you know what, just forget it. I’m out of here.”

He turned to stand up, but Harry quickly grabbed his hand. “Wait, we haven’t talked this out yet!”

“Well, clearly you’re not cooperating properly. What do you even want in here? Look at shiny little things?” Despite his mocking tone, Harry could hear the frustration. Malfoy tucked at his arm. “I’m in here doing important stuff, trying to be an adult and fixing my family’s mess! So just fuck off and leave me be for once in your pathetic little life!”

Harry scowled and let Malfoy’s hand go, stepping back from him. “And you tell me I’m the uncooperative one. Fine, just go. Sorry for trying to talk about this.”

Malfoy glared at him. “Just stop messing with my business and we’re good, Potter. But I really don’t have the time nor energy for your involvement right now.”

Harry crossed his arms, “Likewise.”

“Good, we agree on something then,” Malfoy sneered and held out his hand. “Now give me my wand back.”

Harry scoffed. “You’d really think I’d do that? You’ll get it tomorrow in class.”

“Potter,” he growled and stepped closer. “My wand. Now.”

“Keep dreaming, Malfoy.”

He clenched his jaw, and after a few, long moments brushed past him towards the exit. But just before he vanished past a corner, he turned back and called, “You’re pathetic.”

“So you’ve said. See you,” Without looking back, Harry walked away, into the direction of the mirror, all the while keeping tabs of his Corpus-charm. Then, stepping through it and coming out on the other side, he felt relieved in a way that he usually didn’t.

Because at least Malfoy couldn’t bother him fifty years in the past.

Arriving at the lounge, Harry slumped down onto the couch, his head bumping against the backrest. Riddle should be there any minute now, probably just kept up by one of his classmates, like he sometimes was. 

Over time, Harry had found out little tidbits about Riddle’s life outside this room over the stories he had told. Most of them were just Riddle complaining about all the people who dared to accost him. That, and his unyielding hatred towards Dumbledore. Why, he hadn’t exactly been able to figure out yet, but based on the things Dumbledore had told him about his and Riddle’s relationship, Harry had a pretty good idea.

Harry sighed, and leaned down against the armrest, directing his thoughts back to the duel he’d soon have with Riddle.

Fighting with Malfoy earlier had kind of soured the anticipation Harry’d felt for the duel. It would’ve been a great outlet for all the frustration he’d felt in the last week, but now he didn’t know if he was much in a mood for fighting.

Dueling with Riddle always had a certain pull to it. He had a way of casting spells with the precision and proficiency of someone far elder. Where Harry was more the impulsive, run-in type, Riddle always seemed to be calculating Harry’s next move and planning miles ahead. And though Harry had to constantly be on guard and pay attention so that something like in the graveyard didn’t happen, it was all very exhilarating.

Once, for example, Riddle had cast so many spells in such a brief time that Harry had been forced to run away, turning their little duel into a chase, not unlike the one he’d had with Malfoy earlier. 

But that time, Harry’d actually feared for his life as spells shot past him, only missing him by a hairsbreadth, instead crashing into nearby furniture, making them explode outward and sometimes even block his path. All Harry’d known of Riddle at that moment was based on the footsteps he’d heard from somewhere behind him, and the echo of his quick footsteps as he pursued Harry across the room.

It had been nerve-wracking and intoxicating, fun in its own way even if Riddle had eventually caught up to Harry. He had smiled down at him as Harry lay on the floor, grinning and out of breath.

Good times, that, Harry thought with a chuckle and leaned his head back to stare up at the dark ceiling.

At other times, their duels were almost technical. That was mostly when Riddle was fed up with Harry’s ignorance and decided to educate him, of all things. 

Those were the times where he would hex Harry until he got a spell right, or correct his stance over and over again until Harry cursed him in his mind. It was all under the excuse of ‘wanting a real challenge’ from Riddle, and Harry always rolled his eyes at Riddle’s antics, smiling.

But there were times where that wasn’t fun at all.

It had been their very first duel, for example. Riddle had just finally convinced him of the idea and had guided him to an open place far away from the lounge, wide enough to duel in, and Harry had grudgingly followed, having a bad feeling about the whole thing. 

And he’d been right.

When Harry then told him he’d only had one dueling lesson in his life, Riddle’d made it his first mission to teach Harry how to properly begin and end a duel. 

Harry should’ve known at that moment that this whole thing was a very bad idea.

“Go stand over there, opposite me,” Riddle had said, pointing towards a spot in the middle of the place. Harry reluctantly trotted there and turned to face Riddle, his wand gripped in his hand.

“During a proper duel, there is no skin contact allowed, though we can make an exception about that if you like. You seemed to fight very… physical, during our first fight and it would be a shame to restrict you in any way. That would only make it less interesting.” Harry had given a quick nod and Riddle continued, “So then, besides that, the only thing we need to do is to bow, both at the end and the beginning of the duel. If you are quite ready, we would begin by doing that.”

Bow to death, Harry Potter.

Harry had only been able to stare at him, frozen, while Riddle looked back expectantly, twirling the wand in his hand. “Bowing?” he’d asked in a small voice, his throat suddenly very dry, and Riddle had just glanced at him curiously. 

“That is correct. So, are you ready?”

He’d only gulped and gripped his wand tighter.

“Harry? It’s just a bow, nothing humiliating or whatever you’re thinking right now.” Then, with a hint of impatience, “Come on, we don’t have all day.”

Harry could still recall the way his fists had shaken as he clenched them to his side and gave the most minuscule bow he could manage, shoving all his panic and memories of the graveyard deep, deep down before straightening up and, without a warning, attacking viciously. 

It wasn’t a moment he was keen to remember, he had to say. The way Riddle had stood opposite him, waiting for him to continue, not at all like Voldemort, had been one of the first things to bend Harry’s morals to how they were now, twisting them and making Harry question his motives at any given moment. What a nuisance.

Harry sighed and stood up, walking over to the shelf where the kettle and tea were in. Riddle was late to their meeting, even more than usual. If Harry was forced to sit around here and wait, he at least wanted to do it with a steaming cup of tea in his hands.

Armed with a tea box and kettle, Harry sat back down on the couch. It was different tea than the one he’d found in the room a few weeks back, no, that one had been vanished by Riddle the moment Harry had brought his own tea with him, taken from the kitchen.

He’d just filled the kettle up with water with a quick Aguamenti and shot a heating charm at it, settling back in his seat when Riddle appeared out of nowhere, stepping out behind the cabinet.

Harry waved at him, a small smile on his face. “Hey, Riddle! It took you ages to get here, did something get in the way? Was it that Ravenclaw girl again, like last tim….”

He trailed off when Riddle stepped closer, and Harry got a good look at his expression. His eyebrows were drawn together so tightly that it had to hurt, and his hands were clenched into fists at his side, shaking. Almost as if he was in pain.

Harry frowned and sat up. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

Riddle glowered at him, and sat down into the armchair, looking oddly tense, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Harry said teasingly, but frowned when he saw Riddle’s hand on the armrest was trembling, “Y’know we can just postpone the duel if you’re not feeling well.”

“There’s no need for that.”

Harry frowned and, hesitantly, reached out. He thought of Sirus’s Hermione’s and Mrs. Weasley’s comforting touches whenever he was upset, a hand on his shoulder or a hug so tight he could feel all the sadness evaporate away. Maybe this could be a chance to deepen their relationship if Riddle trusted him enough to tell him what was upsetting him. Things like that always helped, right?

But the words died on his lips when his hand touched Riddle’s skin. It was ice cold.

Suddenly, Harry was back at the graveyard, trapped against the gravestone of Tom Riddle senior with no way to run, and all he could feel was pain, excruciating pain, and the icy touch of Voldemort’s finger as he touched Harry’s scar.

He flinched back from Riddle, his back bumping against the couch.

“What have you done?” Harry breathed, cradling his own hand to his chest, glancing up at Riddle with his heart beating wildly in his chest.

Riddle looked at him for a long moment, and then suddenly a smile appeared on his face, sharp and cutting as he leaned forward in his seat, towards Harry. His eyes were gleaming red. “Something I had been meaning to do for a long time. Only you and this stupid room had been stopping me from doing it earlier. But those days are over, now.”

“You…” Something gripped on Harry’s heart and tugged, something akin to horror and fear, and a second later he scrambled up, out of his seat. “I have to go.”

“What, are you scared?” Riddle’s cold, cruel laughter echoed after him as Harry spun around without answering and run away, back towards the mirror as fast as he could. He sprinted through it without pausing, stopping only when he had left the room and the door closed behind him.

He fell onto the floor, then, weakly supporting himself with his arms as he helplessly gasped for breath. A few moments later, he was already struggling to his feet again, his arms wrapped around his torso as he quietly made his way to the end of the corridor, and then up the stairs. The paintings swam before his eyes, their voices only a buzz in Harry’s ears, one he couldn’t bring himself to focus on. He stared mindlessly onto the stairs, then the stone floor, as he made his way up, up, and knocked on a door, still gasping for breath.

The door opened and Dumbledore’s colorful robe appeared before his eyes, the patterns making his head swim as a warm hand guided him to a small chair in the middle of the office, pushing him down onto it. Harry couldn’t bring himself to look up.

Only the occasional words came through to him, like breathe and happened, and Harry desperately wanted to say something, to answer Dumbledore, to explain. But all he could do was sit there on the hard chair and stare down onto the warm floor of Dumbledore’s office, trying only to focus on his breathing and the steady hand sitting on his shoulder.

Slowly, Harry came back to himself, and he could tear his eyes up to Dumbledore’s wrinkly face, no smile on it now.

“Are you alright, Harry?”

He gave a brief nod, and Dumbledore took his hand away from Harry’s shoulder. A flick of his wand later, a steaming cup of tea appeared in Harry’s hands.

“Drink this,” he turned away and pulled a chair opposite Harry, sitting down with a sigh.

Harry looked down at the cup and forced his trembling hands to push it upwards, taking a sip. Then, he glanced up at Dumbledore, who was gazing at Harry intently.

“Professor?” Harry spoke up, voice coarse. He took another sip of the tea.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Do you know when exactly Voldemort created his first Horcrux?”

A pause, then, “I can’t be certain, of course, but to my assumption, it was about this time of the year, give or take a month.” Dumbledore softly said, and Harry’s head snapped up at him. “Why are you asking me this, Harry?”

“Doesn’t matter.” He looked away from Dumbledore again. “Thank you for the tea.” With that, he pushed himself up on quivering legs and set the half-drunken tea down onto Dumbledore’s table. Not meeting his eyes, Harry turned around and walked straight out of the room. 

After exiting the office, Harry walked a few steps over and turned into a dark, empty corridor, sinking against its cold, stone wall. Sighing, he pulled his knees against his chest and leaned his head onto them, trying to breathe in deeply and think.

He and his stupid hopes. He’d only realized it now, but some silly, hopeful part of his mind had thought that he would be able to save Riddle. Harry hadn’t wanted him to turn into that monster of a man who had destroyed Harry’s life and that of so many other people. He had almost believed that there was some sort of other option besides killing him. Hell, even right at this moment, Harry’s stupid mind was trying to figure out ways to help Riddle, warn him of the person he would become one day if he continued like this.

But, of course, that was not possible. Riddle was still the same person who would become Voldemort one day. This was just another proof of this, one of many. Harry had closed his eyes to them before. Hadn’t been ready.

But his eyes were wide open now.

Chapter Text

It was late, curfew only minutes away when Tom hurried up the stairs from the dorms towards the defense classroom, hair unkempt.

Professor Merrythought’s office laid right past it, at the north-end side of Hogwarts, looking out onto the Forbidden Forest. He rushed past the long, dimly lit corridors, and came to stop just before a narrow door, out of breath. He just hoped Professor Merrythought wasn’t in bed yet.

He hesitated just a second before knocking at the door, and tensely flattened his hair down.

A few moments later, the door pushed open, and an annoyed-looking Professor appeared behind it. “What is it, Mr. Riddle? For your sake, this better be urgent.”

“Good evening to you too, Professor,” Tom answered with a thin smile and clasped his hands behind his back, “I have a question if you’d be so kind to answer it.”

She looked at him expectantly and gestured to continue, “Get on with it then.”

He cleared his throat. “It’s concerning your protégé. I was wondering where he was.”

“My what?”

“You know, Harry?” He drawled, staring at her, “The boy staying here in the castle under your guidance?”

She looked at him as if he grew a second head, brows furrowed deeply, “I have no idea who you’re talking about, Mister Riddle.”

Tom took a hasty few steps forward, and only just managed to keep his voice from becoming churlish, “There’s no need to keep up the front on around me. Harry already told me everything about his past. So, would you please just tell me where I can find him?”

“I repeat, no idea what you’re on about.”

“I’m talking about the boy I met a few months ago!” he exclaimed and stepped forward, towards Merrythought. She, however, grabbed the door, looking fully ready to slam it into his face if necessary. “Who’s staying here in the castle with you after his parents’ d–”

He broke himself off with a sense of mortification and straightened up. Merrythought was looking at him warily from behind the door, pushed partly in front of her.

He cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Professor. I must have made a mistake.” Stepping back from the door, Tom brushed his clammy hands over his robe. “I will see you tomorrow in class, I suppose?”

“Of course,” she looked wary, “Good evening.”

“You as well, Professor,” And with that, Tom turned around and hastened away, back into the dark corridor. Just before he turned the corner, he heard the door fall close behind him. 

But instead of returning to the dungeons, Tom continued towards the library. His footsteps echoed quietly off the floor as he climbed up the stairs, bare hand trailing along the stone railing. It should have felt cold in a way that was sharp and piercing, freezing his skin. He barely even felt it now.

The portraits rustled their blankets as he passed, some snoring or mumbling in their sleep. If it hadn't been so dark, Tom could have seen each of them as they lay there in their beds, not noticing him walking by.

He arrived at the broad library door, and he slowly pushed it open, careful to not wake any portraits near him. Those things often had a mind of their own, telling anyone who would listen about rule breaks and other rumors.

Tom was a prefect, but there still were some rules that were unbreakable, even for him. Luckily, he had a lot of practice sneaking about school. 

Slipping through the door and pushing it close behind him, Tom cast a faint ‘Lumos’ and continued down the row of shelves. He read their labels, the gold glimmering as he passed them, searching for a possible explanation of what happened earlier ago. 

Had Harry obliviated Merrythought, or simply lied about his past?

Either was possible. Tom hadn't thought Harry had the nerve to do something like that, but he also hadn't thought him capable of lying about his past. But if he was going to find out the secrets Harry had been keeping, obliviating people or something else, Tom would have to start with something that had been bothering him ever since he first met Harry;

His blasted hang for disappearing without a trace.

It was one thing to not find Harry anywhere at Hogwarts, neither lurking around in the corridors nor during the meals everyone was supposed to attend, visitor or not, but it was something entirely else to be following closely behind Harry, only for him to vanish a second later.

It was only yesterday that Tom, in whatever mood he had possessed him, finally gave in and went after Harry. It had been supposed to be a simple thing, lurking in the shadows and trailing him back to his quarters, finally getting a view onto the place where Harry passed his time outside their meetings. 

But he hadn’t even managed to follow him out of the room.

He remembered the moment distinctly when he sprung up from the couch only moments after Harry had darted away with that horribly beautiful look of terror on his face and hurried after him. Tom still didn't know what put Harry in such a state, his memories outside those few minutes being hazy at best, but at that moment he hadn't particularly cared.

Anyway, Harry had been running straight back towards the entry, Tom grinning madly in the shadows behind him, when Harry suddenly whizzed around and ducked below the arm of a statue and turned behind a cabinet, effectively vanishing out of sight. Tom, of course, had followed and had glanced up at the figure of a witch with a slight sense of foreboding as he passed. 

But Harry had been nowhere in sight when Tom turned the corner.

The incident still frustrated him now, walking through the library, hand gliding along the backs of books as he turned into a random row, reading the titles with only half a mind.

There, at the end of the bookshelf, Tom found himself next to a small alcove with a big window, the type that was strewn all across the castle. This one, however, managed to catch the rising moon perfectly in its thick glass. It softly illuminated the alcove with its cold light and made the colorful, Griffindor-red cushions look slightly more appealing.

After just a moment of hesitation, Tom walked over to it and took a seat. Tom leaned against the pillows and found that they were quite comfortable, despite their hideous color. He sunk deeper into them and, glancing out of the window, pulled his legs closer to his chest. Even a day later, yesterday’s ritual still left him freezing and shaky, and far more quick to anger than normally.

His only hope was that it would ease up with time. Otherwise, he might be forced to make accommodations for his daily life, like wearing far more layers under his school robes to keep himself warm, and working on keeping his temper in check. It wouldn’t do for him to constantly lash up at the slightest inconvenience, like today with Professor Merrythought.

No, he wouldn’t let something like that stop him from becoming who he was meant to be. 

Tom’s gaze wandered from the window onto the ring sitting on his finger, its black surface gleaming in the moonlight. He had found that keeping it on him at all times brought a sense of comfort and ease, calming his shaky hands and restless heart. 

It felt even more comforting than when he’d first seen it, plucked from the finger of his vile uncle. He had grinned down at it, still high on the rush of what happened minutes ago, of what he’d done to his father and grandparents. It had made the ring all the more beautiful. He didn’t regret their deaths, not that much was clear by now, especially after yesterday. 

It had been ridiculously easy to apparate himself from Hogsmeade to Little Hangleton, right into the long-dead dining room in which he had killed his family. The short trek down to the family graveyard had been peaceful and quiet, not a single soul around. The sun had shone warmly onto the graveyard when he’d entered it, so large and dump for such a small village.

That had made it all the easier to slip through the old, overgrown gravestones and pluck the skull right from his father's grave.

It had been a fluke from his side, picking a body that had been long dead, but apparently, as long as he’d been the one to kill it, everything else didn’t matter.

All the sources he’d had said that the corpse should be fresh in order to rip the soul apart. But it was just another proof that Tom was much more powerful than any of them, and above things such as rules.

Though, maybe that was why the ritual had been so much worse, so much more painful than he imagined.

He had staggered up the stairs to the Hidden Room, trembling and cradling the ring to his chest afterward, hours after he’d been supposed to meet up with Harry. 

He didn’t have many memories of what happened after the start of the ritual, except the blank, excruciating pain that it brought with it. It blocked out everything else, making his magic lash out and his soul ache until he blacked out, cold, right onto the oak floor in his room. 

When he had woken up later, dizzy and so, so weak, his room was a mess around him. Clothes, quills, and books had been strewn all across the floor, furniture overturned. The room had swayed before his eyes as he’d staggered up, steadying himself up on his way to the bathroom, and thrown up then and there, dropping right back onto his knees.

Later, He’s stumbled through the Hidden Room with his hands trembling and a mask of fury on his face to cover the bone-deep ache that lay beneath.

It had been a mistake to meet Harry so soon after the ritual, a mistake to plan it on the same day. But Hogsmeade weekends only happened so often, and Tom had been awaiting this day for weeks. It had brought him pain, yes, but that was a small price to pay for immortality.

Now if he only could get rid of that damned temper of his.

It would be hard to keep up the image of perfection around other people if he’d lose his temper all the time. He’d just have to work extra hard on keeping it in check now.

He trailed his finger over the black stone on his ring, hearing the whispers of his soul dormant and slumbering for now. He cradled it to his chest and looked out of the window, down onto the Great Lake. It laid there quietly, shimmering in the moonlight and sending faint waves at the rock on which Hogwarts stood. Somewhere in the distance, Thestrals flew out from the Forbidden Forest, over the lake. It was peaceful like this, Tom thought, leaning his shoulder against the window. 

He pushed his hands over his legs and pulled them closer to him, pressing them against his chest in some sort of semblance of comfort. His head sunk down onto his knees and he let it there, looking over the Great Lake. Then, he slowly looked back at the library, and the long, dark corridor leading out of it.

He was too tired to go all the way back down to the dungeons, no matter how comfortable his bed would be. He had cleaned it up properly this morning, but something still felt off about it, making him feel almost uncomfortable when staying in there. Dark magic had never bothered him before, so he didn’t really see the reason why it did now. Maybe that would pass too, with time, much like his temper and the coldness would, eventually. 

Hopefully.

He sighed and let his eyes roam over the row upon row of books in front of him, his eyelids dropping. Then, when he was already drifting off, he caught sight of the title of a book standing on a shelf close to his alcove.

‘The History of Time and Magic.’

He gave a quiet chuckle at the drawing of a clock pressed into the bottom of the spine. Absurd how many subjects had space in the library, ranging from ordinary books about potions to something like this. Hogwarts truly was something.

Wait a moment.

Time. 

He jolted up from his seat, away from the alcove, and over to the shelf. Taking the book out of its seat and propping it up in his lap, Tom flipped it open, frantically skimming over its pages. 

That was it. All the things that had been off about Harry, that had bothered Tom to no end, suddenly made sense. Like how he was so uninformed about recent events, how no one in school seemed to know him, not even the woman he supposedly grew up around.

How he’d seemed to know Tom when they’d first met, and had asked for the date with that odd, horrified look on his face. 

How he always disappeared so suddenly without leaving a trace.

That was it.

Harry was meddling with time.

Chapter Text

Harry was sprawled out on his bed and glanced at the ceiling.

The thoughts and feelings were bubbling around in his head, jumbled into a big, confusing scramble. They left him with nothing but a headache and an empty hole where his heart used to be. 

When he’d woken up the day before and opened his eyes, he’d felt sick to his stomach and unable to sit or stand up. Instead, he’d fixed curtains shut with a quick spell and had gone back to sleep, giving his roommates only a sleepy excuse of illness and a refusal to go to the infirmary. After that, he had stayed in bed for the rest of the day, drifting in and out of short, restless sleep filled with nightmares, which had left Harry tired after waking up. 

Not leaving his bed all day probably hadn’t helped his energy, though.

It was a day later, now, and Harry knew that if he still wanted to get some breakfast, he’d have to get up soon. He’d been dreading it for the last hour, restlessly tossing around in his bed and hugging his blanket close to his chest, staring at the red Gryffindor curtains that separated him from the world. His stomach lurched every time he tried to sit himself up and get out of bed and his arms had buckled under him, making him slump back down onto the bed.

Now he was just laying there on his back and stared up at the ceiling, the feeling of emptiness deeply lodged in his stomach and making his eyes sting.

Maybe he was just hungry.

Snickering, Harry slowly pushed his legs out of the side of his bed and tossed the curtains aside with a decisive motion. The world spun as he stood up, the colors swimming and blurring, hurting his eyes. He brought his hand up to his head, clutching it tightly, and staggered over to the bathroom to gulp down a bit of water.

Little drops were still running down his chin as he made his way back to the bed, and he groggily brushed them away while struggling into his clothes. The room was empty except for him, everyone down at breakfast. His stomach rumbled at the thought, and he stumbled out of the room and down the stairs, supporting himself with both arms at the railing. 

With a bit of luck, he’d still have some time to eat.

The rest of the morning went by in a blur. The classes sank into each other, the words of the teacher not reaching his ears as white, ringing nose filled them up instead, drowning out everything else.

He saw his friends give him concerned glances as he just sat there, blankly staring down at the table and not even bothering making notes, but their questions eventually stopped when he only gave them short, senseless replies with a hoarse and small voice.

Eventually, trotting up the stairs at the end of the day, it all became too much for him. The vibrant colors of the portraits and the bustling noise of people pricked his body like needles, itching and burning. Finally, he moved, wheeling away from them and down the stairs. The calls of his friends were soon swallowed by the crowd as Harry stumbled down, bumping into the mass of students and forcing his way through. Their eyes followed him as he ran down, then through the courtyard, outside, and towards the quidditch training grounds. Dearly missing the absence of his Firebolt, which laid safely under his bed, Harry grabbed himself a random broom, hopped onto it with no hesitation, and took off into the sky.

His robe billowed behind him as he shot up, and the wind roared in his ears, digging into his bare hands and making his eyes sting. But it was the best kind of stinging, one that filled the painful emptiness inside his chest, making everything beside it disappear. 

He soared up to the dark clouds, little droplets of water running down his arms and into the fabric of his robe. His hands were beginning to feel numb and tingling, their grip slowly slipping from the broom, but he didn’t care. There, up in the sky, Harry felt distant from his life, his safety, and the thoughts that had plagued him all day. All he felt was the pounding of his heart in his chest and the feeling of weightlessness that satisfied him in a way nothing else could.

With a sharp grin, he turned back down, straight towards the ground at a reckless speed. Cold wind digging into his face, he slowed in the last possible second and shot across the ground with his feet brushing the grass.

He landed half crashing into the ground, his hands slipping off the broom and throwing him down, off the broom. He rolled down the hill next to the castle with a surprised cry, the grass staining his clothes and hands. When it stopped, Harry smiled and flopped on his back and stared up at the dark, thick clouds filling the sky, his arms outstretched at his side, feeling dizzy but oddly satisfied. 

The dampness of the grass sank into his clothes as he laid there, a small smile on his face when suddenly, loud steps broke through the silence. Someone stomped down the hill, across the wet grass, and stopped right next to him.

“Are you going to stand up or what?”

Harry smiled and didn’t move a bit. “Are you gonna stop stalking me or what?”

He pushed his head back and looked up at Malfoy, who was staring down at him with a scowl. “Don’t confuse me with yourself, Potter. I’m here for my wand.”

Harry gave him a nice smile. “Good evening to you, too. Unfortunately for you, I don’t have it with me right now. But you could come and get it in the Gryffindor tower?”

“Quit messing with me. I’m not stepping into a three-hundred feet radius of that tower, not over my dead body.”

“Sure, that can be arranged. ‘Cause don’t you dare think I’m walking up to my dorms and then all the way down here again.”

Malfoy glared at Harry and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “It’s your fault my wand is up there in the first place. Now shoo, hurry up and get it.” 

He made a shooing motion with his hand, and Harry scowled up at him. Then he slowly pushed himself off the grass, his arms and legs protesting vehemently. His clothes were soaking wet. “You either come with me or you’ll get it tomorrow in class,” Harry said tiredly and rubbed his eyes with one hand, turning to walk away.

“Wait stop! I’ll come!”

Harry grinned, “I knew you’d come around.” He brushed past Malfoy, picking up the broom that landed a few feet away. Then he continued up the hill, not waiting for Malfoy to follow.

“What’s wrong with you anyway?” Malfoy called and caught up with Harry with quick, long steps. Harry scowled and walked faster. Entering the Quidditch tower, he put the broom into his proper space and stepped into the castle, Malfoy following behind him

“What do you mean?”

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. “Don’t play stupid. First, you disappear for an entire day, with my wand might I add, and then the very next day you go flying around looking like death warmed over.”

Luckily, the corridors were now empty and quiet, and Harry stepped onto the stairs. He glanced back at Malfoy just a few steps behind Harry, looking like he was keeping a safe distance, and gave a fake croon. “Are you worried about me?”

Malfoy scowled and stepped up beside Harry, not looking at him. “No. I’m just curious.”

“Well, you can stick your curiosity elsewhere. Would you like me to ask what’s been going on with you this whole year?”

Malfoy did not answer, and Harry gave him a searching look. They stopped at the Gryffindor tower a few tense moments later, and Harry stepped forward to the portrait of the Fat Lady. 

“Wait here. I’ll be back in a second.” Without waiting for his reply, Harry entered the common room and continued up the stairs to his room. Ron and the others were there, playing some game, but he ignored their calls. He grabbed Malfoy’s wand from the robe he’d worn the day before yesterday, staring down at it grimly. Honestly, he had forgotten that he even had it.

Exiting the common room again, he held it out to a glowering Malfoy, who snatched it out of Harry’s hand and pulled back quickly, as if afraid Harry would take it again.

Harry smiled wryly at him, “There, got it back. Now leave me alone, alright?”

“You leave me alone, Potter. I know you’ve been stalking me all year.”

Harry smirked, but didn’t deny it. Speaking of, something came to his mind. “Hey, Malfoy?”

He glowered at Harry, looking wary. “Yes?”

“What’s with your family? You’ve said something about ‘fixing your family’s mess’ before,” he made little air quotes in the air, “and I want to know what it is.”

“Really now, Potter?” He gave a laugh. “What was that about ‘not asking questions’ just a few minutes before? I know your memory was as bad as a muggle’s, but this just surpasses everything.”

Harry ignored the bad try at a diversion. “I know something’s been going on. That’s what you need the room for, after all. Don’t even try to deny it.” Malfoy stayed silent, staring at Harry. “Isn’t there anything I can do to help you?”

Malfoy gave another laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and turned away. “I’m not something you can just fix, Potter. Stop it with your foolish savior complex already.” He paused, glancing back at Harry. “If that’s all, I’ll take my leave now. Don’t expect me to thank you for giving my wand back.”

With that, he walked away. Harry let him, watching him turn into a corridor and vanish out of sight. Then, he gave a quiet sigh and turned back around to the entry, where the Fat Lady was hanging and looking at him smugly. 

“Doesn’t seem to be going well with your boyfriend.”

Harry stared at her blankly for a few moments, before deciding that this was absolutely not the day for an implication like that, and didn’t answer. Honestly, he wasn’t sure what day would be. Instead, he ignored her, gave her the password, and continued into the common room as her outraged cries at being ignored echoed behind him.

With a sigh, he stepped into the common room and toward the stairs. Through the windows, standing past bustling students and red drapes, Harry could see the sun setting, strewing even more red and orange colors all over the room and its floor. As he ducked over to the stairs, yawning, he lifted his hand up to try to block the sunshine away. 

Then, just as he took the first step, a call broke through the sounds of the other students. It was Hermione, yelling his name.

He took another step, and the yelling grew louder. With a grimace, Harry turned around and walked over to where she and Ron were sitting on a couch. “Harry! You’ve missed dinner! Where’ve you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been flying,” Harry gestured toward the wet robe hanging from his arm, dripping onto the floor.

“In that weather?” Ron said, looking at him sympathetically. Harry just shrugged and sat down, fixing his robe dry with a quick spell. Ron went on, “What was the Fat Lady yelling about just now?”

Harry glanced away and rubbed his shoulder in embarrassment. “Oh, that was about Malfoy. I might uh- stole his wand from him a few days ago and he wanted to have it back.”

“You stole his wand?!” Ron cried, sitting up in his chair. “How the hell did you manage that?”

Harry’s answer got interrupted by Hermione. “Oh, that explains why he hadn’t been using it yesterday.” She grumbled, looking down at the table, “I’ve been wondering about that.”

Ron frowned at her. “You noticed that?”

“He’d had to sit out in class, Ron, of course, I noticed.”

“I didn’t.” he rumbled, crossing his hands before his chest defensively. 

She gave him a nice smile. “Maybe that’s got more to do with me than you.”

Harry snorted and settled back into the soft cushions of the couch, smiling as his two friends went on bickering. He’d been avoiding them, he knew, but it wasn’t because of anything they’ve done. More because he knew they were worried about him right now, and he didn’t want to lie to them any more than he had to. 

“You seem all better now, Harry.” he snapped his head over and looked at Hermione, who was smiling at him sadly, “You seemed out of it all day, and yesterday you wouldn’t even come out of bed. Did flying help you so much?”

He grimaced and fiddled with his hands. “Yeah, well, I suppose so. Sorry for making you worry.”

“Don’t apologize, you git,” Ron grinned at him, “That’s what friends are for, after all.”

Harry gave him a small smile, glad he didn’t have to lie to them. His smile fell, however, when Hermione went on, “What’s wrong though, Harry?”

He fidgeted in his seat, stuttering, “I’m not sure I can tell you, I’m sorry.” It was the truth, at least.

“It’s the same thing as in the library, right?” Hermione said, and Harry gave a grimace. “Ah, I knew I should have probed more back than. You only ever overcomplicate things for yourself.”

She was right, of course, but he just smiled grimly and didn’t answer. There he went, only making his friends worry and giving Hermione more clues. He was so stupid. Suppressing the desire to draw his legs up to his chest and to cry right then and there in the common room, Harry clenched his fist tightly in his lap and looked over at the fire burning in the hearth a few steps away from them. Strands of hair fell into his eyes, partially blocking his view as he sat there, his shoulders hunched over and his friends bickering about something at his side. He was so useless, folding in at stupid things like that. The fact that Riddle made a Horcrux didn’t matter other than presenting another obstacle in Harry’s mission to kill him. He should just get his shit together and go through with his mission, as he should have months ago. 

This was far more important than his dumb feelings. 

Suddenly, shouts echoed from his side and before he knew it, Fred and George were standing before him, blocking his view of the fireplace. “Hi there, ickle Harrikins.”

With a plop, they sat down on either side of Harry, much to Ron’s shout of ignition. 

“We couldn’t help but notice your absence yesterday…”

“... and decided to give you a little something.”

A moment later, Fred had pressed something into his hand. It was an ancient-looking bottle with a fiery red etiquette and a brown, old cork sticking out of its top. Firewhiskey.

“Helps wonders against lovesickness,” George told him, and Harry glanced up at him questioningly.

“But I’m not lovesick.”

George smiled at him knowingly. “Ah, are we supposed to believe that, when just a few days ago our dear little sister began dating someone new?”

“Ginny?” Harry frowned. “She’s dating someone?”

“Don’t say you don’t know,” Fred gave a fake gasp, “is Ginny worth so little to you?”

“Of course not!” Harry exclaimed, tightening his grip on his bottle. Hermione was just watching them with a bemused look on his face. “I just haven’t been that up to date lately.” He frowned, and shoved the bottle back into Fred’s hand, hoping he’d take it back. But he just laughed and pulled back quickly, standing up.

“No, no, dear Harrikins. Even if it wasn’t our dear sister that did this to you…”

“...it would be a shame for you to refuse the bottle we so painstakingly organized for you.”

Harry glowered at the two of them and looked down at the old bottle in his hand. “You sure I won’t die as soon as I open this?” Harry asked, eying the bottle suspiciously. Did wine have an expiration date?

“No guarantees,” Fred said, smiling.

“We should take our leave now,” George added and walked away with his brother to wherever they came from. 

Harry continued to stare down at the bottle, scowling, when Hermione spoke up beside him. “Are you sure you’re not upset because of Ginny, Harry? I thought the two of you had something.”

Harry looked up at her. “Well, yeah, but she can date whoever she likes. I wouldn’t be angry about something like that.”

Suddenly, Ron grinned and said, “Oh, Harry, did you find someone new?”

He spluttered, staring at Ron incredulously, “What?! No, of course not! Why would you think something like that?”

“Well, in the past few months, you’ve always been sneaking around with that planning look of yours, smiling, and finishing your homework on time without asking me for help. You can’t blame us for thinking something like that.” Hermione smiled at him softly, “We thought it was Ginny at first, but if you say it isn’t…”

Harry shook his head. “It really isn’t.”

The conversation was over then, and Ron and Hermione began talking about something else, Harry continuing to stare into the fireplace. His gaze fell on the bottle sitting on his lap, the flames of the fireplace reflected in its glass, flickering and tinting it in all shades of red and orange. The liquid swapped ominously around in it; the bottle filled to the brim with the kind of stuff he usually only saw adults drinking.

What on earth should he do with all that alcohol?

It wasn’t as if he was especially keen on getting drunk all by himself, and he could just give it to someone else, but…

Suddenly, an idea came to Harry, and he jumped up from his seat and back out of the common room again, the cries of his friends sounding from behind him. He hastened along the long dark corridors of Hogwarts towards the seventh floor, bottle gripped tightly in his hand.

He knew exactly what to do with that Firewhisky.

Chapter Text

Harry hurried up the steps to the seventh floor, carelessly pushing his way through the small groups of people milling about on the stairs and hallways. They yelled after him as he passed, but he only ignored it. 

The Room of Hidden Things was dark and cold when Harry entered it, and his warm breaths fogged his glasses. Thankful that Malfoy wasn’t anywhere in sight, Harry continued into the room with quick, but firm steps.

He cast a warming spell while walking, and shoved his wand up into his sleeve, where it would be ready if he needed it. Though spring was finally rolling around, the days were still short and bleak, just the right weather for long sleeves. The already dim room was steadily growing darker and darker around him, a sign that the sun had just set a few minutes ago, and Harry cast a Lumos. Hoping Riddle would still be around, he gripped the bottle tighter in his hand and then, rounding to the mirror, continued through it without a moment of hesitation. 

The warm light of the lounge stood out clearly in the dim light, and Harry walked towards it with a grim sense of determination.

There was no backing out now.

He stopped short just outside the lounge, in front of the cabinet with the candlesticks and vases, and leaned back against it. Bringing his hand up to his chest, he took a deep breath and tried to calm the heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t succeed.

He stepped out into the lounge regardless, with a smile on his face and his hand curled painfully around the bottle of Firewhiskey. Riddle’s head snapped up at him immediately, hair bouncing back against his forehead, and his eyes crinkled at the corners. He looked almost pleased.

Harry did his best to ignore the shaking of his hands and strode forward, to the coffee table. “Hey Riddle! I hope you don’t mind me stopping by. I brought booze.” He held the bottle out at Riddle, contemplating smashing it over his head for just a second before placing it onto the table.

“Not at all, Harry, you’re always welcome here,” Riddle replied and gave the bottle a look, “Though I’m not much of a Firewhiskey-enthusiast.”

Harry sat down on the couch and grinned. It hurt. “Oh, come on. Someone gave it to me and I don’t know how to drink it all by myself.”

“So you decided to offer it to me instead?”

“Yup!” Harry said, feeling like he might be sick. He loosened his smile a bit and glanced away from Riddle. “So, should I go find a few glasses, or are you gonna have me drink it all on my own?”

To Riddle that sounded like a tease, and if Harry knew him well enough, it would push him to drink like teases always did. It never failed to challenge Riddle, neither during their duels nor, hopefully, here. 

From Harry’s side, however, it wasn’t much of a tease and more of a desperate attempt to make Riddle drink.

He watched him stare down at the bottle for a long moment and Harry could vaguely feel a little drop of sweat make his way down his face. He suppressed the desire to fiddle with his sleeve.

Finally, Riddle gave a deep sigh. “Fine. But I will only take a small glass. You’re lucky it’s a Saturday tomorrow.”

The grin Harry shot him wasn’t as painful this time. “Of course. You wanna help me get the glasses? There have to be some lying around in this room.”

“Yes.” He stood up from his armchair and put the book down on the coffee table. “Come on. I think I know where to find some.”

Harry hurried after him. Riddle’s dark robes flowed behind him as he walked, the slightly-too-big sleeves splaying around his arms. Harry shot the lounge one last glance as he let Riddle lead him away from its warm light and out into the darkness laying beyond. 

Their footsteps were the only sounds in the room, Riddle’s long, confident ones and Harry’s short ones out of synch and making a strange rhythm. With a pang of his heart, Harry was reminded of their duels, where they always effortlessly fell into each other’s pace. Those moments were long since gone, now.

The area Riddle was guiding Harry to was strangely familiar, and Harry began glancing around nervously, eying what he could in the dim light. It was the same way he always took when returning to the mirror. A moment later, they passed the statue of the witch, her head still intact and hair flowing over her shoulders, not like she was in the future, headless as well as hairless. Harry stared at her as they walked, nearly missing the odd look Riddle shot at him.

Harry stepped around a big harp, the strings flickering in the light, and gave him a questioning glance. “Are we there yet?”

Riddle smiled at him, wide and sharply. It made a shiver run down Harry’s spine, and he started to fiddle with the wand in his sleeve.

That one was new.

“Nearly. A bit of patience please,” Riddle replied in a flat tone and turned back around, away from Harry.

“Yes, yes.” 

Just a bit later, after passing a few too many shelves stuffed with potions, pickled eyes, and other various body parts, they stopped at a large, ornate cabinet filled with jars, vials, and finally, wine glasses. They were shaped oddly, with bowls as wide as Harry’s fist, or long, narrow ones that looked similar to a pipe. Some even had handles, like mugs.

Harry grabbed himself a thin, long one, similar to the ones he’d seen at the Dursleys before, where they sat untouched in their vitrines, only taken out for New Year’s Eve or other special occasions. Harry would know since he was the one who polished them over the year.

Suddenly, a hand lunged out towards Harry and snatched the glass out of his hand. Harry flinched back a few steps, his hand reaching for his wand and his heart leaping into his throat. Riddle only lifted an eyebrow, shot him a curious look, and set the glass back on the shelf.

“Those are for champagne, not whiskey.”

Harry took a few nervous breaths and tucked his wand back into his sleeve, running his hand over the fabric that covered it. It was fine. Riddle wasn’t attacking him. He opened his eyes again and set on a smile. “Oh? What are you, some sort of wine expert?”

Riddle rummaged in the cabinet, “My other year-mates drink sometimes. Also, I taught myself all manner of social etiquette when I entered Slytherin. Guess you didn’t learn that in home-schooling, did you?”

“Nope,” Harry replied, leaning back against the cabinet. Riddle was being odd. 

But, he guessed, so was Harry.

A moment later, Riddle emerged from the cabinet with two normal-looking glasses in his hand and, staring down at them for a moment, cast a cleaning spell on them. Then, he glanced up at Harry. “Let’s go back, shall we?”

Harry nodded, “Lead the way.” I’m so not turning my back on you.

“What, already lost your orientation?” Riddle laughed and turned to walk away, “You’re so hopeless like that sometimes, Harry.”

He chuckled and followed after him, “Your lounge is just so terribly hidden.”

“Yes, it’s supposed to be.”

Harry laughed, and they both fell silent. Harry, walking just a step behind Riddle, looked down at the fingers holding the two glasses. On one of them sat the black Gaunt ring, glinting up at Harry. 

It was the same one he had seen in Dumbledore’s office all those months ago when he’d first been told about the Horcruxes. Supposedly, it was Riddle’s family heirloom, stolen from the Gaunts on the very same day Riddle had killed his family.

He’d never worn it before now, though, and even though Dumbledore had already told him the whole story of how Riddle had killed his parents at the end of his fifth year, Harry had always been able to convince himself that maybe, the whole thing hadn’t happened just yet. But here it was, proving that it had.

It seemed almost surreal now, to see the ring again here in the past, holding a part of Riddle’s soul. Harry stared down at it and felt disgust wash over him, clawing its way up his throat. There, in that ring, was another version of Riddle, of his soul, just like the one in the diary that Harry had killed all those years ago. Riddle had willingly mutilated his soul in half and stuck it in an object, just for some semblance of immortality. And now here he was, walking alongside Harry, laughing and joking about Harry’s terrible sense of orientation.

It was just too much for Harry to handle.

Wryly, he thought how easy it would’ve been to kill the mangled version of Riddle Harry had encountered last time, with his cruel words and crazed laughter. Much more painless, or so he had hoped. 

Hopefully, his plan would make things a bit easier.

Harry yawned and glanced away from the ring, out into the room. They were in an area Harry had never been in before, the wall with the immovable door far behind them. He trailed his hand softly along a small, upright piano, the wood chipped and rough under his hand.

“Do you think this room has an end?” Harry softly broke the quiet, looking out into the darkness. It had been so long that he got a good night’s sleep, and not even Riddle’s presence could keep the tiredness away any longer. Not eating anything properly since lunch didn’t help either, though, and his stomach grumbled quietly at the thought.

“Of course it does. Everything has an end.”

“That’s rather pessimistic of you, Riddle,” Harry said with a sad smile, glancing over at Riddle, who was faced away from him. “I’d like to imagine that it doesn’t. The room is built from our wishes and imagination, right? And there’s no end to that.”

“I see you’ve never met Rebastan Lestrange before. Quite useful, but stupid as a brick.”

Harry barked a laugh, “No, I never. I’ve heard from the Lestranges before, though.” Harry shuddered at the image of Bellatrix Lestrange. “Is he one of your friends?”

“You could say so.” Riddle said and glanced back at Harry with a smile on his face, “Did your aunt introduce you to the Lestranges?”

Harry suppressed a frown down and forced himself to relax. “Yes, she talks about them sometimes.”

“I see.” Riddle turned back forward, “We’re here.”

Harry followed him inside the lounge, and, watching Riddle set the glasses onto the table, slumped down onto the couch. He leaned his head back against it, feeling his eyes fall flutter close. But he forced them open again. He couldn’t relax here, with Riddle around.

Instead, because apparently, Harry’s body was out to curse him, his stomach gave another rumble, this time loud enough for Riddle to hear.

He shot Harry a look, dark and curious. “Are you hungry, Harry? We could get something to eat from the kitchen if you like.”

“Ah, no, it’s fine,” Harry replied, gulping. “I’ll manage.” 

Riddle paused and reached out for the bottle of Firewhiskey standing on the coffee table. “You know, Harry,” Riddle began offhandedly, “I’m sorry if I upset you in any way the last time we spoke.”

Harry stared at him for a few, long moments, his throat getting dry. “What?”

“Well, I remember little of what happened,” Riddle said, looking down at the bottle and opening it with a pop, “Everything after I arrived at the Hidden Room hazy, you see, but you seem a bit upset now. So I wanted to apologize for that.”

Harry watched Riddle carefully pour whiskey into their glasses, filling them up equally. He gulped over his dry throat and asked, “Why is it hazy?”

Riddle looked up from the glasses and met Harry’s eyes, “I was drunk.”

It was a lie, Harry knew, and it wasn’t even the most convincing one, but right now it seemed like the perfect opportunity for both of them to get out of this mess. Riddle by lying, covering up for his Horcrux, and Harry by using the excuse Riddle had just given, perfectly explaining his strange behavior. “Oh, is that so? You’re quite an ass when you’re drunk, did you know that?”

“I figured,” Riddle replied, laughing, and handed Harry his glass. “So, are we good?”

Harry clinked his glass to Riddle’s and lied through his teeth. “Of course we are, Riddle.”

They talked about the most mundane things after that. First school, and Riddle’s new Defense teacher, then over to the importance of proper wand-holding and how some people in Riddle’s class just didn’t seem to get that. Harry laughed at Riddle’s retellings of all the ‘utterly ridiculous mistakes’ Riddle’s classmates seemed to make while dueling him and told him that if it bothered him so much, he should just teach them instead. Riddle stopped complaining after that and refilled both of their glasses before changing over to a new subject.

They were in a very heated argument about the importance of Quidditch when Riddle filled his glass up for the fifth time, gesturing for Harry’s own. Harry leaned forward, the room spinning slightly as he did so, and clumsily held it out to Riddle. 

“You look like you’re brewing the Draught of Living Dead,” Harry said, lazily swinging his arms over the back of the couch, and kept an eye on Riddle. He didn’t trust him not to tamper with Harry’s drink.

“Be quiet. I’m concentrating,” Riddle spoke up from where he was filling up Harry’s glass with the utmost concentration.

“Yes, that’s what I meant.”

Harry’s heart gave a pang when Riddle glanced up and gave him a smile, before setting the bottle down onto the table and handing him the glass. Harry took it carefully, staring down at the liquid swirling in the glass.

It was amazing how easy it had been to fall back into their old rhythm, bantering and arguing away as if the last few days had never happened, as if Harry’s whole world hadn’t broken down right before his eyes. It would be easy to just forget about the whole thing and delay killing Riddle a few more months, stolen time with someone he shouldn’t actually like spending time with.

But it was now or never. He had set that deadline for himself by coming here today with the Firewhiskey. Riddle would never again be as defenseless as right now.

“So, as I was saying,” Riddle spoke up and broke Harry out of his thoughts. “Quidditch tournaments themselves are just a waste of time and space. I understand participating in them,” He shot Harry a glance. “But just watching them is something entirely different. From my point of view, that’s just for pathetic people who don’t have the perseverance to properly train themselves.”

“But what of disabled people?” Harry shot back, taking a sip of the Firewhiskey and watching Riddle do the same, “Or those that have no time to train? Should they just be barred from quidditch forever?”

Riddle grimaced and set his hand along with his glass on the armchair armrest. “I don’t have an opinion about those. They can watch for all I care. But what I do have an opinion about are those good-for-nothing fans who get way too excited over games, where all they do is watch people fly after a few balls, and then hound people for preferring to stick to books instead.”

Harry gave him a smile. “I get that. But Quidditch games can be so exciting!” Harry exclaimed, sitting up in his seat, “I mean just all those moves and tricks the players can do in the air, moves that no normal person can do, you have to understand the excitement of watching those happen right before your eyes!”

Riddle just stared at him blankly, “I’d still prefer reading.”

Harry shook his head and smiled. He settled back in his seat and took another sip from the glass. “You remind me of my friend in that. She’d still come to the matches that I was playing in, but that’s more for me than quidditch itself.” He crossed his legs and looked over at Riddle. His face seemed almost soft right then, the warm light of the lamp spraying onto it and making his hair look browner than it actually was. “She doesn’t hate it as much as you do, though.”

Riddle smiled at him. “She sounds like an interesting person. How did you two meet?”

Harry came up short. He couldn’t exactly say at school, could he? He forced his shoulders to relax, taking a deep breath and another sip from his glass. “Her parents were friends of my mine.”

“Oh? Merrythought knows about her too, then?”

Harry gulped and felt his heart jitter in his chest. He tightened his grip on the glass. “Yeah. I introduced them after my parents’ death.”

Riddle smiled at him, sharp and wide, just like before, and the light above them flickered. Harry unconsciously backed away, reaching for his wand. “You know, Harry, you’re a pretty good liar,” Riddle said, leaning forward and setting his glass down onto the coffee table, “Just not exactly good enough.”

“What?” Harry asked quietly and stared at Riddle, his hand with the glass sinking down onto the soft couch, the liquid inside swaying dangerously. 

Riddle ignored him, “I’d like to call in the favor from earlier.” He smiled and met Harry’s eye. "I would like you to answer the next questions truthfully, is that possible?"

Harry continued to stare at him, his heart pounding in his chest, before giving the tiniest nod.

“Why doesn’t Merrythought know who you are?”

Riddle wasn’t smiling now, asking that question, and his eyes were sharp and piercing. Suddenly Harry felt like he wasn’t getting enough air, a lump in his throat blocking any possible answers he could have given.

Riddle didn’t seem to deter that, and he continued on, slowly, like an animal playfully circling its prey. “Why do you possess books that haven’t been written yet?”

Harry’s mind felt as if someone had taken a white, blinding sheet of fabric and covered it up, making it unable to form any thoughts. His throat was hurting, impossibly dry now, even after all the Firewhiskey, and Harry found himself unable to produce more than a few stutters and shaky breaths.

Riddle only gave him one of those new, sharp smiles again, and Harry now finally realized why it had been bothering him so much. They were cruel and cold, like the ones from a few days ago, watered-down but still as terrifying. “Also, your inability to answer a few basic questions about politics can’t be drawn back to stupidity or obliviousness alone. You’re actually quite smart when you want to be. How else would you have managed to fool me for so long?”

Harry gulped, and Riddle’s smile vanished from his face as if washed away by the rain. The lamp above them flickered again. 

“You don’t have anything to say? That’s a shame. I was looking forward to you talking your way out of this again. But it seems that even your lying has its limit.”

“Stop talking,” Harry said, the words making their way out of his mouth almost without permission, and his clammy hand twitched for his wand. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Oh? But you have answered no questions yet.” Riddle leaned forward and took a slow sip from his glass, not breaking eye contact with Harry. He didn’t seem drunk the slightest. ‘So even that plan had turned out useless in the end, huh?’, Harry thought wryly, and the hand gripping his glass was shaking now, the whiskey swirling dangerously close to the edge. “You know, Harry,” Riddle spoke up again, leaning back and crossing his legs, “I had always been curious why our first meeting went the way it did. Even your sorry excuse of hallucinating hadn’t explained that properly.” He put one arm behind the backrest, twirling the glass mindlessly in his hand. “You looked oh so scared when you met me the first time, almost like you just stumbled upon a ghost. And that fight, oh, that was like fighting a desperate, cornered animal with no way out. And in some way, you were exactly that, weren’t you? I was always curious why you hadn’t been able to open that door, but I can make a pretty good guess by now.”

The light that had seemed so warm before got sharp and blinding, and Riddle’s words rang in Harry’s ears, like white noise covering everything up. Harry’s hands were shaking so badly now, clammy and pale, and he couldn’t control it one bit. It was like he was fixed there, onto that couch, forced by his own body to listen to Riddle’s horrible words. It was all over now, wasn’t it? The secret was out, ripped from him like his parents at the tender age of one, and there was no chance of escaping now, with Harry’s own body not listening to him. He had no chance of fighting his way out of this, he knew that much, not with the way he was now, panic climbing up his throat and making it unable to move. Struggling for breath, Harry met Riddle’s eyes as he spoke his next few words, quietly and in an unfittingly soft tone. 

“Why did you ask me for the year when we first met, Harry?”

It seemed as if that question, finally, startled Harry into action, and with no idea what he was doing, other than wanting for Riddle to just stop talking, he leaped out of his seat. The glass slipped out of his hand as he did so, shattering on the stone floor below, the liquid soaking into the carpet next to it. But Harry paid it no mind as he lunged over at Riddle, threw his hand over his neck, pulled him forward, and pressed his lips to Riddle’s.

Eyes fluttering close, he heard Riddle gasp, muffled against Harry’s mouth, and felt him pull back in shock, but Harry dug his hand into the hair in Riddle’s neck and kept him there, pressed up against Harry. Then, fumbling for his wand, Harry leaned back as if to catch his breath and whispered a soft “Stupefy”.

He felt Riddle’s body grow slack beneath him, and Harry stepped away from him, Riddle’s head falling back against the backrest. As if in shock, Harry brought his hand up to his tingling lips and stared down at Riddle, breath puffing and fogging his askew glasses. He glanced over at his wand still pointed at Riddle, shaking softly in his hand, and with an odd calmness, realized that this would be the perfect moment to kill him.

The secret was out now, without doubt, and with as much certainty would Riddle be out to catch him the moment he woke up. Voldemort would never let an opportunity like this slip through his fingers.

Except Riddle wasn’t Voldemort, was he?

He never had been, not even in the beginning when he’d had Harry powerless beneath him, much like he himself was now, and instead of killing him, had settled back and let Harry go.

And nor had he been anytime else, when he’d helped Harry with his homework with a soft smile on his face or argued quietly with him over a steaming mug of tea. 

Harry stared down at Riddle, at the smooth, brown locks draped over his eyebrow, and his eyes, hidden beneath his closed lids, that Harry knew could look so soft, too soft for the person Riddle was.

“I can’t do it.” 

The words tumbled out of his mouth without meaning to, almost too soft over the sound of the ringing in his ears and his puffing breaths. 

The person before him wasn’t the monster he had been prepared to kill, the one who’s responsible for the death of his parents, of Sirius, and of so many more. No, this was only a person with the potential to be one. Harry knew Riddle, knew his habits, his smiles, the little twirling motion he does with his wand when he’s bored. Harry knows what he looks like happy, bored, or nervous, and now even what he looks like after a kiss, eyes widened in surprise. How could ever manage to kill someone like that, someone he knew so well.

Someone that was his friend.

His hands were shaking and his legs were quivering as Harry turned away from Riddle, away from the Firewhiskey and the glasses they’ve got, and then away from the lounge. He barely noticed walking away from it all, fleeing into the darkness with quick, hasty steps that reverberated in his ears. 

The room was dim around him, and Harry could feel the tension in his body, the magic shimmering under his skin until he ducked under the arm of the statue of the witch and it exploded right under his touch.

He flinched away from it, cursing, and quickened his steps. The coldness of the mirror stole his breath away when he passed through it, and he staggered out on the other side with gasps and a tightness in his chest. There, leaning with his shoulder against the mirror frame and catching his breath, it all caught up to him. 

That had been the last chance to kill Riddle.

And he’d just walked straight away from it.

He closed his eyes for a second, concentrating on the cold air streaming out of the mirror, and onto the familiar weight of the wand in his hand and the glasses on his nose. With his breathing calmed and legs no longer quivering, Harry straightened away from the mirror, brushed away the sweat from his forehead, and walked away. 

It would all turn out fine in the end. It had to.

Harry’s body tingled as he rounded the corner to the statue of the witch, the skull in the vitrine staring up at him as he passed it, and found himself on par with the witch’s arm, the very same he’d just exploded mere minutes ago in the past.

With wide eyes, he reached out and touched the marble stone like one would touch a ghost, something that wasn’t really there, just a figment of his imagination. But the stone was cold under his touch, hard and real. 

This was oddly reminiscent of the first time he’d seen her head in the past, still sitting proudly on her shoulders, except now it was reversed, something that had been broken in the past not reaching the future.

Overcome with the certainty that it would very much not turn out fine, Harry spun on his feet and did something he’d never done before in the future; He went back to the lounge. 

He arrived there with puffing breath and a horrible feeling of dread pooling in his stomach, glancing around despairingly in the unfamiliar darkness. He cast a Lumos to replace the warm light that always shone in the lounge and looked at the furniture still arranged there, now covered in years of dust.

It looked just like when he’d first stumbled upon it all those months ago, with Riddle curled there in the armchair, reading a book. 

Too much so.

Over the course of the last few months of knowing Riddle and this lounge, Harry had added his own little things to the mix. A box of tea bags and a kettle there, quills strewn onto the shelves next to books. And there, where a calendar was supposed to be, was another one of Riddle's bland books, forgotten and left behind. Harry had given it to Riddle a few weeks ago, when he had found it lying around useless in the back of his trunk, a gift from Hermione earlier this year. Or over there on the coffee table, where their mugs should be sitting, was just cold emptiness and dust. 

All the things he’d brought there were gone, almost like they’d never existed here in the first place. And that was no coincidence.

He staggered backward, right into the shelf filled with candlesticks and vases. It tumbled over and the vases crashed onto the floor, spilling broken pieces of glass everywhere. It was oddly reminiscent of the glass Harry had dropped before, back in the past. There, falling onto the floor together with the shelf, Harry wondered with half a mind what would happen if he went to the cabinet from before, where Riddle had taken their glasses from. Would he just find his glass there, intact and unbroken, like the witch’s arm?

Slowly, Harry raised himself from the floor and discovered a shard of glass sitting in his palm, blood flowing out of it and down his arm.

Huh. He hadn’t even noticed it.

He pulled it out and he wiped his hands on his pants, looking back out at the dark, unfamiliar lounge before him. There, with a sinking certainty he knew, knew that the past and present weren’t linked together as he’d thought. And so he also knew that all those plans of killing Riddle wouldn’t have changed a single thing. Getting his parents, his godfather back had been impossible from the start.

And all that killing Riddle would’ve achieved was robbing Harry of a friend.

And that thought out of all others, broke Harry’s heart, standing there in midst of the unfamiliar lounge and cradling his bleeding hand to his chest.

Hermione found him stumbling along the hallways much later, and quickly covered him with his invisibility cloak. Without comment, she guided him through the dark corridors of Hogwarts, back into the warmth of the common room. Ron was waiting there on the couch before the flickering fire, shooting up from his seat when they entered, but Hermione only shook her head and pulled Harry up the stairs to the dorms.

“Harry, you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to,” she started, her voice echoing off the stone walls and stairs of the Gryffindor Tower. “But what happened to you over the last few days?”

Harry only quickened his steps, staring down onto the steps before him. The light of her Lumos spraying against them, and her grip on his arm tightened. 

“You barely even left your bed yesterday, and now you’ve suddenly run off and vanished for hours. We were so worried about you, Harry. We went to search for you with the Marauder's Map, but we couldn’t find the slightest hint of you anywhere.”

Harry shook his head with burning eyes and suddenly found tears tumbling out of them, rolling down his face. “I’m sorry Hermione, but I can’t–”

“Oh Harry,” she said, her voice breaking, “It’s fine, it’s completely fine! Let’s just get you upstairs, okay? You can talk about it tomorrow, if you want, after a good night’s sleep.” Hermione clasped both hands around his arm, pressing tightly. “We’re in this together, Harry, don’t forget that.”

He nodded, lowered his head deeper. His eyes sunk onto the stairs, with their tiles so similar to those of the Room. And then, when he thought about never seeing those tiles again, never stepping back into the warm, lounge, with Riddle sitting there in his armchair with a book in his lap, a few more tears rolled down his face and onto the stairs.

Chapter Text

Harry skipped a stone, clothes flattering as he did so, and continued after Hermione and Ron.

They were on their way to Hogsmeade. The sun was shining brightly down on them, making the cold, spring air a bit milder. Hermione had practically dragged Harry out of his bed for that, and even though he didn’t want to acknowledge it, he was grateful for it. Being outside of Hogwarts did wonders to his mood.

He walked behind Hermione and Ron, a big smile creeping onto his face, and glanced over the flowers growing next to the path, their little heads swaying in the wind. The air was chilly, even for spring, and Harry pulled his red scarf tighter around his neck, before looking over to Hermione and Ron. They were talking quietly about something, laughing and chuckling, the words lost in the wind. Harry rushed forward to walk beside Ron. “What’re you talking about?”

Hermione looked over at him, still grinning, “Oh, just the incident yesterday in Herbology, with Parkinson.”

“Oh.” Harry sunk his hands deeper into his pockets. “What was it? I think I missed that.” 

“No wonder. You were really out of it all day, Mate.” Ron pulled his jacket closer and gave Harry a little smile. “We were looking at Screechsnap yesterday, right? And at the beginning of the lesson, when Sprout told us all to take the glass cover off, Malfoy did it before Parkinson had gotten her earmuffs on. Then, when it started to screech, Parkinson shoved Malfoy aside and onto the floor in her haste to get the cover on again. I can’t believe you missed that!”

Harry smiled at the mental picture. “Sounds funny, yeah. Imagine what a lightweight he must be to be shoved away so easily.”

Ron laughed, “He’s lucky he’s a seeker, or else he wouldn’t survive a day at Quidditch.”

"Not that he survives there for long, anyway,” Harry said, but the tone came out all wrong, and the smile slipped from his face at the thought of Quidditch. He quickly averted his eyes from Ron and looked out at the meadow with hunched shoulders, sorrow clawing at his chest. Quidditch had been the last thing he and Riddle talked about before–

He shook his head again, trying to clear his stupid thoughts. The wide, open meadow with nothing but grass, scattered trees, and distant Hogsmeade houses was a stark contrast to Hogwarts. But even that didn’t seem to stop his thoughts from returning to Riddle. 

“Hermione?” he said, turning away from the meadow and meeting her eyes. “What do you think of Parallel Universes?”

She raised her eyebrows and glanced away from him. “I don’t really know, honestly. The possibility that they exist is big, considering magic and all that.” She pulled her scarf tighter, staring out into the distance. “But I think as long as we don’t have any way of switching between the different er, universes, we’ll have neither use nor proof for them.” She met his eyes again. “Why do you ask?”

“Er, just wondering.” He said and quickly averted his eyes, scratching his face. She was too smart for her own good sometimes. “It’s just crazy, isn’t it, thinking that a universe exists out there where our whole lives could be different? Voldemort not existing, for example, or one where we’re friends with Malfoy.”

Ron gave a laugh beside him, “I don’t think a universe like that could ever exist, mate.”

Harry laughed too and put his hands inside the pockets of his coat. It was probably true then, his theory about the mirror. The mirror wasn’t a direct link to the past, more of an indirect one, to another universe. It made sense, though, considering everything. He hadn’t really thought about it, but his whole interactions with Voldemort would’ve changed, wouldn’t they have, after meeting Riddle for the first time and giving him Harry’s name. Maybe, some hopeful part of him thought, Riddle wouldn’t have killed Harry’s parents then, if he knew who he was. 

Maybe, now, in another universe, his parents would live, and another, young Harry would grow up with a loving and doting family instead of the Dursleys. But not him. Never him.

He sighed and burrowed his hands deeper into his pockets. Riddle had really figured out quite a bit, didn’t he? He’d always been awfully perceptive, already back in the chamber during Harry’s second year. He didn’t know if he could return there again, now, with the truth halfway out in the open. 

And oh, that kiss, as smart as it had been in that moment, was way too embarrassing to even think about. No, he thought, with his cheeks heating up, he could never return there.

He looked out onto the meadow, watching as little white clouds made their way across their sky and mountains, propelled by the wind. He closed his eyes for a second, fully relishing the feeling of the warmth of the sun on his face, and the wind brushing through his hair. 

Then, opening his eyes again, Harry looked away from the meadow, and out at the nearing Hogsmeade houses. He could already spot some other students there, milling about between the different shops, talking and laughing. Hogsmeade always was a nice change from the Hogwarts castle, with its little cottages and lanterns. Stepping onto the High Street, he, Ron, and Hermione strolled past the first few shops. 

Harry glanced over at the others. “What’s the plan for today?”

“Oh, not much so far.” said Hermione, “Whatever you two want to do.”

Ron gave Zonko’s a look, “I have already got all the joke items I need from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, so we don’t have to go in there.”

“Same. Honeydukes it is, then?”

Hermione and Ron both nodded, and together they continued towards the center of the little village, where the major shops stood, like a hairdresser, the local branch of Ollivanders, or a herbology shop called ‘Dogweed and Deathcap’.

They pushed the cheerful, light orange door to Honeydukes open, a little bell chiming at their arrival, and they stepped inside. Immediately, everything in sight was filled up with sweets of all colors, a faint sugary smell hitting Harry’s nose. 

His head swimming slightly, Harry made a beeline for the Chocolate Frogs, one of his favorites. A pack of them under his arm, Harry turned around to Ron, who was standing over the basket of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans with his eyes closed, apparently trying to catch the best ones. Hermione stood next to him, smiling and giving excuses to the other people in the shop who had to wait for the basket to get free. Harry smiled at them as he turned around and walked up to the counter, paying for his Chocolate Frogs.

He had just gone over to where Ron was packing his Beans into a little paper bag, when someone walked up to him, blocking the way. 

“Potter,” Malfoy said, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat. “A word, please.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow, and, with a glance at the crowd of people surrounding them, asked, “In here?”

“No, you idiot. Follow me outside.”

Harry shrugged and went after Malfoy, giving Hermione a short, “I’ll be waiting outside, alright?” 

She nodded, and he pushed the door open, the bell giving a little ring as he did so.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Harry asked, letting the door fall close behind him. “And anyway, I thought you were back at the castle, like you usually are.”

“Have been watching my habits, haven’t you, Potter?” Malfoy said, and scowled. “And no, I wasn't able to stay in the Room today, and that’s entirely your fault.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “How? I haven’t gone anywhere near it today.”

"I know that, but someone else did it, however they managed to get into the room after me.” He rubbed his neck and gave Harry a glare, “Look, Potter, I just want you to know that if you tell yet another person about the Room, I’ll definitely curse them. I have important stuff to do in there. I can’t have people snooping around all the ti–”

“Wait, what are you talking about?” Harry cut him off with a frown and crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t tell anybody about the Room of Hidden Things.”

“Who’s that bloke asking for you, then, huh?”

“What bloke?”

“That’s what I’m asking you– Ugh, forget it. He was tall, dark-haired, and not someone I recognized, really, considering he had a Slytherin tie on. Must be a mudblo–”

Harry interrupted him again, this time by rushing forward and grabbing his cloak, “What did he say?!”

“Let go of me, you imbecile!” He jerked back and stepped a few steps away from Harry, straightening his cloak. “And stop interrupting me. He didn’t say much, just asked me if I knew you, and then practically ordered me to tell you to get there as soon as possible. The audacity, thinking he could order me around like that, really–”

Harry turned away from him and started pacing right there, in front of Honeydukes. That was definitely Riddle, no doubt. But how did he find the mirror now, of all this time? It couldn’t have been yesterday. After Harry had run away, he’d made sure of that. Sometime else then? But why didn’t he use it the days before, when Harry hadn’t returned to the room?

Harry turned back to Malfoy. “You can’t go back there.” 

“You can’t–” he started, but Harry interrupted him again.

"No, you don't understand. He is dangerous. Everything and everyone in that room is at risk now.”

“You don’t understand. I need that room. I can’t just not go there anymore, or else my family–”

This time, he broke himself off, and Harry shot him a curious glance. “Look, Malfoy, I can help you with whatever your family is going through, but you can’t go there anymore.” Malfoy started protesting again, and Harry cut him off, stepping forward. “He’d murder and torture you without a second thought, believe me. Is that what you want?”

His eyes widened, and he turned away from Harry. “This is all your fault, Potter,” Malfoy muttered, his face pale. “I can’t believe you let someone like that into the Room...”

“I didn’t. But that’s fair. I guess a big part of it is my fault.” He stepped forward, forcing Malfoy to look at him. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry it came to this, okay? But don’t enter that room again for the next few days. It’s too dangerous. I’ll look if I can get rid of him in the meantime.”

“I don’t need your apology, Potter,” Malfoy said, and pushed himself away from Harry. “And I’m not letting myself be bossed around by neither you nor that twig. I do whatever I want.”

Harry smiled wryly at him. “Sure. Just make sure that ‘whatever you want’ doesn’t include going into the room in the next few days.”

At that, Malfoy surprisingly smirked back, “Whatever. See you, Potter.”

And with that, he walked away, striding back towards the castle. Behind Harry, the bell chimed, and other people walked past him, including Hermione and Ron.

“Was that Malfoy just now?” Ron asked from next to Harry, looking after Malfoy.

“Yeah, he wanted to talk.”

Ron shot him a curious look. “So you and Malfoy can talk without killing each other now?”

Harry grimaced and stepped away from the spot in the opposite direction that Malfoy walked off to. “Just barely. Come on, let’s go to the Three Broomsticks.”

Once they were all seated at a table, Butterbeer ordered and Hermione and Ron bickering away next to him, Harry really had time to think about what Malfoy’s message meant. Riddle had apparently found the mirror after all, it seemed, in spite of all the precautions Harry had taken. It was bad, really bad, but at least he couldn’t open the door. Probably.

Sighing, Harry sunk his head down into his arms. Honestly, he wouldn’t put it past Riddle to find out a way out of the room. Or to take Malfoy hostage and force his way back into Harry’s life like that. Now that he found out the truth, nothing was sure anymore. Even after all the time he’d spent with Riddle, he wasn’t sure that the other wouldn’t do everything he could to hurt Harry. 

And that was the saddest part of it all.

Because how could he face someone that would ‘torture him without a second thought’, like he’d said to Malfoy earlier, when Harry couldn’t even manage to do the same?

But that didn’t matter. He had promised Malfoy that he would take care of Riddle, and if that meant stepping into the Room again and talking to him, then he would do that. Even if he couldn’t kill Riddle, destroying the mirror would probably do the trick as well. The least he could do was to make sure Riddle could hurt no one from this time.

When Harry sat up straight again, a butterbeer was placed before him, foam just barely staying inside the rim. He took a sip and glanced over at his friends. Ron smiled at him with white foam on above his lips, and Harry caught Hermione’s calculating eyes, looking at him hesitantly. Harry blinked and spoke up. “Is something wrong, Hermione?”

At the other side of the table, Ron popped one of his Berty Bott’s Beans into his mouth and grimaced. Hermione glanced over at him and laughed nervously. “Ah, er, I just wanted to ask you about yesterday. We’d said we’d speak about it today, so…”

“Ah, yes we did.” Harry rubbed his neck. “Er, I’m not sure what to tell you.” He leaned back in his seat and took a long sip. What could he tell them that didn’t deviate too much from the truth? Because he was a terrible liar and this seemed to be a very important point in their friendship. Normally, he always told them everything, but now… 

Wait.

With the perfect excuse in mind, Harry set his glass down on the table and put on the best guilty look he could. “Look, I’m sorry for not telling you earlier, but uh… I might’ve kissed someone?”

“You did?!” Ron said with wide eyes, sitting up in his seat, “Who?!”

Harry stared at him for a long moment. “I’m not sure if I can tell you.” Or if you’d want to hear the truth, he thought wryly, not sure if ‘young Voldemort’ would be an appreciated answer.

“Oh, come on, mate,” Ron said, groaning. “Don’t be such a secret-keeper all the time. Was it Parvati? Or Cho? Oh, wait for a second, don’t say it was Ginny!”

Harry frowned at him. “I only danced with Parvati once, Ron. And do you really think I’d kiss someone who’s in a relationship?”

“Well, it would explain being upset!”

Hermione cut in, interrupting anything Harry would have said. “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell us, Harry. Although I am a bit curious too.”

He smiled wickedly at them and took a slow sip from his glass. “You really want to know?” They both nodded. “Well, I suppose I can tell you that much; It was a boy.”

“A boy?” Hermione exclaimed, setting her glass down onto the table with a loud bang, and Harry nodded. “Harry, that’s– Why didn’t you tell us before?!”

Grimacing, Harry looked down onto the table before them. It’s not as if I wanted to kiss Riddle before or planned it, really. Instead, he said, “Well, it’s not as if there was a lot to tell. It’s just…”

Hermione cut in, “Yes, but that’s a lot to find out about yourself, all alone, don’t you think?”

“You really don’t trust that much in us anymore, do you?” Ron said softly next to Harry, and Harry looked over at him with wide eyes. 

“Not at all, Ron, that’s not it, I just–” He took a deep breath, feeling sorry for the lie he was about to tell. “I just never knew how to bring it up, you know?” 

Ron nodded and gave Harry a small smile. Harry smiled back, sighing in relief and settling back against the chair until Ron interrupted him with a question. “So, you’ve got a boyfriend now, Harry?”

He jerked in his seat and looked at Ron with wide eyes. “No, no, no! Absolutely not. It’s er… complicated.” 

“So that’s why you were upset, huh?” Hermione said, looking sadly at Harry. “Well, even if you don’t want to tell us who it is, we’ll always listen, okay? Don’t hesitate to talk to us about your problems. We’re together in this, after all.”

Ron nodded next to him, and Harry gave them a grateful smile, settling back in his seat. “Thanks, guys. I really appreciate it.”

Tom impatiently tapped his foot on the floor, feeling a headache coming on. 

Sighing, he brought both his hands up to massage his temples, only closing his eyes for a short second before opening them again and returning to stare at the closed door before him.

For the past few hours, he’d been standing here in the Hidden Room, or well, its future version, waiting for some sign of the boy he’d met before. What an imbecile he’d been, not only not recognizing Tom, but not even his name. And now, it appears, he had he not even been capable of relaying a simple message to Harry? Truly imbecile. 

Tom scowled, his eyes fluttering close again. In the back of his mind, he could feel the room’s magic swirl around him and making his skin buzz. It was all so much like the first time he’d stumbled upon the Hidden Room a year ago, only permanently. 

How did Harry stand it, staying back in Tom’s time for hours on end, chatting merrily with him, when only being here, leaning against a cabinet with his eyes closed, was giving Tom a headache. He couldn’t fathom it.

Pushing himself away from the cabinet, Tom turned to walk around in the room. If he was already here, he might as well use the time for something, even if it was tiring.

At first glance, nothing much had changed from Tom’s time. Everything looked a bit more weathered, sure, and a few towers of the book seemed to have fallen over with time, but those were just the most apparent things. There might be so many new artifacts in here, hidden away in shelves and drawers, and Tom would never know it by just standing there. So he walked around instead.

It was all so much, being in that room. Ever since stepping through that mirror, all the magic surrounding him had been much more intense. Uncomfortable, yes, but also quite useful when he thought about it. Even without looking at the objects, he could now feel the magic swirling around them, and could tell which ones were dark without even touching them.

He could feel it before too, back in his own time, but only in the most extreme cases, and only after touching them first. The magic had always come slowly, seeping through his skin and tingling. It was helpful, yes, and quite a bit exciting after finding out that very few people were so tuned in with magic, but also very dangerous. He couldn’t just go around touching dark artifacts after all.

In this room, however, that wasn’t a problem.

Tom strode down the hall, mindlessly running his hand over the objects, feeling that they meant him no harm, and stopping from time to time when he found something interesting. He’d have to try taking things back into his own time and out of the door. Harry had taken things with him before, after all, as his books or tea, and that had worked just fine. The problem would probably be getting it through the door. 

He sat down in a dark, leathery chair that stood wedged between a bookshelf and a heap of broomsticks, glancing back at the door. He couldn’t see it anymore, but that was irrelevant. Tom was very sure he could feel it when it was pushed open. 

Some part of him had wanted to stay in front of the door, regardless. 

Scowling, he’d cast a quick Tempus. It’d been several hours since he’d met that strange, imbecile boy, and yet no sign of Harry. Hadn’t he introduced himself as Malfoy? Tom would need to have a word with Abraxas about parenting. 

Sighing and fiddling with the ring on his finger, he sank deeper into the chair. The ring's magic had been amplified ever since Tom had stepped through the mirror. It sat dark and heavy on his skin, and he could feel the room’s magic gnawing at it, the ring itching on his finger. He supposed that meant the room didn’t approve of it.

He smiled and glanced away from the ring. He could do without the room's approval.

He propped his chin up on his hand, fingers touching his lips, and thought back to yesterday, and that beautiful, clever move of Harry’s. Out of all his wonderfully desperate reactions to Tom’s words, that had been the most unexpected one, surprising even Tom. His wand had been right there, pointed at Harry, but before he could do anything, Harry had already hexed him. The last thing he’d seen before waking up many hours later had been Harry’s terribly panicked face, green eyes staring down at Tom. 

What a thought to wake up to. He couldn’t even bring himself to be mad that Harry’d escaped.

Tom sighed and stood up from the seat, continuing walking around in the room. It had been stupid, not hexing Harry the moment he’d appeared out of nowhere, standing there in the lounge and holding that vexed bottle of Firewhiskey in his hand. But he seemed to have grown inexplicably fond of Harry, so much so that he couldn't bring himself to hurt him.

Tom trailed his hand over an old piano with its keys missing, and the wood rough under his fingers. Why did he come back, Tom wondered, sighing again, after being so scared of me during our first meeting? If only Harry would finally show up, he could ask him.

Honestly, Tom wasn’t even sure what he would do to Harry once he turned up. Part of him wanted nothing more than to Stupify Harry and tear his mind apart with Legilimency, searching for all the information that he wanted. But the logical part of his mind already knew he wouldn't be able to do any of that, and it vexed him to no end.

Brushing through his hair and straightening his robe, Riddle turned around, back towards the entry. He would try to open that door again, wait for another few minutes, and if Harry didn’t turn up until then, he would leave. He had things to do, things more important, standing around waiting for a confusing boy. 

Then, suddenly, on his way back to the door, the magic of the room changed, swirling around Tom excitingly as new magic entered it. Even though Tom had rarely ever felt it before, he immediately recognized it as Harry’s. He rushed forward, towards the door in a hurry, his robe fluttering behind him, until he stood there at the entryway. Before him stood Harry, leaning on the wall right next to the door, eying him warily as Tom came to a stop.

“How did you find the mirror?” Harry asked in lieu of a greeting, and Tom just smiled at him.

“I followed you back a few days ago. After knowing the general area you disappeared in, it was surprisingly easy to find.” He paused, scrutinising Harry. “I take it that boy finally delivered my message? You don’t look surprised in the slightest to see me.”

“Aw, did you wait here this entire time? I was in Hogsmeade, and in no hurry to come back for you.”

Tom’s smile widened and crossed his arms. “Polite as always. Meanwhile, I began fearing you wouldn’t show up again.”

“I wanted to,” Harry said with a grimace, “But we need to talk.”

“I agree. But don’t you want to put that wand away first? It’s terribly impolite.”

Harry scowled, and Tom watched him tighten the grip on his wand. “No way. And I won’t move away from the door either, don’t even try that.”

Tom gave a sigh and then smirked at Harry. “You’ve finally grown weary of me, after all. It almost reminds me of our first meeting.”

“I was scared then. Now I’m not.”

“Yes, that’s another thing I wish to talk about,” Tom said, and leaned back against an overturned shelf, looking down at his wand and twirling it in his hand. “You recognized me, didn’t you, even back then? Did you do this before, traveling around in time?”

“So we’re starting the questioning game now?” Harry scoffed. “Do you really trust me to tell the truth, Riddle?”

Tom met his eyes again. “I think it’s crucial that we tell each other the truth now, Harry. And either way, you still owe me a favor. You didn’t keep that one yesterday at all.”

Harry looked at him for a long moment, before saying, “What about a vow, then. Because I’m sure as hell not going to trust you right now.”

Tom scoffed. “Whatever did I do to make myself so untrustable? You’re the one who hexed me. But very well then, a vow.” He pushed himself up from the shelf, and stepped over to Harry, and stretched out his hand to him. “Take my hand.”

Harry eyed it warily before stepping away from the wall and taking it. It was warm in Tom’s, almost uncomfortably so. Pushing the thought away, Tom pointed his hand at their hands and murmured. “Repeat after me. I promise to tell the truth, nothing but the truth, until the renouncement of this vow.”

Harry did so, and then, after Tom felt the magic seep into his skin and took his hand away, looked down at it in wonder. “I didn’t know there was a spell for that.”

Tom smirked at him, “Normally there isn’t. But the magic in this room is extraordinarily potent, so it should work with the right intention. ”

Harry glanced around the room. “How can you tell?”

“Well,” he said, choosing his next words carefully, “Since I stepped through this room, my sense of magic seemed to have increased immensely. I can feel your magic, for example, and how it swirls around you.”

Harry glanced around curiously. “That’s possible? And did that truth spell work?”

“It seems so.” He smiled and stepped back to his shelf, leaning against it. “Why don’t you try it out yourself?”

Harry stared at him for a long moment before saying, “I’m the Minister of Ma– Ouch! That hurt, bloody hell.”

Tom smirked at him. “So, finally able to trust me, Harry, are you?” He gave a wary nod, and Tom continued, “So, let us start again: Did you know me even before our first meetings all those months ago?”

Harry nodded and leaned back against the stone wall next to the door. “Yeah, I did.”

“Not that that comes as much of a surprise. Was it from the future, or, better, your time?” He asked, and got another nod. “Interesting. Now, do you have a question for me?”

Harry looked at him for a moment, before asking, “Do you have any plans of killing, torturing, or otherwise hexing or harming me?”

“Going all out with the vow, aren’t we?” Tom smiled at him for a moment, before falling serious again. “And no to all of the above. I seem to have grown rather fond of you and our relationship, Harry, and it amazes me to no end.” He paused and looked up at the ceiling. “You’re special, Harry, you know that? Even your magic, wild and untamed as I feel it now, isn’t like anything I’ve ever felt before.”

Harry sighed. “I almost don’t want to believe you, but I think I have to, don’t I?”

“I fear so, yes,” he said with a smirk. “So, Harry, why don’t you tell me where you knew me from the first time we met?”

Harry looked away from him, then, pale and unanswering. Harry averted his eyes from him, pale and unresponsive. When he finally spoke, his voice was shaking, filled with anger and frustration. “You’re quite famous in my time, you know? Famous for the decades of terror you’ve brought on, so much so that people are now afraid of saying your name, Riddle. Or should I rather say, Voldemort?”

“Oh?” Tom breathed, staring at Harry in surprise. “It all worked out then? My plan with the Death Eaters and the–”

“Your plan?” Harry gave an airy little giggle. “I wouldn’t say worked out, really. In my time, you’re all but a maniac who’s been chasing me since birth, killed my parents, and has made many attempts of sending me after them. Not to forget the hundreds of people’s deaths you’re responsible for, but I’d guess that was part of your plan, wasn’t it?”

Tom stared at Harry, a little breathless. “I killed your parents?”

Harry scoffed and took a few deep breaths. “No need to apologize or anything, Riddle. I know you’re not Voldemort yet, and I don’t judge you for what he did. But you’ve killed before, haven’t you?”

“I have, yes.” The answer made its way past his lips without him wanting to, soft and almost too quiet if it weren’t for the silence that hung permanently over the room. He’d never admitted it to anyone before, not Dumbledore when he came asking him about Myrtle’s death, nor to anyone since. He hadn't intended on doing it now, either, but here they were. “A girl, last year, and what was left of my family, before that. I’ve hurt other people, too, back at the Orphanage. But not because I was bullied or anything, don’t even think about that. I simply hurt them because I enjoyed it.”

Harry looked at him for a long moment before pushing himself away from the wall and walking over to Tom. He sank down onto the floor next to the shelf, not looking up at him. “Dumbledore told me as much. He’s showed me the memory of visiting you at that horrible orphanage, and the one of your uncle before you killed him.”

“That old man is still kicking, then?” Tom said, laughing quietly. Harry didn’t answer. “What did he tell you those things for?”

He glanced over at Harry and saw him looking down at the floor before him. 

“Harry?”

“He wanted to prepare me,” He spoke up quietly, and met Tom’s eyes unwavering and incredibly soft. Almost like pity. “Prepare me to kill you.”

While looking into Riddle’s eyes, Harry could practically watch the emotions in them change, change from open curiosity, to shock, and then, at last, to closed-off anger. He heard Riddle give an unbelieving laugh, swinging his head back. “Kill me? Hah! No one can kill me, Harry, you better tell him that!”

“I’m not telling him anything. He doesn’t know about the mirror, or you. And he seems to be very sure of killing you. He’s already destroyed that, after all.” Harry gestured at the ring and pulled his knees up to his chest.

He watched the smile die from Riddle’s face as he glanced down at the ring for a long, long moment, before looking over at Harry again, eyes wide. “He– what?”

“Yup,” Harry said, getting up from the floor. “He knows about your precious little Horcruxes. Has known for a while, too, and dear Slughorn has pretty much proved his theory.” He stepped in front of Riddle, looking into his wide eyes. “Now, Riddle, I don’t know what your whole deal with immortality is, but you better give that up real quick. Because those Horcruxes of yours are destroyable and believe me when I say I’ll hunt them all down one for one and destroy them if I have to.”

Riddle gave a loud, crazed laugh and stepped away from Harry, looking down at him with balled fists and desperation in his eyes. “You can’t just expect me to–”

“Yes, I can.” Harry interrupted him, hand balled around his wand. “It’s the only way, Riddle, that saves me from killing you. Because I tried to, believe me, I tried really bloody hard, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it! Sometimes, you’re so immensely different from Voldemort I could hardly believe you were the same person.” Harry put his wand away and curled his arms around his torso, taking a deep breath. But he didn’t look away from Riddle’s eyes. “Those Horcruxes deformed you, Riddle, they took every bad thing inside of you and made them worse.”

Riddle laughed again, this time quiet and unbelieving, and turned away from Harry, almost like he wanted to run away. “It’s not fair, Harry.” he spat, his fists shaking at his side. “You cannot seriously believe I would give them up, just because you said so?! They’re the key to immortality! Don’t you understand that?!”

“Nope, I don’t.” He said, and yanked on Riddle’s sleeve, trying to make him turn towards Harry again. It didn’t work. Still, he continued. “Because they didn’t make you immortal, or more powerful. Splitting your soul into seven little parts hasn’t made you stronger, Riddle, it made you weak.

“Back in my fourth year,” Harry started, taking a deep breath, “You had me bound to your father’s gravestone, Death Eaters surrounding me, and wand taken away. And still, I was able to escape. You wanna know why? Because you, yourself, freed me from that stone and gave me my wand back, all because you wanted to see the desperation in my eyes, or something similarly stupid as that.” He gave a cold laugh, “I know you’re many things, Riddle, but foolish isn’t one of them.”

He tugged on Riddle’s sleeve again, and finally, he turned around to face him. Harry met his eyes, saw the fury, frustration, and disbelief in them. But he saw the conflict, the desperation, and the confusion, and knew that there was only one thing missing before Riddle gave in, before Riddle understood.

“You don’t believe me, do you? Come on, then.” He reached out, grabbed Riddle’s collar, and in one, swift motion, yanked him down on eye-level with Harry, “See for yourself.”

A flash of green, Harry’s mother falling to the ground before him, screaming and dying.

The image of something no longer human, sucking on the long-cold corpse of a unicorn, hideous face appearing in the back of Quirrell’s head.

The Horcrux, in Harry’s second year, an identical version of Riddle above the pierced-through the diary, screaming as he dissolved into air.

The frail, baby-like creature Pettigrew dumped into the cauldron and the figure who had risen from it, pale with a snake-like face. Harry’s scream as he touched his scar, and Voldemort’s cruel laughter as he crucioed him, nothing like the dark, warm chuckle Harry now knew Riddle capable of.

The Horcruxes had changed him. Even though there had always been something rotten inside Tom Riddle, the birth of Horcruxes had spread and increased it, until nothing but madness remained.

Harry was certain of that now.

With a gasp, they were back in the room, and Harry sank down onto the floor breathlessly. Above him, Riddle gave something like a whimper, and Harry saw him lean back against the shelf, gasping for breath.

“That’s me?”

Harry nodded. “That’s you. Or at least it will be once you’re finished with your Horcruxes.”

Something plummeted onto the floor next to him, and Harry was surprised to see Riddle there, knees drawn to his chest and head burrowed into his arms. He seemed to have finally lost some of that composure. Smiling wryly, Harry scooted over next to him and leaned back against the shelf as well, staring over at the door. A few moments passed with neither of them saying anything, and Harry glanced away from it and down at the ring sitting on Riddle’s finger.

“Have you noticed any changes already?”

Riddle’s tone was soft and quiet when he spoke, muffled by the fabric of his robes. “Just small ones. I’m quicker to anger, and I fear my body temperature may have sunken.” He stirred almost hesitantly, lifted his head from his arms, and lowered it back against the shelf. “A lot.”

Harry reached over and poked him in the hand, grimacing. “Yeah, you’re right.”

They fell into silence, and Harry shuffled around nervously beside Riddle, glancing over at him. There, with his shoulders hunched over and eyes facing down to the floor, Harry thought Riddle looked like something never had before: lost.

With a sigh, Harry reached out and drew Riddle's head down onto his shoulder. Quietly, he asked, “Why are you so obsessed with immortality in the first place?”

“Dying is a shameful human weakness, Harry. I’m afraid of dying a meaningless death, and of not knowing what comes after.”

“So you decided to split your soul in half instead.”

Riddle’s bony shoulder dug into Harry’s as he pulled it up and shot him a glare, “What else could I have done, in your opinion?! Horcruxes are the only solution I have been able to find!"

Harry sighed. “Well, and now you have one. Shouldn’t that be enough? As long as you hide it well, and don’t give anyone a reason to want to destroy them, you would be safe and still sane.” He paused and sunk his head sideways onto Riddle’s. “I’m only forced to destroy them now because you went onto a murder spree and basically became Grindelwald number two. Else not even Dumbledore would’ve bothered collecting all that information about you.”

A pause, then Riddle’s wry voice, “And I do love my sanity very much.”

He gave a surprised laugh, “You don’t seem like it, honestly.”

Harry felt Riddle laugh as well, felt it vibrating against his shoulders as he sunk against it, sighing, before pulling away and straightening up. When he spoke, his voice was clear and controlled. “I’ll have to think about it, Harry. That has to be enough for right now.” He pulled himself away from Harry’s shoulder and looked at Harry with a smirk on his face. “But now, I still have a question for you before our vow ends.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow and straightened up as well, scooting over until he was facing him. “Yeah?”

“What on earth do I need to do for you to call me by my first name?”

He gave a surprised laugh, his knees bumping into Riddle’s. It was jarring to see Riddle change over to his teasing self so quickly. But Harry couldn’t say he was mad about it. He’d missed it a bit, in fact. Between giggles, he said, “I don’t know. What would you be ready to do?”

And with the most serious face Harry had ever seen on him, Riddle held out his hand and said. “I suppose I could help you with your schoolwork again.”

Breaking out into even more giggles, Harry took his hand. It felt cold against his, like it had during their vow. He supposed he could get used to it. “Deal. But only if you also help me with my finals this year, Tom.”

“It would be an honor,” he said, eyes lighting up and smiling wickedly, before pulling Harry in by his hand. “And now, what was that kiss yesterday, Harry?”

Gasping and laughing, Harry smacked him over the head before falling sideways back into the shelf. “Shut up!”

Chapter Text

Harry watched as Tom brought his hand up to the door, trailing it over its smooth surface as if he could open it with willpower alone. But he didn’t go anywhere near the handle, instead he said, “Would you open it for me, Harry?”

Harry didn’t answer, leaning forward and pressing the handle down. The door opened up unresistingly before him, and both he and Tom took a few steps back as it did. It made way to the bright hallway Harry knew so well, with bright windows, high ceilings, and vaults. 

Next to Harry, Tom stepped forward almost hesitantly, his arm stretched out in front of him. Harry held his breath as he watched Tom take yet another step towards the threshold, and for a second he fully believed that he’d be able to cross it, to step through it and out of the room. But then, Tom’s hand bumped against something, and he paused in his steps, running his hand over it. It seemed to be an invisible barrier of sorts, and when Tom took out his wand and shot a few spells against it, muttering incantations under his breath, they rebounded against it.

Harry breathed out deeply. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to feel relieved or disappointed at the outcome, and as he ducked out of the way of a wry spell, he decided it was neither. They’d both expected this, after all. The most interesting part still lay before them.

“You brought it with you?” Harry said, stepping through the threshold and smirking back at Tom, who only nodded and went to get his bag. Rummaging through it, he took out a single stone and held it out to Harry. Tom’d said that it was from his time, plucked from the ground outside Hogwarts. Harry reached out towards it and grasped it in his hand. He met Tom’s eyes for a second, who nodded and let go, before looking back onto the stone before them. Harry slowly drew his arm back towards himself and out of the room, holding his breath, before something suddenly pushed back against it, throwing the stone out of Harry’s grip.

It fell down onto the threshold and rolled back towards Tom, who leaned down and picked it up with a sigh. “Expected, but still disappointing.”

Harry nodded, staring down at the stone in Tom’s hands, before stepping back over the threshold and into the room. He wanted this door closed as soon as possible before Malfoy decided to show up. Or even better, Dumbledore. “It’s probably the same in your time, too. We shouldn’t bother trying that out.”

“Yes, I assume it would be nothing more than a waste of time. It seems that the door really lets nothing from the other time through.” Tom turned around and picked up his bag from the floor, putting the stone in it. “The mirror, next?”

Harry nodded again and watched the door fall close behind him before walking away. He fell into step next to Tom as they walked back towards the mirror, Harry leading the way. By unspoken agreement, they’ve both decided to hold these experiments in Harry’s time. Even knowing now that Tom didn’t mean him any harm, Harry still wasn’t ready to go back. A few mere weeks had passed since Tom had created his Horcrux, and that was too little time for Harry’s heart to heal just yet. He couldn’t trust Tom just yet, and so they had met here, in Harry’s time.

Suddenly, Tom spoke up next to him. “I’d have a question, Harry.”

He looked over at him, eyebrow lifted. “You don’t have to be so formal, you know. I’m not going to jump and attack you at the slightest impoliteness.”

“I wasn’t worried about that.” Tom shot Harry a glance. “Even if you attacked me, I could take it.”

“Oh? Famous last words, Tom.” Harry grinned at him, before burrowing his hands into his pockets. “What’s your question?” He looked over and saw Tom stare at him intently, as if he was trying to find out Harry’s answer just by looking at him. Harry stared back. “Well?”

Clearing his throat, Tom looked away. “Did something change, in the future, after you met me for the first time?”

Harry looked away as well, out into the room. “I know what you’re going for, and no, it didn’t. I’ve got the theory that the mirror is just a link between two separate timelines, parallel universes if you will. I don’t see any other possibility.”

Tom made an agreeing noise next to him. “That seems likely, then.” He fell quiet for a moment. “My question is, did my timeline only form when you stepped through the mirror, creating it by accident, or had it always existed?”

“Like fate?”

Tom looked at him. “Yes, like fate. You always land in the same time when stepping through the mirror, correct?” Harry gave a nod, and Tom continued, “So, that means that it’s no mere coincidence where you land. Or where I land, for that matter. ”

Harry looked down onto the floor as Tom spoke on, thinking about the last time he’d thought about his fate with Voldemort. Professor Trelawney’s loud, strange-sounding words echoed in his ears, burned into his memory like a brand on his skin. Should he tell Tom about it? It concerned them both, after all, and they were trying to be more honest with each other.

Tom continued, undeterred next to Harry. “Our two timelines have to be linked somehow. Because how else could you have hit the exact same time I was in the Hidden Room? You could’ve appeared ages earlier or later, when no one alive knew about its existence. So it’s clear that it wasn’t a coincidence.”

Harry glanced over at him, shoulders tense and jittery, hands hidden deep inside his pockets. He didn’t meet his eyes. “About that, well. There’s something you should know, Tom. Earlier this year, back when I was still in my Fifth Year at Hogwarts, I found out that there was a prophecy about the two of us. Well, more about me and Voldemort, really. So fate is involved somehow, that’s for sure.”

Tom looked at him with wide, curious eyes. “What kind of prophecy?”

Harry smiled wryly at him. “I’ll show it to you sometime. More accurate and all that.”

“Right then. Knowing you, you’d manage to jumble the words up completely. And anyway, one should always witness prophecies in all their glory.”

Harry made a face at that and ducked beneath the arm of the Headless Witch. He ran his hand over it as he passed, thinking of how mismatched she was now with her twin from Tom's time. “The one I’ve heard isn’t that great, so don’t get your hopes up. It’s more like immensely creepy.”

“Ah, but that’s the good part, you see,” Tom said, smiling. “The spine-tingling air of something unstoppable. I wouldn’t like a prophecy about myself, that’s true, but seeing them happen before my eyes always has a sense of satisfaction with it.”

Harry shot him a glance. “You’ve seen one happen before?”

“A classmate of mine did. He showed it around proudly, proclaiming to the whole school that he would ‘beat fate’. It was hilarious when he failed to do so.”

“Sounds like your kind of humor,” Harry mumbled under his breath and smiled. 

They arrived at the mirror then, and their conversation broke off. Harry waited behind, watching as Tom stepped closer to the mirror and trail his hand over the golden frame. “You remember what I told you about my heightened senses of magic in this timeline?” He said, not looking away from the frame. Harry nodded anyway.

“I do, yeah. You’re gonna try that now?”

Tom nodded and sunk down onto the floor, sitting stiffly beside the mirror. “I am. But it might take a while.”

“Alright. Take your time.” Harry said, and leaned back against the shelf standing next to the mirror, looking down at Tom. 

He watched as Tom closed his eyes, hand still laying outstretched on the frame, and took a few deep breaths. Harry smiled down at him and crossed his arms before his chest. The ring wasn’t there anymore, neither on the hand laying on the frame, nor the other one that sat in his lap. He wondered what Tom had done to it. 

Probably hidden it away, out of reach of people that wished to destroy it, as Harry had proposed. Hopefully, that also meant he had given Harry’s other words some thought. Only a few days had passed since their conversation, and since they hadn't met before, they hadn't had time to talk about it. Harry wondered if they even would.

He leaned his head back against the shelf, closing his eyes. There was nothing more that he could do about it right now, anyway. It all lay with Tom now.

But anyway, Harry was relieved Tom’d put the ring away. Before, it had reminded Harry all too painfully of his failure to prevent its creation, both by killing Riddle, and by persuading him. Harry opened his eyes again and glanced back at Tom. He didn’t seem any different now then before creating his Horcrux. Most of the changes were probably more inwardly anyway, things that Tom hid away from Harry. He’d said so last time, anyway. 

But he didn't seem any different to Harry, except that he was acting a little nicer. The git was probably being careful not to scare Harry away.

As if that would happen anyway, after all this.

Harry smiled and pushed himself off the shelf, crouching down in front of the mirror, looking over at Tom. His hand was balled up in his lap, and his face was scrunched up badly, lids pressing tightly together. Harry guessed his experiment wasn’t going all too well.

He sat down next to him, in front of the mirror, and crossed his legs. The mirror’s faint light glowed onto Tom’s face, sprawling against his nose, his jaw, and his neck. It shimmered there softly, the light moving as the sheet did inside the mirror, slowly and gently.

Harry propped his chin up on an arm, leaning forwards. It wasn’t often that Harry had the opportunity to just look at Tom, eyes closed, and not focusing on Harry in one way or another. It was a rather trustful move, now that Harry thought about it. Although Tom would probably be back at Harry’s slightest move. But still, after everything that had happened in the last few weeks, it seemed a bit like the beginning of a real friendship.

Not the one they’d had before, filled with tension, dishonesty, and doubt, wrapped up in a nice package of jokes and mocking promises of safety. That one had been built on lies from the very beginning, back when Tom had asked for Harry’s name and had not given one in return. But it was gone now, only leaving its remnants behind. It had been replaced by a whirlwind of truth that was both confusing and very, very relieving.

They’d both need some time to work up from that, of course, but Harry thought it would be very much worth it. Because the image of them both, sitting comfortably in Tom’s lounge with a mug of tea in their hands, bantering away comfortably, something that would’ve never been fully possible before, made Harry feel giddy and warm. 

The image seemed almost too good to be true, Harry thought, but now, with all the lies between them cleared away, it suddenly seemed very possible.

Harry was still smiling when Tom opened his eyes with a groan and brought a hand up to his temple. “This is giving me a headache.” He muttered with a raspy voice and shot Harry a look. “Why are you smiling away so happily, Harry?”

Harry leaned back, bracing his body with two arms behind it. “Nothing much. Found anything useful?”

Tom grimaced. “Not really. The mirror is certainly the most lively part of this room, that much is sure. I’ve never felt so much magic pouring out an object.” He sighed. “It seems very fond of you, too, whirling merrily around you the whole time.”

Harry gave a grin. “So, in other words, it’s not trying to hurt me. Whatever it wants to achieve by sending us in between the different timelines, it’s not meant to be harmful.”

“Exactly,” Tom said and pushed himself up from the floor. “We both read about time-traveling in our timeline, correct?” Harry nodded. “Did you find anything useful?”

“Nope. Just things about time turners and stuff like that. I decided that the mirror was an undiscovered branch of magic.”

Another sigh. “I thought the same thing. So the research hasn’t progressed over time, either. While that’s a shame, I suspected it. The mirror seems to be one of a kind.”

Harry hummed and stood up as well. “You want to do any more experiments?”

“I’m unsure what else there is to do, now that we’ve inspected both the mirror and the door.”

Harry shuffled around, glancing behind the mirror. “Well, what about investigating the rest of the room? There’s still the bit leading to your lounge that you haven’t yet seen in this timeline.” 

With a nod from Tom, Harry pushed himself through the space between the frame of the mirror and the shelf he’d leaned against before. Tom followed behind him. Together, they continued back towards the familiar yet different way back to Tom’s lounge. Or well, would-be lounge from a past that Harry had never been in. Strange thought, that.

As Harry glanced over at Tom, measuring the distance between them that seemed just a bit bigger than before, he thought about what those last few weeks had changed. Walking beside each other, nothing but their steps filling the quiet, Harry thought that a few weeks earlier, the silence would've been filled with unsaid words full of tension, empty laughter, and strained smiles. The heaviness that had always lain over their conversations was gone, now lifted away like the heavy blanket of snow during spring. Where Harry would've thought about cursing Tom before, jittery and with trembling hands, there was now a comfortable quiet, awkward, but full of potential.

Even if they didn't trust each other yet, because that much was obvious, Harry still felt much safer than he had before.

The thought made Harry smile, just a slight uplift of the corner of his lips, with his hands sunken comfortably deep inside his pockets. His smile fell, however, when they arrived at the lounge, dim and unfamiliar. Suddenly, he remembered the last time he’d been there, after returning to the Hidden Room with a bottle in his hand and a final plan in his mind. The day he’d found himself standing over an unconscious Tom, unable to kill him, and had run away, only to find out that the possibility of saving his parents and Sirius had been unable for him to reach after all.

He remembered feeling very much like the world had collapsed on top of him.

He stepped inside the lounge, slowly and tentatively, and looked around. There beside him lay the shelf with candlesticks and vases, forgotten and abandoned. Harry could see the dried-up puddle of blood, his blood, lying beside it, and suddenly he felt overcome by disgust.

Stepping back a few steps, he collapsed down onto the couch, dust swirling up on his sides. 

“Whatever happened in here?” Tom said in an annoyed tone. Harry only felt sicker. “Is everything alright?”

Tom appeared before him, crouching down, and looked at him worryingly. Harry only nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” He paused and watched Tom stare expressionlessly at him. Harry looked away. “It’s just that…” He shook his head. “I did this. Last week, you remember, after the…”

“Kiss.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah, that. I’d just figured out the whole parallel universes thing, and well, I panicked for a bit.”

“So you came here to check if it was true, then?” From where he was crouching in front of Harry, Tom started glancing around the room. No doubt he’d already noticed the same thing that Harry had: Harry’s things were missing from the lounge.

He nodded and shuffled on his seat, eyes darting to the couch, the tumbled-over shelf, and the broken vases laying beside it. Everywhere but not Tom. “Yeah. It just– I always wanted to save my parents, you know? And my godfather. And all the other people Voldemort killed. But then I couldn’t kill you, I couldn’t even do that stupid little thing, and then I realized that even if I had, I would’ve failed in saving them after all, and…”

Then, when Harry hesitantly looked up at Tom, and he later swore that if he had looked at him just a second later, he wouldn’t have seen it, but at that moment, when their eyes met, something very surprising happened: Tom’s shoulders slumped down, his hair hanging onto his brow, and his face dropped into the most empathetic look Harry had ever seen on him. He gaped. Under normal circumstances, Harry would have been happy by this, yes, almost beside himself with joy. Something just wasn’t right with how that expression had formed. 

Suddenly, the Tom Riddle Harry had met in the diary came to his mind, and Harry narrowed his eyes. The version he’d met there, untamed and angry, had been manipulating, cruel, and certainly unbothered by things such as pity.

And although one could argue that he may have simply been beside himself with rage, or that Harry had changed Tom in the few months they'd been in contact, Harry suddenly wasn’t so sure of that anymore.

Oblivious to Harry's turmoil, Tom began to speak, his eyes wide with pity. “I’m sorry about all of that, Harry. You shouldn’t have been forced to decide between things like that, and you–”

“Stop that.”

He had interrupted Tom with his mouth open, had him thrown off course. Slowly, Tom closed it shut, and gave his head a little tilt. “Stop what?”

“Putting on that facade,” Harry said, glaring. “I don’t care for it.”

Tom blinked, and suddenly, there was shock there in his eyes. “I’m not though.”

Harry scoffed. “Are you lying again or are you stupid enough to not realize it?”

“Do you want me to do another truth vow?” He said, sounding serious and genuinely confused. “I’m not putting on a facade.”

“Oh, so you want to say you truly felt pity for me right now? Cause I don’t believe it.” 

“Of course I…” He paused and shuffled on his feet, still crouching there in front of Harry. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he continued. “Maybe not truly, but I understood that you were upset and wanted to make you feel better.”

Harry felt himself grow angry. “So you decided that faking pity would make it better.”

“I mean,” Tom began, pushing himself up from the floor. “Maybe I did, unconsciously, but it did help, didn’t it? Empathy is the most helpful emotion in a situation like this. Did you want me to rebuke you or something?”

“If that was what you genuinely wanted to do, then yes, speak your mind!”

Tom stared down at him, eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth as if to retort something, before closing it again. “You want me to genuinely speak my mind?”

Harry nodded.

Tom stepped back, squared his shoulders, and brushed his hair out of his face. His whole stance seemed a bit colder, resolute, and almost angry. It fit his words when he spoke them a moment later, hasty and jumbled into each other, as if fearing Harry would try to stop Tom from speaking if he gave him the chance. “Maybe that sounds entitled now, but are you incapable of being selfish every once in a while? You wanted to kill me for what, exactly? Saving all those people I’d kill in the future? Well, they're already dead now, aren't they?”

Harry stared at him, watched him take a deep breath, and cross his arms.

“From what I've gathered, I think your whole life has been circling around killing Voldemort and all those people you saved when you were nothing more than a baby . But you can't do anything about that now, can you? So just let the dead rest.” he paused, and then continued a bit softer. “It's okay to be selfish once in a while, and after what you've been telling me, you haven't done that in a long time.”

After that he stopped, and all Harry could do was to sit there, staring up at Tom and the pure conviction in his eyes, in his stance. Both that and his words took Harry’s breath away, leaving him gaping and with his hands fisted into the fabric of his jeans. “I…” he started, feeling lightheaded. “You’re right, that sounded entitled.”

He watched Tom’s lip twitch into an almost smile, caught somewhere between apathetic and smirking, and thought that this must’ve been his real smile. He shrugged. “I warned you.”

Harry gave a laugh and settled against the backrest of the couch. “Was it that bad, being honest?”

Tom’s eyes gave a twitch. “I am never dishonest, Harry. I just simply do not speak the whole truth.”

“Why though? I’m not running away right now either, am I?”

“Yes, but…” He paused, and took out his wand, fiddling with it. Harry wondered if he’d noticed it. “I’m not entirely sure why.”

Harry hummed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. But from now on, Tom, I want you to be honest with me. Tell me the whole truth, no matter if it’ll make me upset. In fact, if I catch any more of your facades, I'm definitely going to get pissed, trust me on that."

“Are you sure you’d be able to handle it?” Tom asked, but there was no smirk on his face, only tentative uncertainty.

“Of course. Come at me with all you have.”

This time, Tom smirked, slow and leisurely, and it made Harry grin back. “Anything you want, Harry.”

Chapter Text

When they left the lounge a bit later, abandoning the dim room filled with dusty furniture, glass splitters, and bad memories, Harry felt oddly relieved. 

Because ever since Harry had first stepped foot into the lounge here in his time, it had felt wrong. Wrong to be there, in a place he didn’t belong in. No, this one only belonged to Tom Riddle, the one Harry had only ever met as Voldemort and a Horcrux in a diary.

It felt like a skeleton of a place Harry knew so well, a place Harry loved. And it was then, stepping away from the dusty and unfamiliar lounge, that Harry realized something:

He missed their lounge. His and Tom’s. 

So, he glanced over at Tom, eying his face, and said, “Care for a cup of tea?”

Harry’s movements were slow when he stepped into the lounge. Tom had walked in before him and turned the light on with a flick of his hand, painting the whole place in a warm, comfortable light. The carpet seemed soft beneath his feet when Harry stepped onto it, worn and old though it was. Next to him, Tom filled the kettle with a spell, a muttered Aguamenti, and started warming it up with another. Harry sat down on the couch and watched him rummage through their collections of various jars filled with tea bags and tea leaves, all labeled by Tom’s careful hand. 

“Green tea, I assume?”

Harry smiled. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He glanced around the lounge illuminated by warm light, so starkly different from ceramic the one back in Harry’s time, soaking in all the details that made it theirs: The shelf filled with vases and candlesticks, all intact and whole, the calendar Harry had gifted Tom a few weeks back that had just been sitting around uselessly in the back of his trunk. There were also the books, brought there by Tom himself, that had been missing from the other lounge. 

A steaming mug of tea was placed in his hands, and Harry startled. It was his mug. He stared down at the vibrant, red dots painted onto the ceramic, and smiled.

Finally, he felt at ease again.

He looked over to Tom, who had his own mug in his hands, a dark green one Harry had brought with him a few months back. It looked small, cradled there between Tom’s hands, who was settling back into his armchair. Harry noticed how Tom almost seemed to shudder, holding the steaming mug close to his chest. Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Are you cold?”

Dark eyes flitted over at Harry and blinked. “No more than usual.”

Ah, of course. The Horcrux. Harry twitched and started glancing around the lounge. Were there no blankets here in this room? He’d have to bring one next time. His eyes settled back on Tom, and slowly, almost carefully, he asked, “Do you regret it?”

He didn’t need to clarify what he meant, apparently, because Tom easily answered, “No, why should I?”

“‘Cause of the changes?”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind them all that much. They might lessen with time, anyway. But even if they don’t, I think it’s a small price to pay for what I got in return.” 

Harry nodded, absentmindedly, and looked away from him, down onto the coffee table. Next to him, he could hear Tom take a sip of tea and settle back deeper into his armchair. Harry did the same.

“I thought about what you’ve said a few days ago, Harry. About the Horcruxes.”

His eyes flew up, back onto Tom, and he stared at him for a moment before speaking. “You did?”

He nodded and glanced down at his hand as if seeing the ghost of his ring sitting on his finger. "But, frankly, I'm still conflicted about it. So, I wanted to ask you a favor." 

He looked back up at Harry, catching his eyes, and Harry nodded. “What is it?”

“Can you show me again? The me from the future?”

Harry’s mind came to a halt, the grip on his mug tightening. “I... I don’t know if–”

“It doesn’t have to be today, or soon, even.” Tom cut in. “I know it is a lot to ask. But when you showed it to me, all I could see were flashes, fleeting images of places. Of the Chamber of Secrets, I think, and a graveyard?” he paused, leaning back in his armchair. “But I want to know the whole story, not just flashes of images, to make my decision. I want to figure out exactly how the Horcruxes changed me.” He paused and seemed to study Harry’s face. His voice wasn’t exactly soft or nice when he spoke again, but it was honest and full of curiosity. Harry thought it meant he was holding his promise. “I just want to know, Harry.”

The mug was jittering slightly in his hand, and so Harry placed it down onto the table. He stared down at it as he thought the whole thing over in his head, wringing his hands tightly together in his lap. There wasn’t really a choice to make. If there was anything he could do to help Tom in his decision, he knew it wasn’t up for consideration. He smiled grimly, and spoke up a moment later, “Can you organize a Pensieve? It’d be easier than Legilimency.”

Tom nodded, “I can. A roommate of mine has one.” 

Harry gave him a look. “And he’ll just give it to you?”

“Of course he will. You forget who I am, Harry.”

He snorted and leaned back into the couch, smiling against the mug when taking a sip. “I would never, believe me.”

Harry left the lounge after finishing the tea, and Tom brought him back to the mirror. When Harry stepped through it, waving, Tom was waiting in front of it with his hands deep in the pockets of his robe. Before everything became blurry, Harry thought he saw Tom wave back.

When Harry arrived back in his timeline, he could’ve sworn he wasn’t nearly as cold as usual. Be it the warm remnants of the tea or something else entirely, the coldness of the mirror didn’t seem quite as jarring. 

He glanced around while walking, looking up at the high ceiling with its dimming light, which meant the sun had gone down a few minutes ago. Still glancing around, he rounded around a floor lamp with a gigantic leaf-like base and a strangely crooked tube, similar to a stem. He smiled at it, running his hand over the flowers hanging from the torchiere, and thought that whoever had left it behind in this room had been terribly wrong to do so.

Harry was still smiling as he walked away from it, nearly at the entrance now. He skipped around the objects, marveling at them even though he’d seen them a thousand times before. He’d missed them as well.

He trailed his hand over the dark cloth draped over a cabinet and thought wryly that, even though it was beautiful, the room distinctly lacked some color. Laughing, he supposed that that was part of the mysterious air that hung over the room.

Glancing at the dark-grey drawer that stood near the door, which matched in with the stone wall perfectly, Harry wryly wondered if the rest of the room looked like that as well. He pushed the door open, blinking against the sudden bright light, and giddily realized that he’d just had the perfect idea for their next experiment.

Harry looked out of the big windows when he passed them, out onto the steep hills in the distance and at the vibrant red colors hanging over the sky, the door falling close behind him with a loud thud. He was grinning when he turned away from it and strode down the hallway, past chatting portraits and stone archways, and down towards the Great Hall, where dinner would be served any moment.

It seemed to him that, finally, everything was in order again.

However, Harry concluded when sitting in Potions the next day, it seemed that happiness was a very fleeting thing.

He was watching Slughorn scribble notes onto the blackboard, small and illegible, droning on about the healing uses of leadwort. Ron, sitting next to him, had already laid his head down onto the table, having given up on catching anything that Slughorn was babbling on, and Harry very much felt inclined to do the same.

Instead, all he did was stare down at Slughorn and think about what ghastly classes the day still had waiting for him. Namely, divination and the horror that was Defense, now that Snape was teaching it. A shame Harry’s favorite subject got ruined by that man as well. One would’ve thought it had suffered enough in the last few years with Umbridge. At least Potions was better with Slughorn and the Half-Blood-Princes’ book. 

He sighed and sunk down deeper into the chair. 

Slughorn had been a teacher as well in Tom’s time. His Head of House, even. It seemed almost surreal now, to imagine him standing in front of Tom much like he was right now, only younger and much less haunted by the years, by the war. Harry knew how he’s looked like. Both now and then, he’d seen it in the Pensieve, together with Dumbledore, had seen him without his wrinkles and grey hair, standing before a young Tom Riddle. In the untampered memory, the one Harry's got from Slughorn himself many months before, he’d watched them talk about the Horcruxes, about Tom’s ‘purely academic’ interest in their creation.

He’d watched Slughorn help Tom in confirming his theory, the possibility that the creation of multiple Horcruxes would be possible. To some extent, it was what had led to Tom's lapse into madness.

Harry leans back into his seat, breathing deeply against the ever-present fumes down in the dungeon. In the row in front of them, people were collecting paper pieces, and half of the class was asleep. Yet Slughorn never once turned to look at them.

Ignoring the rest of the class, Harry thought about what he would’ve done if he was Tom. If, when arriving at Hogwarts, he hadn’t found the friends he had now. If he instead had entered one of the most manipulative houses that valued house purity and deceit above all else. 

Despised by the rest of his house, no Molly or Sirius there to give him the familial warmth he needed, no Hermione and Ron to support him when things got bad, Harry could very well imagine him turning to the same thing as Tom: Power.

Harry, despite very much wanting to think otherwise, had no doubt that Tom doesn’t have any friends in his school. For years, he only had the Death Eaters and his other followers. No wonder he developed a god complex and that absurd craze for power. No one had been there for Tom to show him empathy, to teach him and show him that maybe, cold-blooded murder wasn’t the best way to get rid of problems.

Hell, even Dumbledore, absent though he was for Harry at times, hadn’t been there for Tom. Slughorn too, someone who should’ve been another pillar of support in Tom's life, was nothing more than an easily manipulated source of information. And Harry didn’t blame Slughorn for that. Well, mostly at least, but that damn well didn’t prevent him from being angry at the man. 

More than ever now that he tried to understand Tom a bit more, instead of painting him as this grim monster for his own sake of mind.

It wasn’t easy.

Harry sighed, and turned to glance around the classroom, at the dark stone walls and shelves looming over the heads of tired students. He had to squint, glancing past the fumes wafting around the room, which were pouring out in spurts from Sluhorn's cauldron.

Suddenly, Harry felt someone poke him in the arm, and he turned to face Hermione. He looked at her questioningly as she leaned over and turned to whisper something to him. “Harry, this might not be the best moment for a lengthy conversation, but I’ve been wanting to ask you something.”

Her voice was quiet, possibly so as to be careful not to Slughorn’s attention, even though the row before them had been making paper-birds all lesson long while laughing loudly. Still, he nodded encouragingly and leaned in further, not wanting to miss a word she said. 

Bushy hair fell against his shoulder as she continued, “So, about that boy you mentioned a few days ago. The one you kissed.”

Harry sighed and turned to rub his temple. So it was back to that. He’d hoped she wouldn’t ask any more questions about that. He really didn’t want to lie to them again. Glancing around nervously in the room, he reluctantly turned to face her. “What about him?”

“Is it Malfoy?”

Harry choked on his spit and drew back from her, coughing violently and tipping over his bottle of ink. Black liquid spilled all over the table, and he moved away from it, Hermione grabbing his books and quill to bring it to safety. Cursing, he pulled out his wand and wiped the ink back into the vial. He tucked his wand back into his sleeve, turned to Hermione, and glared at her.

“So that’s a no, then?”

“Of course that’s a no!” Harry whisper-yelled, “How did you even get that idea?!”

Hermione blushed and turned away from him, down to her notebook. With her chin propped up on the table, she continued copying down Slughorn's notes. “Well,” she started, not glancing back up at him, “You were all secretive about him these last months, and you told us about that thing with his wand, and then we caught you last time holding a decent conversation all of the sudden… It just made me suspicious, you know? I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable.”

Harry sighed. “It’s not– I’m not uncomfortable, Hermione. Or well, a bit, but it doesn’t matter. I’m just… kind of surprised, that’s all? I mean I’ve never…”

She shot him a look and added softly, “...considered it.”

“Yeah.”

She smiled, “That’s good then. I was afraid you might run away. That’s why I started this conversation here. I’m glad the only thing you did was go into a coughing fit.”

“I wouldn’t–” he started, but she only interrupted him again.

“You’re very much capable of running away from your problems, Harry,” she said, lifting an eyebrow. “That, and running straight towards new ones. Ron and I know that more than anyone else.”

He sighed loudly but shot her a smile. “Yeah, I know you do.”

Hermione smiled back and turned away to copy down more things on her paper. Harry turned back to the rest of the classroom, glancing around to see if everyone nearby was too busy sleeping and talking to overhear their conversation. 

Almost involuntarily, his eyes turned over to Malfoy, who was sitting on the other side of the room, sitting stiffly in his seat and taking notes. Harry scowled at him. It was plausible, now that he thought about it, how an outsider could mistake their actions. I mean all Malfoys staring for one thing, and then our almost friendly talks… But still, it was abstruse for Hermione to think that Harry’d be interested in a prick like that. She knew as well as he what he’d done over the years.

Actually, now that he was thinking about it, Malfoy hadn’t interacted with him once in the last week or so. After their encounter, Harry’d barely even seen Malfoy anymore. Normally, they’d bump into each other every few days or so, but now Malfoy only seemed to be back at ignoring him. 

It was a bit like the beginning of the year.

“You’re staring at him again.”

Harry yelped, looking back over at Hermione, who was looking at him with big, dark eyes and a mischievous smile on her face.

“Who is it, if not Malfoy?”

He scowled, blood rushing to his face as he turned away from her to scribble nonsense down onto his paper. “I’m not telling.”

“Oh, Harry, please. How should I offer you my support if I don’t know who I’m supporting? Is he nice, at least?”

“He is,” Harry answered, still not looking up at her. “Though not the kind of nice you’re thinking of now. He’s mean, that’s for sure, and kind of cruel sometimes. But that's just who he is, you know, he’s never had anyone teach him better. Else, we banter all the time and he’s quite charming when he wants to be. I’m not sure you’d approve of it, really. But…” Harry trailed off, staring down at the trails of ink he’d made across the parchment. He looked up at Hermione. “I want to help him as much as I can.”

Hermione smiled softly at Harry. “Do you love him?”

At once, Harry’s quill fell out of his hand, rolling down the table and onto the floor. With wide eyes, he bend over to pick it up and turned back to Hermione. “That’s not– I don’t… The kiss was a mistake, Hermione, more of a strategical move than anything else. We’re not in a relationship! Nope!”

She frowned. “How on earth would you use a kiss as a strategical move?”

“It’s complicated to explain!” He spluttered wide-eyed. “I don’t– I can’t explain it to you.”

She leaned back in her seat, humming and lifting an eyebrow. “So you kissed someone you don’t love? And you’re not in a relationship?”

This conversation is such a nightmare, he thought, grimacing, and brushed his hands against the fabric of his robe. “Nope, we’re not.”

“I see.” She said, studying him with her big, brown eyes and Harry turned away from her, shuffling in his seat. His heart was still pounding when Slughorn finally turned away from the blackboard and finished the lesson. With clammy hands, Harry packed his things together and wished that this day would be over soon.

After all, he still had somewhere to go.

Chapter Text

When Tom entered the lounge, Harry was there.

Tom paused right next to the shelf with candlesticks and vases, one hand laid on its dark wood, staring over at Harry. He had one of Tom’s books in his lap, and, even better, was sitting in the armchair that Tom usually sat in. Tom lifted a brow and stepped away from the shelf.

“I didn’t know you cared about plants,” he said, in lieu of a greeting, and Harry’s head snapped up at him.

“I didn’t know you cared about plants,” he retorted a moment later, shutting Tom’s book on Herbology close.

Tom shrugged and settled down onto the couch, the spot Harry usually sat in. “The knowledge of plants is quite important for potion-making, Harry.”

“I never learned about the plants listed in here,” he answered, laying the book down on the coffee table.

“Maybe that’s why your potions usually end in failures.”

Harry rolled his eyes, smiling, and Tom stood up to put the book away in its proper place on the shelf. 

Turned away from Harry, he said, “I have organized the Pensieve, by the way. Abraxas was very happy to lend me his.”

Harry didn’t answer, and so Tom turned to study his other books on the shelf a bit longer, giving Harry time to reply. When he did, the answer didn’t surprise Tom. “Not today. I had something else in mind that we could do today. As an experiment.”

“And that would be?” Tom asked, taking a few books out of his shelf and stacking them in his arms.

“You’ve been here for a while, right?” Harry spoke up softly. “In this room, I mean. Did you ever go to the back of it? Does it have an end?”

Tom paused for a moment, looking out into the room. “I don’t know. I never went in far enough. It is quite massive, though, that’s for sure. I explored it quite a bit last year, but never went far enough to see its end.” There, he turned around to face Harry, who was looking at him curiously. “Why do you ask?”

A broad, playful smile appeared on his face. “Why don’t we go find out if it does?”

Tom smiled as well, and said, “I’m in.” Then, in one fluid motion, he turned and placed the pile of books in Harry's lap. “Herbology books,” he said when he caught Harry’s blank stare, “The best ones I own.”

Harry frowned and put the books down on the coffee table. “Sure, thanks.”

“It’s for when I’m not in the room yet. So you don’t get bored.” Tom said and stepped away from Harry, walking out of the lounge. “Come on now, Harry,” he called. “Walking to the end of the room will take its time!”

He heard Harry shuffle up from the seat and hurry after Tom, arriving by his side a moment later. Together they walked side by side away from the lounge and the door, which lay somewhere far behind them, behind high towers of books and small, stacked up constructs of wooden tabled, shelves, and bed frames. The door was hidden somewhere behind it all, tucked away from sight.

“How do you know where to go?” Harry asked, breaking the quiet, and Tom glanced over to see him trailing his hand over an old, ornate cabinet, which could possibly be cursed. Typical.

“Mostly,” Tom said, looking out into the room. “We just need to head in the opposite direction of the door, after all. And, for right now, I know exactly where we are. I’ve learned the general outline of the area surrounding the lounge by heart after arriving here.”

“Why?” Harry turned around to Tom with a frown.

Tom scowled, “Just a habit. Don’t read too much into it.”

Tom took his hands out of his pockets, steady and cold as ever, and clasped them behind his back. A comfortable silence stretched between them as they both looked away from each other, Harry at the objects on his side, and Tom out onto the path lying ahead. Tilting his head, he wondered what things slumbered out there in the dark. Traps, cursed, or dark items? He hoped that at least the path wouldn’t be blocked.

“You know,” Harry spoke up, breaking Tom out of his thoughts. He glanced over at Harry. “Did I ever mention that our teacher is Slughorn?”

“Slughorn?” Tom asked, his eyebrows lifted. “Really? That man is still in a condition to teach after fifty years?”

“He stopped for a while after the war, but Dumbledore made him come back. By dangling me in front of his nose.”

Tom sneered, filing the thought of war away for later. “Oh yes, he’s always loved his trophies. I take it he invited you to the Slug Club as well?”

Harry barked a laugh. “He did, but it was horrible. All that sitting around and exchanging niceties. I hated it.”

“Yes, sounds like something you’d loathe. Your table manners are horrible.” Tom shot Harry a smile before quickly glancing away again. Had that been a genuine smile of his or not? It was so difficult to tell. “I’ve always quite enjoyed them myself. It gives me an opportunity to mingle and sweet-talk with the most influential guests.”

“Suck up, you mean.”

Tom frowned. “Having connections is very valuable, Harry. It gives me a sort of safety-net to fall back to. Would something not go as planned.”

“Safety, huh,” Harry said, humming. “And what plan?”

He glanced over at Harry. “Excuse me?”

“You said ‘if something didn’t go as planned’.” Harry met his eyes. “So what are you planning?”

Tom stopped to stare at Harry for a moment, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Then, he cleared his throat and continued walking, “Nothing much at the moment.” he said quietly, looking away. It was so difficult to not just turn around to Harry and smile at him, throw him off course by telling meaningless lies about his future.

Because Harry would see through it all. He knew too much about Tom now, to believe his lies, knew Tom too well to fall for his charms. It was dangerous, keeping him around, but Tom couldn’t do anything about it.

Instead, he cleared his throat again and met Harry’s eyes. “You’ve messed up all of them, Harry. My plans, I mean.”

Harry hummed and turned away. Quietly, he said, “Sorry about that.”

Tom barked a laugh, and this time, he knew it was real. “You’re not.”

Harry smiled too, warm and genuine. The corners of his eyes softened. “No, I’m not.”

The silence was more comfortable after that, more relaxed as they continued wandering further into the room. Suddenly, Tom felt his senses widen with every step he took, the magic rising from the objects like mist in the forest. Something in the back of his mind tingled the same way it had when he first stepped foot through the mirror. The way it did in the room in the future. His eyes widened and fumbled for his wand. 

“Stop.”

Harry halted mid-step and glanced over at Tom, lifting an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I just felt the magic,” he said, closing his eyes and touching the back of his head. He stepped forward, sucking in a deep breath when he felt it again.

“Are you sure you’re not just having a headache?” Harry drawled from next to Tom. “You’ve only ever felt it in my timeline, right?”

Tom didn’t reply, stepping towards the next best object and stretching his hand out, but not touching it. There it is again, he thought excitedly, and opened his eyes again. With a sudden movement that had Harry startle back, Tom strode quickly ahead. “No dallying,” he called out to Harry, who was still standing somewhere behind him.

The room grew dimmer around him as Tom continued on, his and Harry’s steps loud against the silence. Tom felt a grin spread across his face as he steered his way through the maze at breakneck speed, closing his eyes. In his mind, the surroundings were building themselves up like in a Pensieve and giving him the position of everything around him without even having to look at it.

“Tom, oi, stop for a minute,” Harry said, breath huffing as they came to a stop. Tom tore his eyes open, glancing down at Harry, who was standing next to him, glaring. Tom didn’t apologize. 

“I want a duel.”

Harry’s brows sprung up. “Now?”

Tom glanced around the room, feeling its exact copy sitting at the back of his head, blooming and tingling. He nodded. “Now.”

“Well, alright I guess, but if we accidentally step into anything dark, then that’s your fault.”

Here, Tom smiled, “We won’t. I can feel that it’s safe around here.” he paused, closed his eyes, and pointed in a direction. “Just don’t go there.”

Harry glanced at it with wide eyes, wand ready in his hand. “You can really tell?”

“Seems like it,” Tom said with a shrug. “I’ll create a theory later. At the moment, all I want is to feel the magic.”

“...With a duel.”

“Correct.”

Harry smiled wickedly at him. “I can’t say I understand what you’re talking about, but make yourself ready to be crushed.”

“Likewise,” Tom drawled and smiled back, before dashing towards Harry with no warning, letting a grey spell fly towards him and crash into the shelf next to his head. It fell over.

For a moment, Harry looked startled, before he as well sprung into action, backing away from Tom and to his side, sending a hex to the spot on which Tom would step onto next. He evaded it narrowly by jumping over it and making a nearby clock fly towards the spot, releasing the trap. A moment later, vines grew out from the floor between them, entwining the clock tightly. Tom shot Harry a glare, which he returned. 

Harry cast an Expelliarmus, which Tom easily sidestepped and countered with his own charm, a blinding red light which transformed into a net seconds later, shooting towards Harry. Harry only conjured up a wall of fire that easily burned the net away before fizzling out in the air. He rolled his eyes. “A net, really?” Harry called, “Where did your usual fierceness go, Tom?”

Tom only shrugged, before dashing forwards, over the charred tiles on the floor and called “Expulso!”

Harry stepped out of the way of Tom’s spell, wide-eyed, a white light crashing into the shelf behind him, making it explode. All sorts of objects were sent flying into the air, and Tom stepped towards Harry again, smiling wickedly at the tingling of magic in the back of his head. Harry cursed, and pushed him back with a gush of air, clothes flapping madly.

“Are you mad, Tom?!” he called, sidestepping another white spell and casting his own spells in return.

“You said you wanted fierceness.”

Harry scowled. “I said fierceness, not death!”

Tom shrugged again, as if those two things were the exact same, and dodged out of the way of another one of Harry’s hexes. A second hit him in the knee, and he hissed as something blinding hot ran down his leg as if a candle had just been poured over it.

He scowled at Harry and shook his leg. “Alright, I'll yield. No more painful spells.”

“Fine,” Harry called back, before dashing forward at Tom, and swung his wand at Tom like he would a dagger. Ropes shot out of his wand, towards Tom, and he ducked away from them, casting a Protego. They bumped harmlessly off the invisible barrier, and Tom backed away, even more, breath huffing.

He could practically feel the rope receding into Harry’s wand, curling angrily into itself before Harry stepped around Tom’s Protego and cast the spell again. Tom scowled and burned the ropes away with the same fire spell Harry had used before.

Stepping backward, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes momentarily when an idea came to him. Not opening his eyes, he began murmuring the words of an incantation beneath his breath, too quiet for Harry to hear. He dodged out of the way of Harry’s spell without looking at it, still chanting. 

A moment later, the incantation was complete, and Tom opened his eyes to see Harry staring at him, eyes narrowed. “How the bloody hell did you just do that?”

“I told you I could feel the magic,” Tom drawled softly, before making white, thick mists rise from the ground with a flick of his hand. The last thing he saw before everything went white was Harry’s surprised face, staring at the floor and trying to get away from the mist. 

He chuckled quietly as he closed his eyes. They wouldn’t do him any good right now, anyway. As he knew Harry, he would be long gone from the spot he was in before, trying to search for a way out. But the mist was too thick and too widespread for him to do that, Tom knew.

Grinning, he dashed forward through the fog, mind searching for a hint of Harry’s magic. It was more difficult now, surrounded by his own, but still possible. He was rewarded a second later when he could feel Harry casting the fire spell from before, probably hoping to clear the mist away. He ran towards the spot, wand ready at his side, and shot an Expelliarmus at it. It didn’t hit. Harry was too smart to be standing in one place for too long.

Harry created another fire, its embers playfully licking at Tom’s mists, before he cast something else, a charm which pulsed through the air, catching into Tom’s figure. 

He frowned. A sort of revealing spell? No matter what it was, it seemed that Harry had now found him as well, coming towards him at full speed and Tom, thrown off track by that sudden change, could only cast another Expelliarmus at him.

This time, it hit.

He could feel Harry’s wand fly in his direction and caught it with a smile on his face. “You admit your loss?” he called into the mist, out of breath, but knowing full well that he had the upper hand now.

Harry made an agreeing noise from somewhere on Tom’s right, and Tom dispelled the fog, opening his eyes. To his surprise, Harry was lying on the floor a few steps away from it, sprawled out and out of breath.

Tom leaned over him, smirking, and held his hand out to Harry for the second time that day. “You alright there, sweetheart?”

Harry sneered and took his hand. “Don’t call me that.”

His smile widened even more than he tugged Harry up before turning to pull his hand away from Harry's. But he didn’t let him.

Instead, Harry tightened his grip and studied their hands closely. “It’s warmer than before,” he murmured, running his fingers over the back of Tom’s hand.

Tom stared at him dumbly, skin tingling where Harry touched it. “What?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Your hand. It’s warmer than before when we shook on the truth vow.”

He tugged at it again, and this time Harry let him pull it away. “I wouldn’t know.” he tucked his hands away in his pockets and turned away from Harry. “Come on, we still have some way ahead of us before we get to the end of the room.”

Harry followed behind him, grumbling. “We would’ve been there faster if you didn’t want to duel.”

“I wanted to test something out.” Tom said, “And anyway, you seemed to enjoy it as well.”

Harry shot him a glare and grumbled, “Not the point.”

Tom laughed. “Of course.”

They fell into silence, walking beside each other steadily. Tom was no longer hurrying Harry along, and so they fell back into a comfortable pace for both of them. Harry’s shorter footsteps sounded from next to him as Tom looked out into the room. It was getting darker and darker the further they wandered into it, and the magic tingling in the back of his mind was growing stronger.

It had always been stronger in the Hidden Room than in the rest of the castle. Before, Tom had simply thought that it must’ve been because of the objects stored in the room, stacked onto each other and filling the entire room with magic. With that theory, it would make sense that he felt the magical objects, but not that he knew where Harry’s magic was. 

Something didn’t quite add up.

What if, perhaps, it wasn’t the magic of the objects, but more of the room itself? What if it had been trapped in the room at its creation, back when magic had been more wild, more potent? And here, in the back of the room, it would be unchanged by time itself, unused and restless. 

Tom looked out into the room, eying the furniture's dark, old wood and black fabrics draped over it and hanging from the shelves. Lost in thought, he stepped over a silver clothes rack and looked over at Harry, who was studying a nearby globe with a black stand. He stepped closer to it and stretched out his hand, and Tom followed behind, laying a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch that.”

Harry flinched away from it and looked up at Tom. “Alright, I won’t. But, Tom, was that really how people thought the earth looked?”

Tom shot the globe a glance, looking at its colorful countries that stretched all the wrong ways. “I believe so.” he turned away from it, and called, “Come on, sweetheart, no dilly-dallying.” 

Harry hurried after him with a scowl on his face. “I said don’t call me that.” 

“It’s fun when you’re annoyed,” Tom said earnestly, shooting Harry a vicious smile. 

It was hard, keeping off the warm, gentle smiles he’d reserved for the people he wanted to charm most. Hard to keep his eyes from softening at the corner, for his shoulders to hunch over and turn towards Harry, open and friendly. 

It was what he’d taught himself first, arriving at Hogwarts. Back when he was a penniless orphan with a dark glare that could make people shudder and turn away. 

Instead, Tom squared his shoulders back and continued walking. He did not look at Harry when he spoke. “What other teachers do you have?”

In the corner of his eyes, he saw Harry falter and glance over. “Huh?”

“You talked about Slughorn earlier. What other teachers are there in your timeline?”

Harry seemed to take a moment to think about it. Tom took this to mean that Harry was still hesitant to share any information about the future with him. Understandable, but annoying. Finally, Harry answered, “Well, there’s Binns, the ghost that teaches us history. I think he was still alive when you went to school?”

“Cuthbert Binns? That old geezer became a ghost?”

“Yeah. Apparently, he died some thirty years ago and never noticed it.”

“Huh. Honestly, I’m surprised he still lived that long. Every other day, when he falls asleep mid-lesson, my housemates make bets to see if he’s finally kicked the bucket.”

Harry frowned, “That’s cruel.”

He shrugged. “Is he still a rubbish teacher?”

“He is. All he does is babble on about the Goblin Wars and Emeric the Evil.”

“I see he hasn’t changed at all, then,” Tom said, snickering. “What about defense?”

“Defense Against Dark Arts you mean? All kinds of people, really.”

“That’s what they’re calling it now? And, Harry?” he glanced over at him and looked at him with narrow eyes. “If you don’t wish to speak about the future, just say so. You can tell me that much, at least.” He turned back from him, and together they rounded a dead end, their way blocked by fallen-over pieces of furniture. Tom supposed that it was a fallen-over tower of desks. 

He levitated the big pieces out of the way with a flick of his wand, stepping mindlessly over the small ones. Harry walked before him, wand in his hand as if something would suddenly attack him, glancing around.

They’d have to cast a Lumos soon.

When Harry stumbled over a piece of rubble, Tom caught his shoulders and pulled him back up. “Careful.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He released his shoulders and stepped away, walking ahead. Harry followed after him. “So,” Tom began, not facing Harry. “I’m sure you’ve done your research on Professor Merrythought, seeing as it was your cover story.” Here, he glanced back and watched Harry nod. “Do you want to hear more about her?”

He blinked and smiled. “Sure.”

Tom balled his hands up in the pockets of his robe and turned back around. “She’s a brusk woman, really, and a bit crazy, too. The first time I noticed that was in my second year when we were working on the Fumos-charm, and the room smelled like several bombs had exploded. Everyone was coughing like hell, remnants of smoke covering our skin, but she just stood there in the middle of it all, grinning and encouraging us to cast more.” He laughed, “She’s crazy, but I’d still say she’s the best teacher of them all.”

Harry appeared next to him, smiling teasingly at Tom. “Even better than Slughorn?”

Tom scowled and bumped into his shoulder. “I said I liked the parties, not the man.”

“I know, I know.” He laughed breathlessly, “She sounds like a great person.”

The room was dark around him, and Tom cast a Lumos, the light reflecting off a jewel necklace lying next to them. It was most likely cursed.

Next to him, Harry cast a Lumos as well, and they continued like that together, both making trails of soft, warm light as they walked. 

Tom spoke up quietly a moment later, glancing over at Harry. “Did you know I wanted to be a teacher once?”

Harry paused and looked up at Tom with wide eyes. The light of his Lumos reflected on his glasses, and, for a quick moment, Tom had the sudden need to whisk them away to get a better look at Harry's eyes. He didn’t.

Instead, he looked away into the dim room laying beyond. Magic was tingling all around him, dangerously potent and electrifying. He gently steered their path away from the icy spikes on the right, making his head hurt. Likely dark objects. 

Next to him, Harry said, “Yeah, I know.”

Tom scoffed. “Knew it. Dumbledore had to tell you everything, didn’t he?”

“Actually, I know about it because of the curse you put on the DADA after he rejected your offer,” Harry said, and Tom could hear the amusement in his voice without looking at him.

“What kind of curse?”

Harry sighed, “We have a new teacher every year because of you.”

Tom hummed and thought about it. “That doesn’t sound so bad, actually. There are a lot of worse things I could’ve done.”

“It does sound so bad if you look at all the catastrophic teachers we’ve had over the years because of it. Also, I don’t wanna know what else you could’ve done, so don’t tell me.”

That’s practically an invitation, Tom thought and sneered. “You know, Harry, I’ve found many books over the years.” He began, as a matter-of-factly, and turned his head at Harry. “I could’ve driven them all mad if I wanted to, just by snapping my fingers. The kind of madness that they would prefer death for, rather than to live–”

“Stop that,” Harry said, rolling his eyes. 

“Aww,” Tom said, the corner of his lips twitching, “But you’re so fun to tease Harry, I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re not,” Harry said with a sigh, echoing their earlier conversation. 

Tom chuckled, “How could you tell?” He gasped, so obviously fake that Harry rolled his eyes at it, scowling. 

“Come on now.” He said, walking ahead. “You’re the one who wanted to hurry.”

Tom flattened his robes and sighed, continuing after him. “Yes, yes.”

He breathed deeply while walking and closed his eyes. The further they wandered, the more differences Tom felt to the rest of the room. Without having an explanation for it, Tom felt that the air was ancient, like something old and heavy underlying was webbed into the air, the floor, and the objects themselves.

He had caught it before when lifting the broken pieces of rumble out of their way, but magic felt a bit more responsive here, more eager to follow his commands. It was electrifying.

“Oi, Tom, have a look at this!” Harry called him, and Tom snapped around to look over at Harry. “Doesn’t this portrait look like Binns?”

Tom chuckled and eyed the ancient portrait standing before him, an unmoving man with white hair and spectacles staring up at him. “That’s just how all old people look.” He got a glare for that and sighed. “That doesn’t mean I can’t see the resemblance.”

“Good,” Harry said, smiling at him. And then, much to Tom’s amazement, he stepped away and sprung towards another object behind them. He halted by a broken piano that made crooked sounds when Harry ran his hand over it, then continued on to a brass telescope, running his hand over its golden eyepiece. Tom walked after him and saw that the gold was rusty and spotted, the lenses missing. Harry grinned at it nevertheless, and brought it up to his eye, looking through it.

“It won’t work,” Tom said, frowning, and Harry just looked at him with a grin.

“Doesn’t matter.”

Tom’s frown deepened as Harry looked through the eyepiece again, and then laid the telescope back down, continuing on. Not at all in the direction they were going in. “What are you doing, Harry?”

Harry ran his hand over the smooth wood of an old grandfather clock, still smiling. “Appreciating its beauty.”

“Didn’t you want to hurry?”

“Yeah, I did, but look at everything that’s here! We won’t ever find this spot again and I don’t want to miss it.”

Tom sighed but didn’t argue. If Harry was feeling sentimental, then he’d go along with it.

He stepped around a silver birdcage, studying it, and then brought his hand up to shake at its door. It didn’t open. Tom walked closer, muttering an Alohomora under his breath, making the door shake and fighting against the look, but it still didn’t open. They left it be after that.

Harry spotted a blanket and pulled it out from beneath a big grandfather clock with shattered glass. Tom stepped close to him, eying the little J stitched into a corner. He frowned. “What, do you need a blanket?”

“No,” Harry said, folding it with great care and putting it back again. In the corner of his eyes, Tom saw a stack of pictures laying on the top of the piano. He picked it up, shuffling through them quickly. With some amusement, he looked at the faded little faces of pureblood families staring up at him, blinking in the harsh light of the plate camera. Not being the sentimental type himself, he called for Harry. It looked like something he might enjoy.

Indeed, he did enjoy it. His eyes widened in wonder when Tom pressed the pictures into his hand, trailing his finger over the little faces. “Look at how they’re dressed! Oh, those kids are so tiny. Do you think they went to Hogwarts too?”

“It’s likely,” Tom said, humming. “But they’re probably long dead by now.”

Harry swatted him. “Don’t say that!”

He scowled. “Why? It’s the truth.”

“Yeah, but it's also unnecessary.”

Tom shrugged and continued on. Harry did seem to like the pictures, didn’t he? Maybe he should borrow Abraxas's camera sometime. Harry followed close behind him, pointing out interesting objects and gushing over them. Tom let him. It was nice to not have silence surrounding him all the time.

Harry spotted a record player somewhere off on his side, and they both went to it, Harry prodding it with a finger. “Do you think it still works?”

“Even if not, a Reparo has saved many things before.” 

“Right,” Harry said, and then glanced around. “Do you think there’s a record somewhere around here?” 

“Probably, but we wouldn’t be able to summon it.” He crossed his arms before his chest. “And searching for it seems like a waste of time.” 

Harry shot Tom a glare but still turned away from it nevertheless, walking off somewhere. Tom, however, continued standing there, frowning down at it. Without it being much of a conscious decision, he flicked his wand and shrunk it down severely before stuffing it in the pocket of his robe. It was always practical to have something like that lying around, he thought.

The room was so dark now that he couldn’t make out the ceiling anymore. Their Lumos were the only lights they had now, the warm lights shining from the tip of their wands onto the surrounding objects. Otherwise, they were completely surrounded by a sea of darkness. 

Not even during the night did the room get this dark.

He spoke up a second later, not looking at Tom. “You remember the boy from my timeline, the one you assigned to find me and bring me to the room?”

“Of course. Malfoy, was it?”

Harry nodded. “Him, yes. Well, he’s a right prat. Always has been. He’s a blood purist and always insults me and my friends. Especially Hermione.”

“That’s your muggle-born friend, right? The one with the bushy hair who doesn’t like quidditch?”

“That’s her. Well, today she told me she thought I was in a relationship with him.”

Tom frowned, “And you’re not?”

Harry’s head snapped up, and he glowered at Tom. “Of course I’m not! I just told you how shitty he is!”

Tom hummed. “And what did you tell her?”

“I said no, of course. He’s a right prat, I don’t know how she got the idea.” He paused. “He’s planning something. Here, in the Hidden Room.” He met Tom’s eyes, “He enters it from time to time and spends hours in here. That’s how you’ve met him last time.”

“And I take it that’s why you’ve entered the room as well? Following him?”

“Yeah, that’s it.” He trailed his hand over the backrest of an old, worn couch. “But I knew about the room before, too. Some other people and I had a secret club inside it last year, teaching each other defense.”

“Care to explain?”

Harry turned away from him and sat down on the couch, making waves of dust spring into the air. Harry coughed and jumped back up, away from it. “We had a really bad teacher in our fifth year,” he began, still coughing, “which didn’t let us practice any defensive spells because she ‘didn’t see the need for it’. Mind you, just the year before I saw Voldemort be resurrected before my eyes. Something the Ministry didn’t want to believe.”

Tom scoffed, “Seems like they’re a bunch of idiots.”

“Well, yeah, but they were just scared, you know? Didn’t make me hate her any less, though. She was awful.” He shot Tom a glare, “And it was partially thanks to you that we got her.”

“Trivialities,” Tom waved off. “So, then you decided to start a secret club to teach each other defense?”

“It was Hermione’s idea, really, but yeah. It was to prepare them for the war none of the higher-ups wanted to acknowledge was coming. And it was fun, too. I got to teach everyone the Patronus-charm, amongst others.”

"It's not surprising you were able to do a Patronus at that age." He laughed. “What kind of animal is it?”

“A stag,” Harry said, and together they rounded a dark wooden ladder, its tip vanishing into the darkness where their Lumos ended. Tom watched Harry study it as they walked, but luckily, he didn’t stop again to try to climb it.

“I’ve never tried the spell myself.” Tom began after a moment of quiet. “Seems a bit pointless if I can’t even do simple healing spells.”

“Healing spells?”

Tom hummed, not looking over at Harry. “I’ve dabbled too much in the dark arts. Light spells make me nauseous, ever since my third year at Hogwarts. I expect it would’ve come back eventually though, were it not for the Horcrux.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Harry frown. “What about the times you got hurt during our duels?”

“Again, you underestimate the value of connections, Harry.” He shot him a smirk. “One of my housemates comes from a Mediwizard family. I’ve got plenty of tinctures stored away.”

Harry laughed. “Alright, I suppose sucking up to people can have its values. Doesn’t mean I like it though.”

Chuckling, Tom said, “Glad to see you can be so quick to admit your loss, sweetheart. Both now and at the duel before.”

“You clearly had the upper hand before, in the mist.” Harry glowered at him. “I lost fair and square.”

Tom hummed, smiling. “See, that’s what I mean with admitting your loss.”

“Shut up,” he said, but Tom could hear the amusement in his voice. They walked together side by side, their footsteps echoing quietly off the objects surrounding them. Only their Lumos were giving them light now, and everything out of light’s reach was dark and intangible 

To Tom, it felt a bit as if they were the only people left on earth.

It was peaceful there, and calming, more even than the lounge was. The objects around them seemed to be slumbering away in the dark, Harry’s and his passage lightly stirring them from their sleep. Tom walked around carefully, glancing around. He felt a little helpless without his eyes, relying solely on magic to warn him of danger.

Almost absentmindedly, he noticed Harry leave their path once more. “I just saw something, Tom, come on.”

Harry’s way led them to a big chandelier hanging down from a chain that lead to seemingly nowhere, vanishing in the darkness above. Harry brought his hand up slowly and touched it, making the chandelier twirl. He giggled and leaned closer, his nose almost touching the prism drops. Tom stepped closer than well, the glass splinters reflecting the Lumos of his wand and making little lights dance all across Harry’s face. Tom just stood there unmovingly, staring down at it and watching Harry’s face as he glanced away from the prisms and up at Tom, a smile on his lips. 

At that moment there, Tom thought Harry had never looked more beautiful.

He stepped away from both the chandelier and Harry all at once, gulping. His back turned to Harry, Tom gulped and brought his hand up to his chest, palm laying on the shirt over his racing heart. When he looked back up from his chest, a scowl on his face, he thought that the rest of the room looked dark and uninviting in comparison to the soft light of their Lumos against the chandelier.

“Come on, Harry.” He called and began walking away. Behind him, Harry’s footsteps sounded, hurrying after Tom. “No more time for detours.”

“You have no appreciation for the arts, Tom. Didn’t you see how pretty that chandelier was?”

He pulled a face, the grip on his wand tightening. “No. It’s just little glass pieces fixed to metal. Nothing beautiful about that.”

“See, no appreciation.” 

His jaw clenching, Tom changed the subject. “How long do you want to continue walking, Harry? The further we go, the more I get the impression that the room doesn’t have an end after all.”

A hum from next to him. “Same. But I don’t want to turn around just yet. What if it does, and we never found it just because we’ve given up?”

“What about we set a limit? Continue for another minute and…” He trailed off, stopping dead in his tracks. Beneath the layers of clothing and skin, deep in his chest, something tingled.

“Tom? Do you want to finish that sentence? Tom?” He repeated with a concerned tone, “Is everything alright?”

“I just felt something,” Tom said, fixating a point laying far away in the darkness, in the direction of their goal.

“What, actual human feelings?” Harry laughed, “Sorry to disappoint, but that’s no cause for concern.”

Tom looked away from the point to shoot Harry a scowl. “Shut it. I think I just found out where the end of the room is. Follow me.”

And with that, he stepped forward with fast steps, and Harry hurried after him. Tom didn’t even have to pay attention as he directed his way through the maze of objects, sidestepping them with ease. The objects around them passed by in a blur, but Tom didn’t watch them go. His eyes were only focused on a point far away. The path grew bigger as they walked, the mountains of objects lessening, growing smaller, and towers of books became stacks. More splitters of wood were here now, remnants of old furniture weathered down by time. They blocked their path at times, and Tom simply flew them out of the way when they were too big to step over. The objects around them seemed to seep into the ground like little drops of blood, their numbers dwindling and the view clearing until they could have seen far ahead had it not been for the utter darkness surrounding them. There, suddenly halting mid-step, Tom and Harry found themselves in a clearing.

No objects stood before them anymore, only behind them, and just a few steps ahead there was the wall, rough stones stretching all the way to the ceiling. 

“We really found it,” Harry whispered and stepped forward to touch the wall. Tom watched him run his hand over the stones, their uneven nicks, and bumps, so very unlike the wall at the beginning of the room.

“You have to thank magic for that,” Tom said quietly. There, in that clearing, he could feel the giddy feeling of magic buzzing around him, sending shivers down his spine and goosebumps on his arms, leaving no doubt left that the magic around him was very much sentient. It had led them here, to the end of the room, and was very happy about it. Proud, even.

He sighed. This just got a whole lot complicated. 

But then, when Harry turned around to him and away from the stone wall with a huge grin on his face, it seemed all very much worth it to Tom.

Even the long journey back to the lounge wasn’t half bad with Harry walking on his side.

Chapter Text

When Harry entered the lounge a few days later, Tom wasn’t there.

The light was out, and the kettle was cold and empty. Harry walked over to the shelf and turned the light and the kettle on with a flick of his wand and a smile on his face. It was nice being back. 

Kettle boiling in the background, Harry walked over to the shelf where the books Tom had recommended were neatly stacked on top of each other. Looking over their spines, Harry noted he didn’t recognize a single one from class. Tom must read other books as well. Curious, Harry picked up a book from the pile, studying its plain cover with a flying witch on top of it. No title, no author. He turned to open it up, but before he could do so, his eyes were drawn away from the cover and onto the Pensieve standing next to the shelf. It was dark, made of solid stone and seemed to loom menacingly at Harry as he took the book and sat down in the armchair, facing away from it.

The armchair was nice and comfortable, with a long, curved backrest that fit snugly to Harry’s back, and a wide seat cushion. Perfect for pulling one’s legs up onto the seat and crossing them beneath, which Harry did now, slipping his shoes off.

He poured himself a mug of tea and held it in one hand as he opened the book with another. It sat lightly in his lap, unlike Tom’s Herbology book Harry had read a few days ago, and he had no difficulty opening it up even with one hand. The pages and thin, and the letters didn’t hurt Harry’s eyes when he tried to read them. 

Leafing through the pages, Harry skimmed over detailed descriptions of Witch Hunts and the Founding of Hogwarts, stuff that they’d gone over with Professor Binns. It seemed to be a history book, of all things.

Other subjects were listed there as well, some of which Harry had never heard of before. Like the so-called 'Vertis-Trial,' which seemed to be a clearance of books ordered by the ministry in the 1600s, attempting to rid the world of 'unfitting subjects' while destroying hundreds of valuable books in the process. Or how Wizardkind discovered the healing properties of objects through wild trial and error, giving many examples, like when people shoved unaltered toad mucus down their throats to stop internal bleeding.

Harry skimmed through it all with big eyes, turning page after page. Even the history of Quidditch was covered in the book, going over all kinds of stuff like the evolution of the four balls and the rules. Most of the facts Harry already knew of from ‘Quidditch through the Ages’, but he still soaked it all up regardless, awestruck that he’d find information like that in a regular history book.

An hour later, when Harry saw Tom enter the lounge of the corner of his eyes, he had nearly finished skimming through all the three-hundred pages of the book. Big-printed letters though there were, Harry had never read through a textbook that quickly and happily. Well, except maybe for the Half-Blood-Princes’, but that hardly counted as a normal textbook.

“Enjoying my books, are you?” Tom said as he walked over to Harry and watched him turn to one of the final pages. Harry could hear the smugness in his tone as he went on, standing before the armchair. “When you told me you still had Binns teaching you, I knew immediately that you’d like it.”

Harry just grunted and turned the page.

He heard Tom sigh. “You know, I don’t mind you using my armchair, but I’d still like to sit in it when I’m here. Force of habit, you know.” He paused, and Harry could hear him pacing around the armchair, laying on hand on the edge of the backrest. “That meant I’d like you to stand up and go sit in your usual spot on the couch. And anyway, do you have to sit in it like that?”

“It’s comfortable,” Harry said and pulled his legs up closer. His eyes did not leave the page as he spoke. “I’ll leave the armchair in a minute. Oh, make some more tea in the meantime. The kettle is empty.”

The fabric of the backrest tightened as Tom’s hand clenched it tightly, and Harry could feel Tom’s stare on the back of his head before Tom sighed and stepped over to the coffee table. Peeking over the edge of his book, Harry could see him lift the kettle off the table with a long, tedious-looking movement that looked dramatic even for Tom. He smiled into the book.

Minutes later, the tea was finished and held onto his face, and Harry took it grudgingly and left the armchair in return, settling down onto the couch. The book laid on the cushion next to it, and Harry turned to place the mug down onto it, one hand still securing it, when Tom interrupted him. “What are you doing?”

“Er, sitting?” Harry said, frowning.

Tom’s eye twitched. “I meant with that mug of tea, you dimwit. What are you gonna do if it spills onto my book?”

Harry shrugged, and shot the book a look. “Dry it?”

“You’re impossible,” Tom grumbled, glowering at him. “It’s still going to stain and swell the paper. These are my personal books you’re handling. I’m lending them to you with the assurance that you take care of them.”

Harry bit his lip and looked down at the mug, filled to the brim with tea. With averted eyes, he set it down on the coffee table. “Right. Sorry.”

“No harm done.” Tom took a sip of his tea. “So, how did you like the book?”

“It was really interesting,” Harry said, looking up at Tom after sending the book one last glance, lips hesitantly tugging into a smile. “It covered all sorts of things as well, some which I’d never would’ve believed would be written in history books.”

“Yes, I thought the Quidditch section might please you.”

Harry grinned. “Yeah, that part was great. But also the chapters about the Portkeys and other means of transportation. Or how it explained how exactly the founding of Hogwarts lead to the Witch Hunts when magical folk more and more separated themselves from the Muggles. We went over the Witch Hunts in class, but I never really got it.”

“Yes, Binns never really understood that it’s one thing to memorize the course of events and it’s entirely another to understand why these events happened in the first place,” Tom said, taking another sip of his tea.

Harry nodded along. “Yeah, that book did a great job of explaining why things happened. Maybe that was what made it so interesting.” Then, he leaned forward with narrowed eyes, hair falling onto the frames of his glasses. “Also, did you choose a book with big letters on purpose? I’m not blind, you know.”

Tom shrugged. “I thought it might help you concentrate. Did it work?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed further, but he grabbed his mug and settled back into his seat, watching the tea sway inside the cup. “Maybe a bit.”

A small, lopsided smile spread across his face, and he thought Tom had no purpose in looking so self-satisfied. “See?”

Harry answered that by sipping his tea. “I saw Malfoy again last time when I left the room, by the way. But I didn’t catch what he was doing.”

“That late in the evening?” Tom said, one brow lifting. “It was nearly curfew when we arrived back here.”

“Yeah. And also, I’ve always thought he wouldn’t be able to open the door as long as I was in here. But apparently, that changes as soon as I’m through the mirror.”

“Well, you’re not really there anymore, in the room. I suppose that changes things.”

Harry took a sip of his tea. “Yeah.”

“Anyway,” Tom said, leaning forward. “describe the area he was in. Maybe I can guess what he was doing.”

A smile spread on Harry’s face, small but grateful. “Relatively at the front of the room, near the entrance. There’s that big chess figure there, and that wide vitrine with the butterfly collection in it.”

Tom seemed to think about that for a moment. “I know where that is. From what I remember, there are quite a few dark items in that area, but those are small and could easily be taken out of the room. No need to spend so much time inside the room. Otherwise, from what you’ve told me I would guess he’s searching for something. Perhaps something small and not so easy to spot?”

Harry hummed, staring down at the red spots painted on his mug. “That’d make sense, yes. Explains why he’s spending so much time in the room. But how could I stop him from finding whatever it’s he’s searching?”

Tom smirked at him, “By following him. With what you’ve found out, you can now wait here, in the other timeline, and then go back through the mirror.”

The Marauder’s Map would help a great deal with that too, Harry thought, tracing the red points on his mug with a finger. ‘I could look when he’s entered the room, and then go back through the mirror and follow him,’ Harry thought. “That’s a good idea, Tom. Thanks.”

And he meant it. All of Harry’s other friends would’ve done anything to dissuade him from the idea, never mind proposing it in the first place. But not Tom, who didn’t even stop to question if Harry was right in thinking that Malfoy was up to something, no, instead he encouraged it and made suggestions. Tom had no qualms about it in the slightest, not like Hermione had.

It was kind of refreshing. 

“You’re welcome. Now, Harry,” he said, leaning forward in his seat, “Are you ready to use the Pensieve?”

Harry stared at him for a long moment and gulped. “Actually, I had some more things we could talk about, like that thing that happened with Binns a few days ago that I wanted to tell you, or what Hermione–”

“Harry.” Tom interrupted him, and Harry fell silent, glancing down into his mug. “Are you that scared of it?” Harry didn’t answer, and after a small pause Tom continued with a soft, smooth voice, “I mean, if you really do not want to, we could–”

“I thought you meant to stop doing that, Tom,” Harry broke him off, eyes flickering up at Tom with his brows furrowed together. “Pretending, I mean.”

Tom froze, staring at Harry for a long moment. “I am quite capable of showing empathy, Harry, you know that, right?”

“But not right now. Not for something like that.”

“No, not right now.” he sighed, but Harry could spot a small smile on his face. “You have me all figured out, Harry, it seems. Pesky thing, that. So let’s try this again.” He leaned forward in his seat, and Harry watched his smile grow sharp. “Are you ready to use the Pensieve? There’s no backing out now, Harry, without breaking your word.”

Harry smiled back. “I know. I’m not quite ready yet to be honest, but I doubt I ever would be. And I keep my promises.”

“Good.” And with that, he stood up and took off his work robe, laying them over the armchair and walking over to where the Pensieve was standing. “Come with me.”

Harry’s smile faded as he pushed himself off the couch and slowly stepped over towards the Pensieve.

“It doesn’t bite, Harry,” Tom said, shooting him a glare. “Do you know how to do this?”

Harry shook his head.

“It’s quite simple, really. Take out your wand and concentrate on a memory. Then, put the wand at your temples,” He showed it to Harry, “And if you’re doing it right, a bright filament should appear at the tip of your wand.”

Tom laid his wand down again, no filament to be seen anywhere, and Harry took a deep breath. He’d seen this once when Professor Slughorn had given him the memory about the Horcruxes. Harry thought back to it, and almost unconsciously the Tom Riddle from the memory appeared in his head, with his sweet, slippery words and movements. On the outside, there was little difference between that Tom and the one standing before Harry now, staring at him with an impatient look on his face. Except the difference laid right there, in that impatient look. It meant Tom felt safe enough to express even the ugly parts of himself.

Harry wanted to smile at the thought, but found that he couldn’t, not with his eyes locked onto the dark, looming Pensieve standing before him. This was important. An important part of Tom’s change. If Harry did it right, he could sway Tom away from his dangerous ideas, ideas that could destroy his whole life. Just by showing him a few memories, he might be able to change Tom’s entire life.

So he took a deep breath and closed his eyes. What memory to start with?

Harry smiled bitterly as he brought the wand to his temple, knowing exactly what memory he had to start with. ‘That’s where it all started,’ he thought as he brought the wand down to the Pensive, putting the bright green filament down into the liquid, ‘so why not show it first.’

Out loud, he said, “I never tried to look at it through a Pensieve before, so I’m not sure how good the memory is going to be.”

Tom nodded and gestured to the Pensieve. “After you.”

Harry pulled a face and brought his head down to the liquid, closing his eyes. He felt all breath being sucked out of him as he fell down into the Pensieve, and was gasping for breath once he opened his eyes again. Around him, wisps of liquid lazily formed the shapes of furniture, a window with drawn curtains, and a bunch of toys spilled all over the wooden floor. The only thing sharp and clear was the little baby lying in the crib, staring out wide-eyed and curious from behind the bars.

From the outside, crashes of furniture could be heard, yelled spells in a muffled voice accompanying it. Probably his fathers. Harry closed his eyes, not wanting to think about what was happening outside that door.

Suddenly, Tom appeared beside him, glancing around the room with lifted eyebrows. He said nothing and did not even try to open the door. Instead, he walked over to the cot where the baby was sitting, squatting down beside it. “Is this you?”

Before Harry could answer him, the door flung open, and a woman came storming in, taking the baby out of its cot and hugging it close, before setting it down again. Her face was blurred the most, as if those features had been too painful to remember. Only her hands were sharp, and Harry eye them carefully, the painted nails and the soft skin, not wanting to think about what would happen next.

Her words were muffled when she spoke, although there was nothing there to muffle it, but her voice sounded soft and caring and so full of love that Harry had to turn away from her, sitting down on the floor and hiding his face in his arms.

Tom said nothing.

When Voldemort entered the room moments later, his figure was blurred as well. But there was no mistaking him. How he held his wand so confidently, the way his shoulders were squared back, and the little curl of dark hair that fell into his face was all so familiar to Harry.

It was simple to think of Voldemort and Tom as two distinct people, separated by time and the creation of multiple Horcruxes. But now, with a person so akin to Tom standing before him in the middle of Harry's childhood home, was quite another. Harry found that he could not hold them separate anymore. It hurt, realizing how similar the person killing Harry’s parents was to Tom.

It hurt even more when a bright green light shot out of the wand Harry knew so well and hit his mother right in the chest, dropping her to the floor before the crib. Her scream was still echoing in his ears as another light shot towards the crib and everything went black.

They were back in the lounge a second later, Harry gasping and sinking down onto the floor. He began speaking between short breaths, staring down onto the stone tiles. “It’s what I see when Dementors attack me. I don’t think I would remember if it wasn’t for them.” He looked up at Tom, who was fiddling with his wand and staring down into the Pensieve. Harry sighed. “I don’t expect remorse from you, not for killing someone. You don’t even feel sorry for Myrtle, after all. So don’t worry about it.”

“What was the reason?” Tom said softly, looking up from his wand and meeting Harry’s eyes. “I don’t kill if it can’t be helped. Especially not someone’s mother.”

Harry pushed himself to the floor. “You’ll see that later. Let’s continue with the memories.”

The next one came much more easily, the red light sinking smoothly into the Pensieve. Harry submerged his head into the white liquid, and a second later he stood in a dark, stone room with foul air. Tom coughed from next to him.

“This is a memory from my first year,” Harry spoke up, and on cue, a small Harry entered the room, walking forward with a determined look on his face. Both he and Tom looked at him as he passed them. Behind him, Professor Quirrell entered the room, smiling. “That’s my professor. See that turban?” Harry pointed at it. “He’s been wearing that all year. And, as I will find out in a few minutes, the famous Lord Voldemort,” He shot Tom a sharp smile. “Is hidden beneath it.”

A long pause, and then, “What?”

Harry’s smile only widened. In the background, little Harry and Quirrel talked, and Harry watched them as he spoke. “That night, in the memory you just saw, Voldemort died. I don’t know why or how. All I know is that once I entered the Wizarding World with eleven, I was famous for killing Lord Voldemort, an infamous dark Wizard everybody was afraid of. That, and for surviving the killing curse,” He pushed his hair away from his forehead and could see Tom’s eyes fall to the lightning-bolt-scar he’d asked about before, many months back. “It’s the scar I got when the Killing-curse rebounded off me and hit you instead.”

“But Voldemort is not…”

“Nope, you’re not dead. The Horcruxes worked. And oh, how they worked. Thanks to them, you now look like this.”

Before them, Quirrell brought his hands up to his turban and unwinded it until the back of his head was exposed, and with it the second face lying beneath it. No nose, no hair, just ashen, dead skin pulled tight over Quirrel’s head.

Harry shot Tom a glance. “You had to drink unicorn blood to stay alive. Hell, I’m not sure what Voldemort is doing now, but he might still be drinking it regularly for all I know. I was sent on detention during my first year and discovered a ‘monster’ in the forbidden forest, bent over the cold corpse of a unicorn.” He looked away from Tom at where Quirrell was going up in flames, touching Harry. “Not a highlight in your career, if you ask me.”

Tom hummed, his eyes not leaving Quirrell. “What happened right now?”

“Voldemort can’t touch me for some reason. Or well, he couldn’t until fourth year. But you’ll see that later.”

The memory ended, and they’re back in the lounge. This time, Tom was looking more distraught than Harry, and he did not speak in the time Harry needed to prepare the next memory. 

“I’m skipping three years ahead. Long story short, you didn’t appear in my third year and my second isn’t really important.”

“What happened in your second year?”

Harry shrugged, putting the memory of the tournament final into the Pensieve.“ Met one of your Horcruxes who sicced the basilisk on me. The person I met there wasn’t Voldemort yet. That was just you like you are right now.” He paused, studying Tom. “Maybe a bit more unhinged. And angry.”

He stared at Harry for a moment. “How is that not important?”

“You want to see memories about Voldemort, right?” Harry leaned forward over the Pensieve, the silvery memory already swirling inside it. “And in my books, the person I met in my second year wasn’t Voldemort.”

Tom hummed and looked away from him, out into the room. 

Harry took that as his chance to change subjects. “I s’ppose you are familiar with the Triwizard Tournament, right? With all that reading you apparently do. Well, back in my fourth year, Hogwarts decided to hold one of those. There was an age restriction, of course, but one of your supporters entered my name anyway, disguised as one of the teachers.”

“Teachers again?” Tom said, meeting Harry’s eyes with an amused look on his face.

Harry shot him a glare. “Another DADA teacher, by the way, one we wouldn’t have gotten if it weren’t for a certain curse.” Tom glared back and looked like he wanted to argue, but Harry continued on. “Anyway, the next memory is from the Final Task of the Tournament. We had to go through a maze and get a trophy to win, and long story short; the trophy was a Portkey leading directly to you.”

Tom was silent beside Harry, only staring down silently into the Pensieve. Harry shot him one last glance and leaned down, dipping his head into the wafts of mist.

When he found himself standing in the graveyard, Tom was beside him. The dirt beneath his shoes was cold and firm, even though it was supposed to be a warm summer night, and the whisps of wind were cold as he walked over to the side of the Riddle grave. Headstones were springing up from the ground around him, their mists swirling in the growing darkness, but Harry didn’t look at them. He only looked over to the other Harry, the bright red shirt he was wearing contrasting starkly with the dark statue keeping him there.

“I know this place,” Tom’s voice rang out over the graveyard, and without turning around Harry knew that Tom, looking over at the headstones and the distant Riddle manor swirling in the mists, his hand clasped behind his back.

Harry didn’t answer, his eyes only on the Past-him struggling against the figure’s hold. Suddenly, he was overcome with the desire to walk over and sit down beside him, next to the statue, and comfort him. This night had been one of the most exhausting ones in his life.

Tom apparently didn’t need an answer, and he continued on, “This is my father’s graveyard, isn’t it?” The voice suddenly sounded closer. “I recognize the gravestones.”

“Yeah, you would,” Harry finally answered, and without his eyes leaving Past-him, he could see Tom appearing on his side, walking over to Pettigrew. Yes, the hands were clasped behind his back, as Harry thought they would be. Despite the situation, Harry's lips tugged into a smile. “That there is Pettigrew, one of your followers. He’s preparing the ritual.”

“What ritual?” Tom said, leaning over the big cauldron that Pettigrew was standing before as if he could tell by the appearance alone.

“Your resurrection ritual. It’s gonna start any moment now.”

Tom hummed, shooting the cauldron one last glance, and then turned away from it. To all the world he seemed relaxed, but despite the confident steps and the pushed-back shoulders, Harry could tell he wasn’t. He was nervous. It showed in the way his fingers tightened, knuckles turning white, and the way his brows furrowed just slightly, a curled strand of hair falling into his face. Harry watched the little tells as Tom walked past him and over to the other him pinned to the gravestone. He studied him silently for a moment and then turned towards something entirely else: the body laying near to the statue. 

Harry had been avoiding it ever since they landed inside this memory, and so even now he turned away from it, looking over to Pettigrew. Tom’s question came, nevertheless.

“And who’s that?”

Harry scrunched up his eyes and answered without looking over at Tom. “Cedric Diggory. Another student who participated in the Tournament.”

“I assume Pettigrew killed him, then?” Tom said nonchalantly, and Harry pulled a face, his jaw clenching. His eyes were burning when Tom walked over to him and laid a hand on his shoulder, forcing him to look over to Tom. “Harry?”

He shrugged the hand away and walked over to the other Harry, sitting down on the cold ground next to the statue like he had wanted to do before. 

They both needed some comfort right now. 

In the corner of his eyes, he saw how Pettigrew left his spot behind the cauldron and walked over to them, a knife in his hand. Knowing what was about to happen, he closed his eyes as Pettigrew cut the other Harry's arm, his screams too loud in the otherwise quiet graveyard. Tom carefully followed the ritual, walking alongside Pettigrew and watching closely as he pulled out his knife and cut his own hand off.

Tom didn’t even flinch.

But because he was standing so close to the cauldron, he had a perfect first row seat for when Pettigrew pulled the baby-like creature that was Voldemort out of nowhere and dunked it into the bubbling cauldron face first. Harry heard his gasp and take a few steps back when another, more familiar figure stepped out of the cauldron, with pale skin stretched tightly across his noseless face and dark veins bulging out of it.

“That’s you,” Harry commented and stood up from his place next to the gravestone, walking over next to Tom.

He didn’t reply, but Harry watched as his eyes widened, arms falling to his side. He was stunned. Harry only smiled sadly and burrowed his hands in his robe, looking away from him as Voldemort stepped out of the cauldron.

In the sky above them, the dark mark appeared, the dark cloud forming in the mist, and one after the other, Voldemort’s followers appeared, dressed in dark clothes and pale masks to hide their faces. Harry watched Tom walk over to them with strained shoulders, studying them and Voldemort closely. Before him, Voldemort vanished their masks.

“This form must be constant agony,” he commented and Harry shot him a look, watching him gesture towards Voldemort. “It’s showing in how his shoulders tense when he takes a step, or how his chest heaves when taking a deep breath.”

Harry hummed, watching Voldemort for the signs Tom had just mentioned. “I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Still deep in thought, he noticed how Voldemort walked over to the other Harry, bare feet visible beneath the black robe. Blood was still pooling out of the wound on his arm, his fingers turning white against the stone holding him there. 

Harry barely remembered the wound and its pain. Everything was so droned out by the agony he felt when Voldemort’s finger touched his scar. He heard the other Harry scream for the second time that day, but this time he didn’t turn away. His eyes never left the other Harry’s face as it contorted in agony, his eyes clenched close and mouth wide open and screaming in pain even as his voice turned hoarse. Tom winced from next to him. Harry’s ears still rang as Voldemort finally stepped away, freeing Harry from the statue and giving him his wand back for the duel.

“He never expected you to leave alive. Else he would not have taken his follower’s masks,” Tom said as he watched Voldemort cruciating the other Harry and forcing him to bow, ridiculing him in front of his followers.

“And yet I did.”

He hummed, “Foolish move of his. Just like giving you his wand back.”

“And now guess just thanks to what I escaped?” Harry breathed as Past-Harry’s and Voldemort’s spells met in the middle, a ring of gold appearing around them both, separating them from the others. Flickering images of his parents and Cedric appeared inside it, blurred to those standing outside of it. Next to him, he heard Tom gasp.

They stood close to each other as they watched Past-Harry escape from Voldemort and his followers, hiding behind the gravestones and clutching Cedric’s body close as he accioed the Portkey towards them, and shooting Voldemorts figure one last glance, vanished out of sight. And then, just as the other Harry left the place, so did he and Tom.

They found themselves in the lounge a moment later, Harry’s head hitting Tom’s as he pulled away from the Pensieve. They both cursed, and Harry clutched the back of his head as he walked over to the couch with his eyes pressed close and dropped down onto it headfirst.

“I hope this doesn’t bruise,” He heard Tom grumble, his steps echoing off the stone ground as he made his way over to the couch, coming to a stop before Harry. “For your sake.”

Harry grunted into the cushion of the couch, the sound coming out muffled. Beside him, Tom sighed. 

“It’s getting late, Harry. Have you eaten anything yet?”

He grunted again, this time in disagreement. He heard Tom’s steps shuffle before the couch, pacing for a few moments, and then walk away. Confused, Harry tediously lifted his head off the cushion to see Tom lift his robe off the armchair and pull it on. 

“I’m getting us something from the kitchen,” He answered, catching Harry’s eyes. “Do you want anything specific?”

He shook his head slightly, strands of hair falling into his face. “No preference.”

“Alright then.” And with that, Tom walked out of the lounge without a further word. Harry sighed and pressed his face back into the cushion, his eyes falling close. 

This was going to be a long evening.

Chapter Text

Just as Harry had dozed off, the sound of Tom’s familiar footsteps startled him awake.

He lifted his head off the cushion just in time to see him enter the lounge, two plates and cups gliding in the air behind him. They floated on even as Tom stopped before the couch, and Harry saw them float behind the shelf, over to the study table.

“Did you fall asleep?” Tom asked, smirking, and then, most unexpectedly, brought his hand down onto Harry’s hair. His fingers carded through Harry’s hair, pushing his ruffled hair back. Harry’s neck twitched, his head turning to look up at Tom with wide eyes, sleepiness forgotten. Their eyes met, and he saw Tom’s widen just slightly, hand in Harry’s hair stopping midst-motion and pulling away. When he turned away, Harry could see his gulping and his jaw clenching close, walking with soft steps over to the study table. “Come on. The food is getting cold.”

Harry didn’t retort that they could simply warm it up again. Instead, he rose from the couch, pushing his screwed-up glasses back as he walked over to the table with a tingling scalp.

The chair creaked as Harry pulled it back and sat down onto it, arms placed on the smooth wood of the study table, plate set in front of him. He’d never eaten here before, but judging by the forks and glasses flying over from the shelf, it seemed that Tom had.

Or he was just well prepared, like with everything he did.

“You said not to bring anything specific,” Tom said, pouring their glasses with Freesia juice and watching Harry taking his first bite. “So no complains.”

Harry rolled his eyes and took a sip. “Wasn’t going to complain.” 

“I never know with you.” He looked down onto his plate and took a bite, fork balanced elegantly on his hand. Harry supposed it was something he’d picked up in Slytherin, like the way his knife didn’t scrape against the plate as Harry’s did and his elbows were held comfortably in the air instead of on the table. Harry had never made an effort to learn, but now, confronted with the image of Tom eating in a way Harry would almost call beautiful, it seemed almost regrettable.

But he continued to eat with his elbows set on the table and his cutlery scraping against the plate, feeling very plebeian. Tom didn’t comment on it.

“I’d wait to leave the room for a few hours if I were you,” Tom spoke up, eyes still set on his plate. Harry shot him a curious look.

“Why?” He asked after swallowing because it was the least he could do.

“It’s only a hypothesis, but you might not be able to leave the room with undigested food from my timeline still inside your stomach.”

Harry hummed, taking another sip. “But I drink tea here all the time.”

“Yes, but liquids might be a different case than food. I don’t suppose we could try it out right now?”

He tilted his head and thought about it for a second. “We still have one memory left. If we leave now, I won’t want to come back all this way.”

Tom nodded, eyes still on the plate. “We can try it out sometime else.”

“Sure,” Harry smiled. “I won’t say no to a free dinner.”

Tom shot him a look, but they continued on eating silently. He didn’t ask Harry about the memories, surprisingly enough, neither about the duel at the graveyard nor about the next memory Harry would show him. He just sat there silently, with his arms held elegantly into the air and looking down at his plate. Harry despised the silence. 

“Just ask,” Harry said, taking another bite. “You never held back before, so why do it now?”

He saw Tom look up from his plate. “It seemed rude.”

“Again, why bother now?” Harry smiled. “So, what do you want to know?”

“What happened back there, with you and Voldemort?”

“That in the graveyard?” He asked and continued without waiting for a reply. “Our spell collided and created Priori Incantatem. You’ve heard of it?” He met Tom’s eyes and took out his wand, laying it on the table in front of them. “It’s because our wands have the same wand cores. Twins, or so they say.” He laughed. “You don’t know how hard it’s been to avoid during our duels, Tom.”

“Twin cores,” he whispered, staring at Harry’s wand. “How on earth…”

“No idea.” Harry pocketed the wand again and continued eating. “I had no idea that existed until the thing in the graveyard happened. Well, Ollivander hinted at something… but honestly, I’d just been happy to finally have a wand.”

Tom hummed and set his cutlery orderly down on his plate. Leaning back in his seat, he said, “It had taken long for me too, finding a wand. I almost left at one point, when Ollivander went to the back of the store for the dozenth time. I thought that they’d made a mistake of some kind, that there was no wand for me in that store.”

Eyes widened, Harry sunk down his knife and looked at Tom. “Me too,” he whispered, “When I’d seen the Diagon Alley and all the different sorts of people… I thought I couldn’t possibly belong there with them.”

Tom smiled softly, glancing away from Harry, “Well, at least I had my magic already. It was a comfort.”

He nodded and took another bite. “I’m sure it was. I had a few bits of accidental magic as well, but I still couldn’t believe that magic really existed.” Harry laughed. “Did you do accidental magic, too?”

“No, I could control it from a young age. Just didn’t know that it had a name and that there were others with the same abilities.”

“Huh,” Harry said, and set his knife and fork down onto his finished plate. “That sounds cool. What did you do with your magic?”

Tom paused for a long moment, and Harry took a sip of his drink, eying Tom’s face. “Nothing out of ordinary,” he said finally, taking a sip as well, eyes meeting Harry’s. “Just little tricks to aid me in my daily life.”

He hummed and held eyes with Tom for a few moments longer before pushing his chair back and standing up. “If you say so. Come on, we have one final memory before us.”

When Harry opened his eyes to the familiar, wide rooms of the ministry, he regretted not having pestered Tom more. Everything to avoid Bellatrix’s shrieking, mad laughs as they echoed around the room, and the look of grief on his face as he stood over her with his wand outstretched, panting.

Then Voldemort appeared, a pale, ghostly figure that taunted past-Harry for not being able to kill her. When glancing over at Tom, Harry saw that he was still staring at him as intensely as he had in the graveyard, wide eyes fixed on his figure as if he could pierce together the missing pieces just by staring at him. In the same moment, however, Voldemort turned towards past-Harry and shot the Killing Curse at him.

But all Harry could focus on was the look in his eyes as the green light shot out of Voldemort’s wand—all confidence and pride. It was so similar to the way Tom looked sometimes during their duels that Harry’s breath caught. 

The Killing Curse didn’t hit Harry, of course. No, instead a headless statue from the fountain took the spell to its chest, little pieces of stone breaking off from it, and Dumbledore appeared by his side, moving past-Harry out of harm’s way.

What then followed was the greatest duel between Wizards Harry had ever seen. It was even more terrific now, watching it from the safe sidelines. The wisps of the memory danced around the two wizards, vibrant spells shooting between them like smoke in the wind, and Harry hastily pulled Tom out of the way as even more statues from the fountain came running to Dumbledore’s aid. 

His hand was still on Tom’s wrists when Tom spoke up, his voice quiet against the loud spells before them. “He’s losing.”

Had Harry not been standing so close to him, he wouldn’t have heard it. He glanced over at him and watched Tom with wide eyes, nodding. Tom’s eyes, however, never left Voldemort.

“Even after fifty years, I’m still no match for him,” he gestured at Voldemort’s pale figure wringing in the bubble of water Dumbledore had conjured and Harry saw him pant after disapparating out of it.

Harry didn’t know what to say to that, so he just nodded once more, his hand on Tom’s wrist squeezing in what he hoped was a comforting gesture, before letting it go. Just before the memory blackened out—dark wisps flooding in like someone had just stirred the whole thing up with a spoon—Harry could see Past-him writhing on the floor, screams ringing in the air like someone had put him under the Cruciatus curse. 

Harry looked away from it and let the wisps fill up his sight and take him back to the Room of Hidden Things instead. He had no intention of relieving that particular memory.

Back in the lounge, he settled down onto his spot on the couch and began making some tea, busying himself and waiting for Tom’s questions that were sure to come.

And indeed, they did come. Tom had just sat down in the armchair, shoulders a bit more relaxed than usual, when he spoke up. “What happened there, at the end?”

The sound of the water cooking in the background was loud in Harry's ears as he said, “Voldemort possessed me. I think you were trying to goad Dumbledore into killing me. Didn’t work though, as you can see,” he gestured at himself and picked up the teapot.

“Why didn’t you fight against him? With Dumbledore?” Tom asked and Harry’s hand on the teapot clenched. “You’re not the type of person to just sit there on the sidelines.”

“Dumbledore had everything in control,” Harry answered, not looking at Tom once he handed him his steaming mug of tea.

“But that’s not all, is it?” he said slowly, not thanking Harry for the tea. What a prick. “You were less lively than usual.”

Harry didn’t meet his eyes, and instead took a sip of tea that burned his mouth. He grimaced. “Look, didn’t you learn enough this evening? I’m not in the mood for your little games of questioning.”

“I’m only curious.” Tom answered, putting the mug down on the coffee table. “Why were you in the Ministry in the first place?”

Harry shot him a glare. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He held Harry’s eyes for a few moments more, before shrugging. “Fine. Answer me another question then.”

“That’s not how it works.” Harry rolled his eyes, but listened nevertheless.

“It is now,” he answered, a crooked smile on his face. “Who was that woman at the beginning? I could’ve sworn you looked ready to kill her.”

There, suddenly, all the memories Harry had been trying so desperately to hold back came flooding in. Sirius’ shocked face as Bellatrix hit him with the Killing Curse, eyes that had looked at him so full of life just moments before growing empty. The view of Sirius’ figure falling backwards into the Veil was burned inside his memory, the motion replaying time after time on sleepless nights, until he could almost watch it on the dark ceiling.

With the memories always came the grief, wound tightly together with rage—it was overwhelming and raw even now, a year later. It came with the memory of him, panting as he was standing over Bellatrix, and sometimes in his nightmares he was so overcome with rage that he took the leap of faith and killed her, just like Tom had just said he would.

“She’s Bellatrix Lestrange. And I wouldn’t kill her,” Harry corrected Tom anyway, even though he knew he could have, potentially. He fiddled with the handle of his mug, and thought back to the way his wand had shaken in his hand, throat suffocating with the weight of the Crucio in his mouth. Before he knew it, he continued talking, “She’d killed someone important to me just minutes before that memory. I–” he interrupted himself and ran his hand through his hair. “Fuck, I’m just giving you the information you want now.”

 “You are.” From the corner of his eyes, he saw Tom smile. “Who was it, then, Harry? The important person?”

Harry thought back to the wide, empty eyes of his godfather as he fell into the Veil, and shook his head, “Nope, no, I’m not– I’m not telling you, I–” he took a shallow breath, eyes fixed on the outline of the steaming mug shaking in his hands. “I can’t–”

He stopped his traitorous, burning eyes from tearing up by pure willpower, because he could not imagine anything more humiliating than breaking into tears here, on the soft couch sitting in front of Tom. He’d seen many of Harry’s most humiliating moments already, but crying was a line that he wasn’t interested in crossing.

So he took one shaky breath after the other and willed his hands to stop shaking. And they did, eventually, and when he finally had the courage to look up from his mug, he found Tom staring at him silently. “Sorry,” Harry said, just to fill the gaping quiet, and he saw Tom shake his head.

“It’s quite fine. Sorry for pressing the issue.”

Harry hadn’t expected pity from Tom, not really. He knew he wasn’t capable of the soft, comforting gestures like Harry’s other friends, but he thought it would’ve been nice to have, regardless. Instead, he glanced away from Tom, taking a shaking sip of his tea, no longer burning his tongue, and muttered, “I’m glad you’re keeping your promise.”

“Of being earnest with you?” Tom asked. “I take my promises quite seriously. I’ll have you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Harry said, and took another sip.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw Tom tilt his head. “Would you like it more if I broke it?”

“What?”

He shrugged. “You seem disappointed. Would you have wanted me to comfort you? Break my promise?”

He stared at Tom for a long moment, before answering slowly, “I just said that I’m glad you didn’t.”

He leaned forward and smiled at Harry, a mischievous, crooked smile. When he spoke, his voice was almost pleased. “And I don’t believe you.” Then Tom stood up from his armchair and sat down beside him, grabbing Harry’s upper arm and pulling him closer until his head was propped up on Tom’s shoulder. 

Harry blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Comforting you,” he answered, and Harry felt the warmth of Tom’s hand through the fabric of his shirt and realized dimly that the effects of the Horcrux had faded. 

The night Tom had created his Horcrux seemed like a lifetime away now—banished by their gentle talks and promises—but Harry still remembered the way the coldness had seeped out of Tom’s cold, shaking hand. He remembered the way he had fled from the room, heart battering in his chest and Tom’s cruel laughter echoing after him, tears burning in his eyes. He remembered thinking that he had been too late to save Tom.

But now, with his warm hand set on Harry’s shoulder, he had to fight back against the tears for the second time that day, this time not from sadness, or rage, but from relief. 

Because he hadn’t been too late after all.

“I’m not planning anything, I promise,” Tom said softly, and moved his hand up into Harry’s hair, his fingers carding so gently through the strands that Harry almost believed his honesty.

“I don’t need your fake pity,” Harry said between shuddering breaths, voice muffled as he pressed his face to Tom’s shoulder, and tried to stop the tears from dropping from his eyes. They landed on Tom’s shirt instead.

He only hummed. “No, you don’t. But I’ll give it to you, anyway.”

Sometime later, when Harry pushed himself away from Tom’s shoulder and dried the tears tracks on his face with the sleeve of his shirt, Tom began talking.

He didn’t ask Harry about Sirius or Bellatrix anymore, nor did he talk about his decision about the Horcruxes—the one thing his memory were supposed to lead to. Instead, Tom filled the silence with easy chatter until Harry’s sadness drained away, and replaced it with hollowness. Not the despairing kind, but the one that came after a full day.

He talked about anything and nothing at all, about an interesting research about Homblefungus he’d done recently, or the NEWTs next year and how they could study together if Harry wanted to, or even about his purchases at the last Hogsmade weekend. 

Harry followed along silently, adding his own words of agreement when they were needed, but mostly only listened to Tom speak. 

He found himself imagining what it would be like if they spent time outside of this room together. If Tom, instead of being born in the 40s, was in the same year as Harry, and they went to Hogwarts together, in the same time and not fifty years apart. 

He could imagine their personalities clashing at first, especially with Tom’s sense of cruelty for those he did not know well, but he could also imagine them as friends, as classmates. Sitting next to each other during class, or spending lunch together outside on the grass simply because Harry insisted on it. 

He could picture them both stomping through the snow towards Hogsmeade, Tom wrapped up in multiple scarves and thick sweaters, because he was all about practicality and foresight. He could also picture them in Diagon Alley during the summer, shopping for the next school year. 

He could imagine Tom would buy the most ridiculously thick books, and he could almost hear his voice as he defended them with a smile on his face, pointing at Harry’s thin book in his arms. He envisioned himself dragging Tom into a Quidditch shop and hearing his grumbling complaints, and yet he would still make idle conversation about the items on display—acting nice to coax Harry into accompanying him to Knockdown Alley afterwards.

But the most clear image Harry could image was the view of them both, striding down the streets of Diagon Alley, ice cream cones in one hand and the other linked together as they made their way through the crowd, and he could see himself turn around at Tom and laugh about something, wide grin on his face, and he could see the smile Tom had in return, small and fond and more with his eyes than his lips.

It was the image he’d found himself falling asleep to, head falling back onto Tom’s shoulder and his words in the background gentle and comforting.

Chapter Text

It was there, with Harry’s head lying on his shoulder, that Tom got the idea.

Gently, he lifted Harry off, laid him down onto the couch—careful not to stir him awake—and stood up. Instantly, a thousand ideas and tasks buzzed through his head, and his hand itched for a pen to write it all down. He took a few steps forward, to the study table where he had pens and paper stored away—he wanted to get started as soon as possible, preferably right then and there, because there wasn’t much more time left before summer holidays, after all.

Even so, he thought, looking back down at Harry’s face, his closed eyes and his dishevelled hair, I can spare a few minutes. 

Slowly, he walked back to the couch and leaned over Harry to get a better look. He wished he had Abraxas’ camera with him right then, just so he could capture the soft, gentle look on Harry’s sleeping face, and maybe, with it, the strange, overwhelming feeling inside him. It was tingling in the tips of his fingers when he leaned down and brushed a strand of hair out of his face, and it sat silently in his chest when he sat down beside the couch just to study the soft freckles scattered over his nose, as close as he had ever been able to, and just stayed there for a few moments, thinking about how strange it was to see Harry like this.

Then, gently, Tom removed himself from his seat before the couch and walked over to his study table for a spare piece of paper and a quill.

He entered the Hogwarts library about an hour later, a stack of books from the Hidden Room clasped beneath his arm.

It was a shame to leave Harry to wake up all by himself, but Tom hoped Harry would understand after he read the note Tom had left him on the coffee table. And well, he imagined Harry would prefer to wake up alone, anyway.

He pushed open the doors to the library and walked towards a desk on the far side of the room, nestled between two shelves. He set the books down on the table, glad that the library was still open and he was spared the trouble of sneaking in. Other students were strewn about in lonely places with stacks of books next to them, and Tom avoided them as he made his way to the shelves.

He preferred to visit the library when there was no one around that could disturb him—or even worse, catch a glance at the books he was reading—but it truly was a pain to sneak in during the night, with prefects and nosy paintings on the lookout. He had gotten better at it over the years, had learned of a few hidden alcoves and secret passageways he could use in case the prefects got a bit too close. But over the years there had been far too many close calls for his taste, especially during his first years at Hogwarts.

Eventually, Tom returned to his desk with a stack of promising books in his hands, and set them down on the table. He sat down, the chair creaking when he pulled it back, ignited the lamp set above his head, and began reading.

He wasn’t too worried about the research part of it all—this should be a cinch compared to some of the other things Tom had looked into before. No, he was more worried about the implementation. This was bound to be a tricky piece of magic, after all.

Maybe working with runes should be best, Tom thought as he made notes on a roll of paper. If he’d do that, the spells wouldn’t lose their magic over the months, or years. But runes truly were a pain to work around, even for him, and he didn’t know if he had time to transform the spells perfectly until the start of summer holidays. 

As he wrote, the magical light set above his desk cast long, hectic shadows behind his hand. It reminded Tom faintly of the dark mists in Harry’s memories, and he paused at the thought. Suddenly, as if all those ideas and plans had left his brain at once, his eyes left the book pages to stare down at the shadow of his hand.

Harry’s memories.

Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about them yet. He could have, back when he went down into the kitchen to get them both dinner, but he hadn’t allowed himself to. The thoughts that came with those memories had seemed far too confusing, too churning, that he could think of them anywhere outside the safe haven of the Hidden Room. 

The thing was that until Harry came into his life, a whirlwind of secrets, fierce eyes, and untamed bits of magic, Tom would have never considered giving up on the Horcruxes. The idea alone seemed absurd to even think about, and if anyone besides Harry proposed it, they would’ve earned themself a right good curse.

And yet Tom considered it.

It was strange, really, how in the span of only a few months, Harry had burst into his life and had messed it completely. There had been no space for him before, no perfectly fitting space beside Tom, but Harry had ignored that and had created one anyway, both for him and all the strange revelations that he brought with him.

Normally, he prided himself in his ability to resist all distractions, to be able to disregard any problems and focus when another, weaker person couldn’t. But right then, in the face of a decision he’d never thought he’d have to make, he couldn’t stop his brain from going off track.

Originally—ever since he’d laid eyes on the faded, yellowed page in the Restricted Section—it had been clear to him that he’d create multiple Horcruxes, to put as many obstacles between him and death as possible, more than anyone had ever had before. But he had a Horcrux now, even though it was only a single one. Wasn’t that enough, technically?

Was a bit more safety and the thrill of accomplishing something no one ever had before really worth it? Was it worth the side effects? Because the version of himself he’d met in Harry’s memory had been suffering, Tom had seen it. 

He sighed, laid the quill down and stood up from the desk to get some more books. But even as he walked away, pacing between the bookshelves, the thoughts didn’t yield. Quite the contrary, it seemed as if the dim light and the rows of books seemed to amplify them, and Tom clenched his wand and cast a spiteful Lumos. He wandered aimlessly along the aisle, gaze skimming over the book titles arranged beside him, until he arrived at a small alcove at the back of the shelves.

He stepped closer without thinking about it, and his gaze drifted over the dark lake and hilly landscape beyond the window. Then his eyes focused on the window glass and he was faced with the image of himself, reflected onto the glass in the light of his Lumos.

He looked pale against the bright light, and Tom could almost see the white skin of Voldemort pulled tight over his deformed face and framed by the dark robe he wore when he’d risen from the cauldron. It was like he was staring back at him, tauntingly, looking every bit as haunting as the ghost Tom supposed he was. 

In Harry's memories, he'd always had a condescending expression on his face, as if he was certain that no matter what happened, he'd always come out on top. Those were the consequences, Tom thought, of six Horcruxes. Voldemort had grown lenient, so sure of his immortality that he’d failed to consider the possibility of dying. But Tom knew better now. He’d trusted Harry when he’d proclaimed to hunt down every last one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes and destroy them. 

He didn’t know if he’d be able to handle it. Just the possibility of making Harry his enemy, to fight until death with him—beautiful, fierce Harry whose company Tom enjoyed so much. He didn’t know if he’d be able to kill him.

He saw the grimace on the window glass before he felt it, and in a temper that had never fully left after the creation of the Horcrux, Tom stormed away from the alcove. Haphazardly, he grabbed a few books off the shelves and walked back to his desk. With a loud slam, as if that could drive his thoughts away, he set them down on the table and continued reading. 

This time, he didn’t let himself get distracted, no matter how hard the thoughts persisted.

Sometime later, after he thought himself confident of having done as much research as he could, he took one of the many books he’d brought from the Hidden Room off the pile. It was a thick, heavy one with dusty pages, filled with information about green roots, but the subject didn’t matter for what he had planned. All that mattered were the thick, sandy pages that Tom removed from its spine.

Carefully, he took the whole book apart until he had a stack of paper in front of him and an empty cover in his hand, which he vanished quickly afterwards. 

Then, with the stack of paper placed in front of him, he set to work.

When the library closed hours later and Tom was thrown out of it together with the other wrecked students he’d seen before, he seriously considered just sneaking right back in. But then he looked out the window and saw the high-set moon behind it, and decided that there would always be time to work tomorrow. 

Carefully avoiding catching sight of himself in the windows and repeating the same thoughts as before, he walked down the corridors towards the dungeon. The stairs did no favour to his pounding head, which he ignored together with those awful, pesky thoughts, and held a Lumos out before him, his hand held high. 

He entered the common room with his bag slung over his shoulder, hiding away his notes and failed experiments, confident that no one would bother him on his way to the bed. 

He was wrong.

Tom had barely stepped into the room when Lestrange approached him from the side, being the same nuisance that he always was. Tom didn’t know why he even bothered with him, honestly. 

“Hello,” Lestrange spoke, and Tom considered just keeping walking. “Can I have a word, Tom?”

He wanted to grit his teeth, but instead Tom just said with in his flattest tone, “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m afraid I’m quite busy at the moment.”

“You always say that, but then you’re never around either. It’ll just be a minute, I promise.”

Sighing, Tom sat down on the couch before the fireplace, setting his bag down next to it. “If you insist. What is wrong?”

“You haven’t joined us for the past few meetings, and the others are starting to whisper you might leave us.” Lestrange said cheerfully, sitting down on the space opposite Tom and meeting his eyes. “I just wanted to check in and make sure that that’s not the case.”

“It’s not.”

Lestrange wasn’t deterred. “But you have to admit, you’ve been oddly absent recently.”

“As I’ve said, I’m busy. There were some… troubles recently, and I’ve been working on overcoming them,” Tom said simply, not breaking eye contact.

“Troubles with what?”

He nearly pulled a face. “Nothing that concerns you.”

Lestrange hummed and eyed Tom sceptically. Tom stayed silent and stared back, not bothered by it in the slightest. He couldn’t care less if Lestrange believed him or not. Then, finally, Lestrange moved on, “Alright then. But it's of importance that you join our meetings again soon. As I said, the others are getting suspicious of you.”

“They can be suspicious all they want,” Tom replied flatly. “If I don’t see the meetings as particularly useful, then I won’t join them. It’s as simple as that.”

“It’s not. We need you there, at those meetings, as our leader. There is no point in holding them if you’re not there.”

“Well then, you should simply stop holding them,” Tom retorted before thinking about it, shrugging.

“You don’t mean that,” Lestrange said slowly, and his eyebrow twitched. Tom supposed that meant that he was surprised. Or angry. He really didn’t know him well enough to tell.

At that moment, part of Tom wanted to say, "Yes, actually, I do,", wanted to provoke Lestrange, wanted to take all the frustration, panic, confusion, and anger that this day had brought out on Lestrange. 

Most of all, he wanted to make a permanent decision to disband the Death Eaters, wanted to close this path for himself once and for all, just as he had unspokenly intended to do ever since that first honest conversation with Harry. 

But instead he stood up from the couch, grabbed his bag, and stepped away. “No, I don’t. I’ll rejoin the meetings again eventually, don’t worry.”

Before Lestrange could say anything else, Tom had entered his bedroom and shut the door behind himself with a sense of finality. The thoughts, however, followed him inside.

Chapter Text

Ever since Tom had left Harry behind in the Room of Hidden Things, sleeping and with a short note laying on the coffee table, Harry hadn’t seen him again.

It wasn’t unexpected. On the contrary, Harry could very well understand Tom for avoiding him. Anyone would, after what the things he’d seen in Harry’s memories, really. He could imagine it was quite a lot to take in.

But he’d thought Tom would be a lot more subtle about it. Give an excuse and make up some story that both of them knew was fake—at least something. Anything was better than the radio silence Harry had gotten ever since he’d fallen asleep on Tom’s shoulder. Well, radio silence, if you discount Tom's note saying ‘Hope you slept well,’ which Harry certainly did. What even was that about, anyway? Poking fun at Harry or looking out for him, what had Tom attempted to convey with that note?

If this was a normal situation and a normal, well, friendship, Harry would simply go and ask Tom himself. But it wasn’t a normal situation at all, and so Harry was stuck walking through the mirror day after day to check for any signs of Tom and turning up empty-handed. It was bizarre, to say the least, to have Tom be absent for more than a few days without a single explanation. Bizarre to step into the lounge and find himself alone.

And then, when Tom finally showed up again, two weeks after Harry’d woken up in the room all by himself, it was even more bizarre. Because he was smiling.

“Harry, there you are,” he called out, and Harry stepped out behind the shelf with candlesticks and vases and took small, wary steps towards him like he thought there was a trap hidden somewhere behind Tom’s bright, pleased smile.

“That's my phrase, you git. Where’ve you been these past two week?”

Tom just waved it away. “I’ll show you later. Come on, sit down.”

Hesitantly, Harry took his seat on the couch and watched Tom shuffle through their jars of tea.

“What kind do you want?” Tom said, turning around to meet Harry’s eyes. “The usual?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry replied after a pause, and watched the two differently colored tea bags fly through the air and settle into their mugs. A second later, the kettle joined them in the air, pouring steaming hot water into the cups before they all flumped down onto the table. An unnecessary display of magic on Tom's part, if you asked Harry, who still preferred to make his tea by hand.

He took his mug silently and shot Tom a hesitant glance—it was a rarity that Tom made tea for them both without being bullied into it. That was something only preserved for late-night talks or manipulation. Both, maybe, if Tom was feeling fancy. 

“What are you planning, Tom?” he asked calmly, blowing the steam off his mug and glancing down at the bright red points painted onto the porcelain. Harry had long since given up on getting a straight answer out of him unless confronted directly—Tom understood the art of dancing around a subject far too well.

“Is it so unbelievable that I’m just happy to see you?”

“Yup,” Harry answered without hesitation. “And, for the record, you’re the one who prevented that in the first place, by not showing up in the Room for the last two weeks.”

Tom sighed and took his mug off the table. “I’m sorry about that, Harry, I really am. But I had my hands full of research and experimentation. I couldn’t find the time to come all the way up to the Hidden Room.”

Yeah, those were the excuses Harry had been talking about before. “Researching what?” he asked, meeting Tom’s eyes. “New methods to become immortal?”

Tom was staring right back at him, and Harry saw his brows furrow before he looked away and took a sip. “No, actually,” he answered, his voice still holding the same cheery undertone it had ever since Harry’d stepped foot into the lounge. “But if you had any tips, I’d be happy to hear them.”

“I’ve already told you all about my ‘tips’, Tom,” Harry answered in a flat tone. “And if I recall correctly, you weren’t too happy with them.”

“Look, Harry,” Tom sighed, and changed his approach. “Could we maybe not argue about this right now? I actually have a few things planned for today, so, really, we have much better things to be doing.”

“For example?”

Smiling mischievously at him, Tom pulled out a big, heavy-looking chessboard from behind his armchair. “Remember that bet you’ve lost a while back?”

“The duel?!” Harry said, gasping. “Tom, that was ages ago! And you said you didn’t own a chessboard!”

“Well, lucky for you, I found one in here, on our way back from our trip to the end of the room. It was lying around so innocently that I couldn’t resist taking it with me.” He leaned forward and placed the board down onto the coffee table in front of them. “Bet is a bet, Harry, there’s no backing out, now that we have a board.”

“You traitor,” Harry whispered while he watched the pieces arrange themselves, addressing the room more than Tom. He shook his head and placed the mug down next to the board. “Tom, you know I don’t like playing chess with you.”

“I just think you’re a sore loser.”

“Am not,” Harry glared at him before looking back down at the table. “Will it stop if I set the board on fire?”

Tom just laughed and cracked his knuckles before reaching over and setting the first chesspiece.

An hour later, Harry dejectedly threw his king down—marking another victory for Tom, the fifth one in a row. That they had only been playing five games so far was entirely coincidental. “How do you keep losing so easily?” Tom asked. His voice sounded overly disappointed, but Harry could see the smirk tugging at the edge of his lips. “I don’t understand it.”

“I’m just not a very strategic person Tom,” Harry picked up his mug. “It’s that simple.”

Tom hummed, “But you have plenty of strategies in our duels. Can’t you just transfer them onto the board?”

“Well, first of all, those are entirely different things, so no, I can’t. And second, I don’t have strategies. I have impulsive decisions that help me because they’re built up on things happening in the moment.” He sighed and took a sip. “I don’t usually plan ahead. Not on the board and not during our duels.”

“That's impressive in its own kind of way, if you think about it,” Tom said pensively, “Considering how many times you’ve beat me in our duels.”

He smiled sweetly at Tom. “Seems like planning ahead isn’t everything, huh? Speaking of planning, didn’t you say you had some big plans for today?” His brows furrowed. “And don’t you dare say that you only prepared that chessboard, that’d be disappointing as hell.”

“No, no, don’t worry,” Tom said, laughing. “I actually have two more things in store, but I’m unsure which should go first.”

Harry just hummed, and leaned forward to grab a piece off the chessboard, turning it absentmindedly in his hand. A few seconds later he looked up from the piece and met Tom’s eyes, speaking up in a flat tone, “How about you just tell me what you’ve been doing for the past two weeks, hm?”

“You can’t still be mad about that, can you?” Tom asked, his eyebrows lifting, and leaned back into his armchair with wide eyes. “I even apologised for it.”

Harry glared at him. “That's really not how it works, Tom.”

“It doesn’t?” he answered, but he continued before Harry could answer. “I mean, I can show you now, if you want to. Wait here for a second.”

And then he was gone, stood up from his armchair and walking over to get something from the study table. Harry watched him return curiously, eying the two square objects he held in his hands. Books?

“Really?” Harry asked, his eyebrows raised. “You’ve avoided me for two whole weeks because of books?”

“I wouldn’t say avoided, really,” Tom answered, and laid the two notebooks down on the coffee table before them, on top of the forgotten chess board. “Come on, take it. The red one is yours.”

Harry picked it up hesitantly, turning the book in his hand and studying the dark red envelope perfectly wrapped around the cover. And there, true, was his name written on it, in that elegant handwriting that Harry only knew from late nights of doing homework by Tom’s side.

“I have a pen here, try and write something into it.”

“What?” Harry startled, looking up from the book at Tom. “You want me to write into it?”

Tom only nodded and passed him a quill. It sat heavily on Harry's hand as he took it silently and flipped the book open. The first page stared back at blank and crispy white, and Harry clenched the quill in his hand. The pages were individually thick, and each individual one had a slightly different colour than the next, like they were mismatched pieces of multiple books pierced together. Harry wondered what that was about. 

He could feel Tom’s eyes on the top of his head as he stared down at the paper, hesitantly gripping the quill in his hand. He set it down onto the page and watched the first drop of ink sink into the paper. “Just to make sure,” he said, his voice quiet, “this isn’t going to drain my life from me as soon as I start writing into it, right?”

“What? Of course not.” Tom’s voice sounded confused. “Why would you think that?”

“No reason, really,” Harry said and started writing. And when he did, no other words appeared on the page. There were only Harry’s own, staying on the page even after Harry set the pen away, so unlike the diary from his second year that Harry could only sigh in relief and shut the book close.

Tom wordlessly took it from his lap and pressed the next one into his hands. It had a matching dark-green cover and Tom’s name in the bottom right corner, as if Harry hadn’t been able to guess by its colour. Really, Tom had no imagination when it came to things like this. Their mugs were the perfect example for that—small, perfect points were painted onto the ceramic with vibrant red and green colour that won’t ever chip.

Harry huffed a breath and flipped the book open to the first page, pen ready in his hand. “What, am I signing books now?” he grumbled, before setting his eyes on the paper.

But before he could write anything new, he noticed the words already written on the paper—it was the same shaky ‘hello’ he’d written just moments before, in his own distinctive handwriting.

“What is this, Tom?” he said with his breath caught in his throat, and looked up at Tom, who just grinned at his confusion and held Harry’s notebook next to Tom’s, so that Harry had two identical pages in front of him

“Go on, write something new into mine.”

Harry did, and watched the words appear simultaneously in the other notebook, just as he scratched them onto the paper. 

“They only work when we are in the same timeline, I tested it out.” Tom finally said once it was obvious Harry wouldn’t be doing much else than staring down onto the page in wonder and confusion. “They’re linked together, so that once something gets written into one, it also appears in the other. I still have to work on a notification system in the future, because right now we would always have to check periodically if the other has written something into it, and that's a bit troublesome.”

“You’ve…” Harry breathed, still staring down at the two notebooks. “You actually did it! You’ve created a way to communicate. Even outside the Room!” he looked up at Tom with wide eyes, grinning back at him and feeling a bit light-headed. “Merlin’s beard, Tom, that is amazing!”

“I know, no need to tell me,” He tried saying nonchalantly, but Harry could tell by his voice how happy he was. “I thought of it when I talked about the future, while you were busy falling asleep on my shoulder. Up until now, we had no methods of reaching one another besides just staying here in the lounge.” he paused, and picked his dark-green notebook out of Harry’s hands. “But now we do! Though I have to admit, it’s a pain that at least one of us will still have to go back to the other’s timeline, but I fear that can’t be avoided.”

Harry nodded silently, but his grin was still there on his face, wide and cheery. “Gods, Tom, I don’t know what to say…” he breathed, staring down at the notebooks, before glancing up at Tom. “This is going to be so great, I swear. We can have spontaneous meetings now, without having to plan them or rely on the chance that we’re both here at the same time. Gods.”

Tom smiled smugly at him. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Of course I do, you git,” Harry breathed an airy giggle. “What's there not to like? I mean, yeah, it's a shame that one of us still has to go to the room, but… Well, that's just a minor inconvenience, right? The room’s basically always around the corner, just a few stairs up…”

“Not during the summer holidays,” Tom interrupted Harry’s cheery rambles. “Hogwarts is going to be closed over the summer, whether we like it or not. And no notebook can cover fifty years of time difference.”

“Oh, yeah,” Harry’s grin fell. “I’d totally forgotten about the holidays.”

“It’s only a few weeks long,” Tom tried to say, but that only made things worse. Harry flopped back against the couch, and stared up at the ceiling, notebook gripped in his hands.

“It’s two whole months, Tom,” Harry corrected, his voice quiet. “Gods.”

He only hummed in return and let the silence fill the space between them, rueful and already mourning the time they’d spent alone, separated by more than just distance. Harry will be going back to the Dursleys over the summer, because of course he will, and there’ll be no Hermione or Ron there, no Molly, Arthur, or the rest of the Weasleys. But now, on top of that, there would be one person more missing from his life. Because that seemed to be a never ending trend in his life.

Harry had never given much thought to their future until this moment, beside idle talks about studying together next year, of more duels and even trickier challenges. It seemed all so ridiculous now, in the face of how easily they could be torn apart.

What would happen when they left Hogwarts, when neither of them could return to the Room of Hidden Things again? Perhaps Harry could ask Dumbledore to visit him once in a while and then spend the whole day in here with Tom instead.

Maybe they could find another mirror somewhere, no matter how far away, or they could take this one out of the Room, and place it somewhere else, somewhere that was not here. Or maybe they should just both become teachers, just so they could have access to the mirror again, even after they’d both graduated Hogwarts. That would be fine, Harry thought, even if they had to spend the rest of their time together in this one single room. 

“Harry,” Tom spoke up, and Harry answered with a small hum. “I’d still have something in store for today if you’re interested. A distraction, if you will.”

Sluggishly, Harry lifted his head off the couch, his eyes back on Tom and not the distant ceiling of the room, and nodded.

Tom got up from his armchair. “Good. Just wait here for a few moments, I’ll go set it up.”

And with that, he had gotten up from the armchair and vanished out of view. Harry stared after him, feeling shaky, and tried to avoid the thoughts from coming up again, of the future, of the summer, of the inevitable end of their relationship. 

Merlin, he’d barely noticed how attached he’d gotten to Tom.

He had grown on him silently and inevitably, ever since those first talks with little half-truths sprinkled into them. Back then, he’d never been sure what about Tom was a lie and what wasn’t, too caught up in the story Dumbledore and Voldemort had spun around Tom that he hadn’t noticed the very real human being that had hid behind them.

How had he thought about killing Tom just a few months before? The idea seemed laughable now, like a sick joke of the universe, considering that Harry could barely take the thought of spending a few weeks without Tom. 

It was so like Harry to go and grow attached to the one, single person he was supposed to hate, really.

Music began to play suddenly, echoing through the room from outside the lounge and jolting Harry out of his thoughts. His head shot up from where it had been leaning against the couch, and he looked around to see where it was coming from.

There, he saw Tom step out from behind the study table with a nonchalant look on his face. Some sort of record player was floating in the air behind him, settling down on top of the chessboard, when Tom came to a stop in front of the couch. Harry just stared at it for a second, watching the disc spin on the small, wooden box and the light of their lamp reflect on the big, golden horn sitting on its top. 

The music playing loudly in the background, Harry glanced over to Tom just to see him look down at Harry from where he was standing before the couch. Through his collected expression Harry could see his eyes smiling and lifted an amused eyebrow in return. 

Then, Tom stretched out his hand towards Harry, palm facing upwards, a silent invitation. And although Harry already knew what was coming, Tom asked anyway, “May I have this dance?”

“Oh, you’re such a git,” Harry huffed despairingly, glancing down to hide his smile. “I can’t dance.”

“You know how to duel.”

“Again, not the same thing,” He look up, and this time he couldn’t wipe the sappy grin on his face. “You have to stop comparing everything to duelling.”

“And you have to stop underestimating yourself. I’m sure you won’t be terrible at it.”

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “Is that a challenge?” Without any further words, he grabbed Tom’s hand and let himself be pulled off the couch, because the case had been clear ever since Tom had strode into the lounge with the record player in tow. Harry had always been bad at declining Tom the things he was excited about, just like the duels.

“Where’d you even get this thing from?” Harry asked as Tom led him to the place they always duelled in—a little clearance they’d created in the midst of mountains of stacked furniture. 

“The same place where the chessboard came from. Well, I had to fix it first, of course, because it was pretty old and kept damaging Abraxas’ records. But it worked out, in the end, just in time for today.”

Harry shot him a glance. “And Abraxas didn’t mind?”

“Of course not,” Tom chuckled. “That man would do anything to be in my good graces. He still thinks I’m going to take over the world.”

“And are you?” Harry asked quietly, “Taking over the world?”

He hummed. “I’m not sure. It seems like a waste of time, honestly, when I could spend it all with you.”

Only Tom's hand catching Harry's as he tripped over his own feet kept him from falling to the ground. “What?” he asked in a high-pitched voice, looking over at Tom with wide eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Exactly what I’ve said, Harry.” Tom smirked at him.

Once he’d found his breath, Harry said, “You’ve been awfully sweet today, Tom.” He did his best to look accusatory. “It’s suspicious.”

Tom shrugged his shoulders and came to a stop in the middle of their little clearance. There were scorch marks all over the ground and furniture, remnants of their past duels, but Harry couldn’t imagine a more fitting place to dance in. Because this place was filled with memories, just like their lounge was. They passed Harry’s mind as he glanced around—flashes of ducking out of the way of spells that scorched the ground, of pulling last-minute resorts that ended up just barely scoring him a win, and even more memories of laughter midst-battle, giggling at the adrenalin and fun of it all, and Tom laughing with him. Duels were one of the few occasions when Tom ever lost his composure, and Harry appreciated them all. 

Harry took his place in front of Tom, looking up and meeting his eyes without saying anything. Tom leaned forward and picked Harry’s hand right off his side, holding it out between them, and set his hand lightly on Harry’s waist. Harry, in turn, rolled his eyes at Tom, because of course he would be the one to lead, and set his other hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“Now just—”

“I know, I know,” Harry interrupted him, and looked down at their feet. “One step back and then to the side, right?”

“That's the simplified version, but yes.” The amusement shone clear through Tom’s voice. “I thought you couldn’t dance, Harry?”

He rolled his eyes again, and took a step backwards, turning in the pace of the music. “We had lessons in fourth year, because apparently the mortal danger of being a Triwizard-champion came inclusive with a ball. Which, of course, I had to attend.”

Tom snorted, “Oh, Merlin. Did you trip over your feet?”

“None of your business, Tom.”

That only made Tom laugh more, and Harry took a hesitant look up at Tom’s face—and promptly had to look down again because he fell out of step. It was a shame, honestly, because Tom’s eyes had been smiling, with both his eyes and his lips. His eyes always crinkled at the edges when Tom was smiling honestly, whether it was during their duels, wide-blown, or looking over at Harry half-lidded over a mug of tea.

“If it had been me you were dancing with, that would have never happened.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Harry scoffed, “You would’ve tripped me over just for fun, Tom. You’d like to see me embarrass myself in front of hundreds of people.”

Tom chuckled, “I’ll admit it, that sounds like something I would do.”

Harry laughed along with him, listening to the sound of their voices mix together with the music, soft tones filtering over to their place from the lounge and echoing off the distant ceiling. The echoes and all the twirling made him feel a bit lightheaded, but Tom’s hand was cold and grounding in his. “You’re a terrible friend, Tom,” Harry teased.

He was silent for a few moments, and Harry was too focused on their movements that the words Tom spoke next didn’t register in his brain at first. “Friends, you say?” he paused. “You know, back when we first met I’ve always thought you were in love with me. Funny, isn’t it?”

When the words hit Harry, he stumbled over his feet for the second time that day, and snapped his head up at Tom to stare at him incredulously. Tom, however, continued to drag him along in time with the music even though Harry was barely paying attention to it anymore. “You thought what? Merlin’s beard, Tom, how on earth did you get that idea?”

“All those lies, Harry, they made you suspicious.”

He spluttered, “But that suspicious? I can’t believe you.”

“It was a logical deduction, honestly,” Tom said, shrugging. “What else could I have believed with the way you kept behaving around me?”

Harry didn’t answer and stared back down at their feet, willing the blood to go away from his face. It was just a joke, a simple-minded joke that should be funny in hindsight. Even more funny if Harry considered how Tom had interpreted his murderousness as flirting.

But Harry couldn’t laugh about it.

“I can’t believe you,” he whispered again, unbelievingly, and sped up his movements together with the music as the song changed. Tom’s hand in Harry’s was no longer comfortable or grounding, but unfamiliar and strange, and Harry’s hand tingled slightly where Tom was touching it.

There, Harry made another crucial mistake, just as dumb as agreeing to this madness in the first place—he looked up at Tom and met his eyes. 

They were gentle, almost impossibly so, and Harry’s breath caught in his throat. It was unlike any other expression Harry had ever seen Tom make, neither during their duels nor outside of them. A heavy, indescribable emotion overcame him, burning inside his chest and stinging the corners of his eyes, and when Harry nearly stumbled over his feet again by the sheer force of it tingling in every corner of his body, he didn’t mind. Tom caught him anyway, clasping his hand tighter around his, and Harry thought that he might just be feeling it too.

“You know,” Tom started, his eyes still holding Harry’s, “I didn’t just spend the last few weeks tinkering around at notebooks and record players. There was also something else that I thought about.”

“What?” He asked quietly, as if he was afraid the burning sensation in his chest would spill over into his words.

“The Horcruxes,” Tom breathed just as softly, “I’m going to give them up.”

Harry blinked once, twice, and repeated himself, “What?”

“You were right,” Tom said and Harry could barely hear him speak over the music and the background and his heart pounding in his heart, surprised and speechless. “I don’t want to lose myself the way Voldemort has. And I don’t want to suffer like him either.”

“But,” Harry started, struggling to keep up with Tom’s speed and stumbling after him. “But you were so sure of them.”

“Your memories were very convincing,” Tom said, but through his calm expression, Harry could see the fear and uncertainty in Tom’s eyes—it was shining through in the way they were widened just slightly and how they just wouldn’t leave Harry’s, almost like he was afraid to look away. 

Harry felt lightheaded. “You’re–” he took a breath and tightened his hand. “I don’t– I can’t believe it. You’re going to give them up? Just like that?”

Tom shrugged and tightened his grip too, a firm squeeze on Harry’s hand that tore him back into reality. The music was suddenly loud and way too fast, and Harry half-seriously considered breaking away from Tom and screaming. Or crying.

Instead, he said, “Well, I’m proud of you, Tom,” as if that could encompass the indescribable emotion burning in Harry's chest, but Tom nodded anyway, like he understood—and there was that. 

With ease, Tom swirled them both over their little clearing, and Harry struggled to keep up with him, looking forward to where they were going instead of their feet. Now Harry knew why Tom sometimes looked like he was dancing in the midst of their duels, easily dodging the spells Harry shot at him at nearly-undodgeable speed. There was no lack of coordination there, in Tom’s movements.

With half a mind, Harry wanted to speak up and ask Tom where he’d learned to move so smoothly, without hesitance, but he didn’t want to break the strange silence that had fallen over both of them. The tension felt too much for words to handle, like it would simply flow over as soon as Harry spoke.

So he simply followed Tom's movements, silently watching the furniture whirl by and concentrating on the movement of his feet. It had become easier over time, but it still required a bit of concentration to keep in time with the music and not trip over his or Tom's feet. But it was nice.  He could see how people could enjoy doing this if they did it well enough and could just mindlessly move along to the music and chatter, and even though the occasional improv without falling out of step.

But Harry was still dependent on Tom’s hand guiding him, pulling him in the direction that he wanted to turn to, in the speed he wanted to dance in. And he wasn’t as upset with it as he would’ve thought. It’was nice, not having to think about everything for once. Not having to make important decisions, but having them made for him.

The other hand, sitting on his waist, Harry didn’t appreciate at all. It burned, even though Harry could barely even feel Tom’s hand through the fabric of his shirt, let alone his body heat. 

He took a deep breath and looked around the room instead. Not many details were visible at the speed they were turning in, but still Harry could spot the walls in the distance and the light shining in their lounge. With half a mind, Harry wanted to speak up and ask Tom for some more light here as well, because his feet were barely visible anymore in the light of the dimming room, but he still hadn’t found the courage to break the silence between him and Tom. 

It wasn’t uncomfortable per se, just… strange. Unfamiliar.

He looked up at Tom for the first time in minutes, and saw Tom glance at him in the exact same moment, a calm expression fixed on his face. There was nothing left of the soft, gentle eyes Harry had seen before, only an indifferent facade that made Harry’s heart tug.

The hand on his waist tightened, pulling him closer, and Harry was left staring questioningly up at Tom’s face, wondering what had changed in the last few minutes.

Just right when Harry mustered up the courage to break the silence, Tom spoke up instead, his words almost swallowed by the gentle music in the background. “Can I kiss you?”

Harry stopped moving.

For a few long seconds, he just stood there in front of Tom in the midst of their clearing, waiting for Tom to correct himself, to fluster and apologise, to explain. But he didn’t. So Harry asked in his stead. “What?”

“I asked if I could kiss you.”

Harry dropped his hand at once, more of an instinct than anything else, and Tom’s hand fell out of his. Through shallow, rapid breathing that felt like he wasn’t getting enough air, Harry stepped back, and the hand on his waist fell away as well. His skin was still tingling where it had been laying, but it wasn’t exciting or strange anymore, just too much and too confusing. With furrowed brows, Harry took a few small steps further back from Tom. “I don’t– What…”

“It’s okay if you decline.” Tom tilted his head, but no emotions showed through the calm, indifferent expression set on his face. “I don’t mind.”

“It’s not that–” Harry managed to get out. “I’m just– I don’t understand why you’d want to kiss me.”

There, Tom raised his eyebrows and Harry could see some amusement shine through his eyes. “Harry, I’ve been flirting with you all evening. And weeks before that.”

“What?” He creased his brows. “That– That’s what that was?”

Finally, Tom cracked a smile and let out a long, drawn-out sigh. “Yes, it was.”

Besides himself, Harry had to smile, too. “I thought you were being suspicious, maybe scheming something. And- and then you called me nicknames and stuff and– Well I thought you just liked poking fun at me. For your amusement.”

“Well, that too,” Tom admitted, grinning. “It was a nice bonus to the flirting. And honestly, you’re not allowed to say anything on that part. You’re the one who kissed me first as a ‘strategical move’, remember?”

“We–” Harry gasped, “That’s unfair! We both agreed that’d been a smart move.”

He shrugged. “Still unfair.”

They both glanced at each other for a moment until Harry had to tear his eyes away. There was no more music playing in the background, and Harry wondered with half a mind if that was because Tom had stopped cranking it with magic, or if the disc had run out of music to play. 

“This isn’t a trap, right?” Harry asked, his eyes set on the light of the lounge, just hidden behind a few bookshelves and a big, half-destroyed piano.

“No, it’s not.” Tom didn’t sound offended. “I’m honest about this.” And Harry honestly believed him. He’d seen the soft look on Tom’s face before, gentle and open, and now he finally had a name for it. 

He believed that no-one could fake love so realistically, not even Tom.

“Well, then… I guess I don’t mind.” Harry felt the blood rise to his neck. “There’s no harm in trying, right?”

“Of course not,” Tom answered, and Harry could hear him smirking. Git. How dare he be so collected and calm when Harry was over here, embarrassed and losing his mind with just a few words of Tom’s. It was so unfair, how Tom could hide it all away, even from Harry. 

But all those thoughts were brushed away from his mind when he felt a hand settle beneath his chin, tilting his head towards Tom, and before Harry knew what was going on, Tom had set a soft, light kiss on his lips.

When Harry’s brain caught up, he’d already pulled away, leaning back up with a self-assured grin on his face. “See? Wasn’t so terrible, right?”

“Depends on your definition of terrible,” Harry answered, draping a hand over Tom’s neck to pull him back down, and pressing his lips firmly against Tom’s. He could feel the gasp of surprise against his lips rather than hear it and smiled contently, if only because he’d wiped the smirk from Tom’s face.

When he pulled back, Harry was breathing harshly and his lips were tingling, and his feet ached from having stood on his tippy-toes for too long. 

“And?” Harry asked, a smile tugging on his face. “Would you rather go play another game of chess?”

“Oh, shut up,” Tom answered in an exasperated tone and leaned back down.

When Harry returned to the common room that evening, it was with a smile and tingling skin—remnants of soft, butterfly kisses strewn over his face.

Hermione took one look at him as he passed her on the way to the stairs, and said “Oh, did you two finally work it out?“

“Who?” Harry halted on the first few steps of the stairs and turned around to her

“You and your mysterious not-boyfriend,” she said, smiling mischievously up at him from where she was curled into an armchair before the fireplace.

Harry laughed, calling an “I think so!” down to her, and continued walking up the stairs.

‘Boyfriends, huh?’ Harry thought with an embarrassed grin, ‘that doesn't sound half-bad.’

Chapter Text

The Room in Harry’s timeline was always quiet. That was something Tom had found out about the two timelines over the past few weeks; Although both felt very different to him, similarly little happened in either of the rooms. 

With a sigh, he settled down into his armchair next to the entrance and took out a book from his bag and set it out before him, its words illuminated with a Lumos.

The sun had gone down a while ago—Tom had caught glimpses of the sunset on his way to the Hidden Room—and now the room was dimming slowly around him. It was particularly bad in the spot that he was sitting in right now, next to the entrance, but still hidden away from view. His lumpy, ragged armchair stood crammed between a kitchen cabinet filled with shrunken pots and pans and a coat rack with blankets hung onto it. There were a few old newspapers spread out on the ground and a stack of broken umbrellas stood leaned against the cabinet. If Harry found out about this place, Tom knew he would try to hang the dirty, ragged blankets hung over the place to make it cosier, but would actually just dimmen the light even more than it already was. 

Good thing he didn't plan for Harry to find out about this place. And his plans usually tended to succeed.

Shaking his head amusedly, Tom set to read his book. As usual, the magic of the objects surrounding him buzzed in the back of his mind, and Tom ignored it expertly—he’d learned to ignore it by now. 

Despite that, he didn’t come far with reading. Behind every word on the page, he could see Harry, even the most absurd, unfitting information inside the book was linking back to him somehow. The use of magical rats in ancient rome? Tom pictured the expression on Harry’s face when he was dozing off on his couch or by the study table when they should be studying. Healing properties of knarfwood sap? His mind was contemplating the way Harry’s eyes shone when he ducked away from a spell, and the way Harry laughed with his whole body. The wicked, confident smiles he wore when he beat Tom in a duel, and the ones softly sprawled on his lips and around his eyes when he thought Tom wasn’t looking. Those had happened more often lately, and Tom had made sure to kiss every last one off his lips.

It had been a luxury lately, to feel Harry’s smiles beneath his lips and hear Harry’s airy giggles whenever he kissed him unexpectedly, to have the liberty to touch Harry’s hair whenever he wanted, to feel the slight callous of Harry’s scar beneath his fingertips—Tom liked it even though it had been Voldemort who put it there and the mark of his own future’s downfall. He liked treating Harry gently because he always seemed to be surprised about it. Tom didn’t know if that was because… well, he was Tom Riddle, or if it was simply because Harry had rarely been touched with so much care before. He didn’t know what he should think of either of those options.

He often wondered about the new things he’d learned about Harry since the beginning of their relationship.

With a sigh, Tom shut his book close and pulled another one out instead—his notebook. He flipped the dark-green cover open and was immediately greeted by the sight of their tiny, scribbled conversation. Harry had persisted on writing as tiny as possible, even though Tom had insisted that he could add or remove pages whenever they wanted—he only needed a few pages from Harry’s timeline, after all. 

He skimmed contently over their conversations thus far. They were about nothing important—just a few discussions about when to study for their final exams, and excited talks about the functionality of the notebook from the first time they’d ever tried it out. There was even that one time where Harry had been sitting in his class and had rambled about it in the notebook, unbothered by the fact that Tom wouldn’t reply until much later because he, too, had been in class at the time.

And while it was nice to be here, in Harry’s timeline, where he could always reach Harry in case he wanted to, that wasn’t the only reason he was here.

No, Tom was here because he’d been having an eye out for the Malfoy boy.

He hadn’t forgotten the time Harry had told him about him and his suspicions and worries he had about him, and ever since that, Tom had made an effort to return to the timeline every once in a bit when he had some free time between lessons, just to check in on things. He mostly just stayed there in the time where he knew Harry had lessons or something else to do—like right now, when he was practising quidditch with his team.

The fact that he could reach Harry from there was just a bonus.

He knew Harry wouldn’t approve of it—just like he wouldn’t approve of the fact that Tom had learned his entire schedule by heart—but he did it, anyway. They were at the point where Tom knew better than to distrust Harry’s instincts.

And if anyone worried Harry enough to bring it up multiple times, it was worth looking into.

With a smile, Tom ran his hand over Harry’s handwriting sitting on the paper, and could almost feel the tip of his quill pressing harshly into the paper, sitting in Harry's hand with his distinct, cramped manner of his. Their handwriting was each quite different, and it was very easy to pick out who had written what when glancing over the pages. Before, Tom had thought about each of them using a different colored ink, but it seems like that wasn’t necessary in the slightest.

Tom was just about to turn the page, the one on which they had set their meeting for today, when the distinct sound of the door opening startled him out of his thoughts. 

Has Harry come back?

From his spot, hidden behind the kitchen cabinet, Tom could hear hasty steps walking towards the middle of the room, steps that were distinctly not Harry’s. The interval between steps was far too short, too hurried, and the sound of his shoes on the stone tiles was too even for it to be Harry's. As quietly and swiftly as he could, Tom sprung out of the armchair, notebook forgotten in his hand, and peeked out from behind the cabinet. 

And there, just as he thought, was Draco Malfoy.

He was walking towards the middle of the room with quick, hasty steps, wand clutched in his hand and hair slicked back nicely. In his neat, proper robes he looked more like he was just about to meet the Minister of Magic than running inside a room all by himself. But Tom guessed that it was just a trait the Malfoy family shared—Abraxas, too, liked to dress ridiculously formally.

Tom followed after him quietly, backpack slung over his shoulders and notebook held tightly in his hand. With half a mind, he opened the notebook and scribbled a quick ‘Malfoy inside Room, come quick.’ to Harry, his handwriting looking entirely too messy for anything but emergencies. It might add to the significance of the message, though, he thought.

Tom was hidden behind a shelf filled with old, broken crystal balls when Malfoy finally came to a stop. With just the tiniest moment of hesitation, he opened the tall, black cabinet in front of him and put something inside. 

With his brows furrowed, Tom started moving a bit closer, just out of Malfoy’s sight, to get a peek at what he had hidden inside—some kind of weapon? This was what Harry had been looking for all year, and he wasn't going to let it be snatched this easily from under his nose.

Malfoy closed the cabinet gently, and then when he opened it again a few moments later, Tom heard laughter coming from inside it. As quickly as he could, he backed up and hid behind an upright wooden table, breathing hard.

People. There were people coming out of the cabinet.

Carefully, he peeked out around the table, just to see them step out of the cabinet, hollering with laughter. He counted them carefully and took the notebook back out. ‘Seven people infiltrating Hogwarts,’ he scribbled hastily, ‘probably Death Eaters. Get here quickly.’

Setting the notebook back into his backpack, he glanced back around to see them walk towards the entrance, led by the Malfoy boy. One of them, a woman with messy black hair and maniacal laughter, began sending out random spells and exploding objects, and Tom tried not to wince. 

This was his and Harry’s room. It wasn’t theirs to destroy.

He sneaked after them with careful, soft steps, and tried gauging how powerful they were. If his counterpart’s standards hadn’t changed in the last fifty years, those Death Eaters would be powerful, dangerous individuals, and Tom wouldn't stand a chance against seven of them all at once. He was vastly outnumbered in every sense of the word, and the only way he could fight them was if Harry arrived before they left the room. Once the door was shut behind them, there was nothing he could do.

“Should we activate the mark now?” The woman’s voice rang over to Tom, and he saw her giggle and brushed back her sleeve to reveal a black mark on her arm. 

A tattoo? Tom wondered, tilting his head. He wished he could get a better look at it, but he was already getting dangerously close to them. With a rush, he thought back to the book he’d read a few months back, just at the beginning of his and Harry’s tentative friendship, about magical tattoos. Had his counterpart read that book too? And had implemented it?

Merlin, how much he’d give to see that tattoo up close.

“Not yet,” one of the men following behind her replied, “He said to wait until we got to the tower.”

Tom guessed that the ‘he’ in question was Voldemort. Interesting. He fished the book back out of his backpack and scribbled another message to Harry in it. 

‘“Activate mark in tower.” Seems they’ll try to get to the astronomy tower? If you miss them leaving the room, go there.’ So far, Harry hadn’t replied, and Tom hoped it meant he was on his way.

Harry always had the tendency to drop everything in case of an emergency.

He shut the notebook close and put it back into his backpack. With his wand lifted high, he hurried after them and realised that they had almost reached the exit in the time it took him to jot that down.

Cursing under his breath, he stepped closer to them as the Malfoy boy opened the door and held it open for the others. If it was Harry here, in Tom’s place, it was no question that he’d attacked them long since, probably when he’d first seen them step out of the cabinet. But Tom wasn’t Harry, and so he hesitated.

This was his chance. His only chance to support Harry, to fight side-by side with him. He should hold them up, engage with them until Harry arrived there. But what if he didn’t? What if he didn’t check the notebook? What if he had it closed somewhere in his room while he was away? Tom could die fighting all seven of them without Harry’s support.

But on the other side, who knew what they would do to Harry once they met him? And, from what he’d seen in Harry’s memories, Voldemort would always be after Harry. It seemed like Tom’s counterpart had made it his life mission to kill Harry Potter, and now there were seven Death Eaters right in front of Tom, and he couldn’t even attack them?

What if this was his only chance at saving Harry’s life?

But before Tom could decide on anything, before he could even take a step forward, they were already walking through the door and out of reach.

The sound of the door closing behind them echoed in the room, and Tom's heart sunk.

It was deep in the night when the door opened again.

The sound made Tom startle out of his seat in the armchair. He’d returned to it after spending several hours experimenting with Malfoy's cabinet, even going as far as stepping into the cabinet and closing the door.

But nothing had happened.

So when the door opened again after Tom had spent the last couple of hours panicking in his armchair and scribbling equally panicking thoughts into the notebook, it was startling to hear the sound of the door opening.

Without hesitation, he hurried towards the entrance—he no longer cared if whoever it was that would await him there, as long as he had a chance to do something.

He arrived at the entrance with his wand held out high before him, ready to curse whomever had just stepped through the door, but he was faced with an entirely different, and fairly more welcome face.

“Harry!” Tom stormed towards him and pulled him tight to his chest. It was a wonder he didn’t push him off, or hex him, for that matter. But on the contrary, Harry just flinched. “Tom? What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean?” Tom circled his arms around Harry’s chest to pull him close and laid his cheek on Harry’s hair. It smelled like smoke. “I left you several messages in the notebook. I saw the Death Eaters leave the Room.”

He felt Harry’s grip on Tom’s robes tighten. “Oh. Did they see you?”

“I’m not you,” Tom replied, trying to sound teasing. “Of course they didn’t. Why didn’t you check the notebook?”

“Hadn’t had the time,” Harry said in a quiet tone. “Dumbledore had me go away with him. To retrieve a Horcrux.”

Tom blinked, “A Horcrux? Why now, of all times?”

“Dunno.” Harry pulled away from Tom and took a few steps back. He didn’t meet Tom’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter now, anyway.”

He frowned, trying not to be bothered by the lack of physical contact—the whole touch-thing had grown on him far too easily in the past few weeks. “Why do you mean?”

“He’s dead.”

Tom froze. “Dumbledore?” he asked, disbelievingly, and Harry only nodded, still looking away from Tom. “He can’t- Who killed him? Voldemort?”

“No, he wasn’t here tonight.” Harry sounded bitter. “Seems like he couldn’t make it to the show. Instead, it was Snape who killed him. Dumbledore trusted him so well, no matter how suspicious he was. He was so certain that he was safe, trustworthy and now he got stabbed in the back for it.” Abruptly, just as the words left his mouth, Harry turned around from Tom and walked away. “I shouldn’t have told you that, I’m such an idiot. Agh, Merlin, what have I done now, I always mess things up, I can’t- shouldn’t be-”

Tom hurried after him and laid a hand on his shoulder to turn him back around. “It’s fine, Harry, I already told you I’m not trying to be Voldemort anymore. You’re fine.”

But Harry didn’t seem to listen. “It’s been so clear since the beginning, but when did anyone ever listen to me? Least of all Dumbledore, but he always was so certain and I thought he knew what he was doing. But now he’s dead and the Horcrux’s a fake and–” he sunk down, head buried into his knees and his arms laying over on top of it. His voice was barely audible at this point, and Tom had trouble understanding his mumbling. “I just don’t know what I should do now.”

Tom sat down next to him, reminded of the day they swore the truth vows and ended up sitting next to each other on the floor just like they were now. “Well,” he began, “How about a cup of tea? We could go back to my timeline, to the lounge.” He suspected that was the reason Harry came to the Hidden Room in the first place. To go see Tom.”

“Tea won’t solve this, Tom.”

If it was any other situation, Tom would be laughing. They both liked tea as much as the other did, but it had always been Harry who swore on it in situations like these—Awful match of quidditch? His solution was a cup of tea. Massive batch of homework he forgot until the day before it was due? Better hurry to the lounge and work on it with Tom and a kettle full of fresh tea.

‘Find out your mentor just got murdered and the Horcrux you found was a fake’ sounded therefore like an adequat situation for tea, Tom thought.

But well. “Why did you come here, then? If not for the lounge and the tea,” he said instead, and bumped his shoulder into Harry’s. 

There finally, Harry lifted his head off his knees and looked over at Tom. The corner of his eyes were red and prominent, like he should’ve been crying but wasn’t. “I wanted to speak with you.”

“About what?” Tom asked, eyes fixed on the corner of Harry’s eyes, suppressing the urge to lean in and kiss them and hold Harry to his chest until he didn’t feel sad anymore. He took his hand instead.

“I have to leave. Leave Hogwarts, I mean.”

“What?” Tom frowned and met Harry’s eyes. “Of course you do. It’s summer holidays in a few days.”

“No, I meant- I mean next year. I’ve got to go search for the Horcruxes. I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

Tom blinked. “No, of course you’re coming back. It’s NEWTs next year. We’re studying together, remember?”

“Are you listening to me? I’ve got to go search for the Horcruxes, Tom,” he shook his head slightly. “I’m sorry, but–”

“No,” Tom interrupted him, his grip on Harry’s hand tightening. “The Horcruxes aren’t your responsibility. You have to come back next year. You can’t- just leave Hogwarts like that.”

“They are my responsibility, actually. Dumbledore said–”

“I don’t care,” Tom sat up straight, his jaw clenched, “what Dumbledore said. You’re coming back next year.”

Harry shook his head more violently and took his hand out of Tom’s. “I’m not. I can’t. There’s no other way, Tom.”

Tom scoffed. “There’s always another way, you’re just not looking hard enough. Aren’t there men on Dumbledore’s side, someone that can take care of Voldemort that’s not a sixteen-year-old boy?”

“Don’t call me a boy, Tom. And no there, there aren’t. I’m the only person who can take care of Voldemort.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Harry,” Tom stood up from the ground. “You might’ve beaten me a few times in our duels, but Voldemort–”

“I know, he’s better than you. I fought him, Tom, remember?” Harry stood up as well. “And I’m not talking about that. There- there was this prophecy about me and him. And that one of us has to kill the other, essentially. Or we’re not really dead.” A pause, then. “I’ve got to kill him, Tom.”

He took a sharp breath and stared over at Harry in horror, eyes never leaving his. “No,” he breathed. “It can’t be. Why did you never tell me about this? It concerns me too.”

Harry shook his head. “It was only addressed to the ‘Dark Lord’. And, well, if you wouldn’t become the Dark Lord…”

“Then it wouldn’t come true.” Tom filled in, whispering. “Prophecies are tricky, fickle little things.” 

Harry smiled wryly. “Yeah. Bound to be impossible, right? But I’ve got to try.”

‘Or die trying,’ Tom’s mind supplemented. He grimaced. “I can give you hints, if you want. About the Horcruxes. I had a few plans in mind about potential Horcruxes.”

“You’d do that?” Harry asked, sounding genuinely surprised. 

He frowned. “Of course. Who’s better suited to help you kill Voldemort than the man himself?” He and Harry both shared a smile, and Tom clasped his hands behind his back, starting to talk. “So there is the diary, but you’ve told me about that before. Destroyed in your second year, if I remember correctly?” Harry nodded. “And then there’s the ring…”

He glanced down at his finger, where his Horcrux had been sitting a few months ago, before he had hidden it somewhere else on Harry’s advice. “Dumbledore already took care of it,” Harry replied, “He showed it to me this year.”

Well, Tom would take care that that won’t happen again this time around. To think that vile old man had touched his Horcrux… Tom shuddered and balled his fist. “Well, besides those, I suppose that I’d go for objects with meaning and history. Anything that meant something to me, or well, future me.”

“You haven’t got anything concrete besides those two?”

“It all depends on what I got my hands on.” Tom replied and started pacing. “A family artefact like the ring, perhaps? I don’t know of anything currently, but that doesn’t mean that something else could’ve popped up later. Maybe something in Hogwarts too… It would have to be unique, special, and suitably important for a piece of my soul.”

Harry interrupted him. “Isn’t that… a bit obvious? Like why choose something ordinary, unnoticeable? Why not, say, a random pebble at the side of the road?”

Tom turned around and glared at Harry. “Because I am not a random pebble at the side of the road. And the objects to which my soul is attached to shouldn't be either."

Harry lifted an eyebrow. “Would’ve been smarter.”

“Perhaps,” Tom shrugged, and went back to pacing, snippets of his thoughts spoken aloud so that Harry may follow. Tom had just started returning to the importance of researching Hogwarts and any artefacts that Voldemort could’ve possibly gotten his hands on, when Harry interrupted him.

“Hey, Tom?” Harry said from where he was making notes inside his notebooks, leaned against a table. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Don't mention it. It’s me you’re fighting, after all.” he took another step, and set his hand on his chin, “Now, please listen. As I was saying, you’ll definitely have to look into the houses’ artefacts, specifically the Slytherin ones, but there are also other ones that could have been interested in–”

Harry stepped into his path, the notebook closed shut in his right hand. “I mean it. It's a different thing knowing you won’t try to become Voldemort, but helping me find and destroy the Horcruxes…” Harry brought his other hand up to Tom’s cheek. “That’s not self-evident.”

“Yeah, well,” Tom glanced away. “I couldn’t just let you die, can I?”

Harry smiled, as if that was something worth being proud over. “Thanks.”

Tom rolled his eyes, a smile tugging at his face, and tried searching for the words to make Harry understand how much he meant to Tom, more than a single life of another human being ever had. But he couldn’t find them. 

Instead, he leaned down to Harry, his hand sitting on his cheek, moving with him, and kissed him. 

He’d learned that too, in the last couple of weeks with Harry, that every one of their kisses was different. A playful one, for example, would be a lot different from the one Harry gave him after he won one of their duels, when Tom could still feel the victorious smile sitting on his face. 

The hello-kisses felt different, too—sometimes, they were hurried and short, like when Harry had just entered the room with a thick, empty scroll of homework clasped beneath his arm, or sometimes they were soft, and gentle, and they wouldn’t end until it was nearly time for Harry to leave again. 

But this one, Tom thought, felt a lot like a goodbye-kiss. 

He pulled back a little so that his neck was a little straighter, but he could still feel Harry's breath on his skin, and placed another one on his brow. “Do you really have to leave?” 

Harry’s eyes twitched downwards, glancing away from Tom, and he whispered, “Yeah. I’m sorry, I can’t even promise to return.”

“It’s fine,” Tom lifted his hand up onto Harry’s hair and brushed the strands out of his face. “It’s better you don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Harry stepped closer to Tom, laid his head to his chest and wrapped his hands around Tom’s waist. “I really want to stay here, with you. At Hogwarts. Study for NEWTs and all that,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid to admit it, and laughed wryly. “It’s not some elaborate way to get away from NEWTs, I promise.”

“I know,” Tom pulled him closer, and pressed butterfly kisses onto his hair. “I’ll miss you, Harry.”

“Even if I would’ve come to you all year, asking you to do my homework for me?” The fabric of Tom's robes muffled Harry's laugh, and Tom could feel the trembling of Harry's shoulders beneath his hands, those that Harry was trying so hard to hide. 

He pressed more kisses to Harry’s hair, and then looked out into the darkness of the room. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Even then.”

Chapter Text

The first few weeks without Tom were long. 

Of course, Harry had expected that—expected that they’d feel even longer than the other summer holidays in the years before. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the excruciating hours where he just laid there, in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with the notebook pressed to his chest and Tom’s name on his lips. 

Past him would be absolutely horrified. 

But he’d expected it would get better with time. The first days were to be the worst, and he had guessed that the longing, the longing would subside eventually. That he’d get used to being alone again. But even weeks later, when he was supposed to feel better, he still woke up with the image of Tom in his head, the taste of tea on his tongue, and tingling skin.

He supposed dreaming about Tom didn’t help in his case.

It got better when he arrived at the Burrow. Where he had his friends that talked to him, played quiet games with him, and distracted him when he was thinking about Tom. But the panging hole stayed there, persisting through the wedding ceremonies and afterwards, in the vast streets of London. 

He attended the wedding, of course. He took the notebook with him, clutched it in his hand as he entered the big tent and made his way through the crowds. Flipping through it helped sometimes, even if there were very little conversations between him and Tom captured on its pages.

He’d stored a picture in it too, one that he and Tom had taken on the last day of school. He’d asked Harry to bring paper from his timeline, specifically for this, and so they’d shot two photographs, one for each of them, on a camera that Tom had once again borrowed from Abraxas. Harry still wasn’t sure if he should pity him or not, being a Death Eater and all that.

He looked at it then, sitting on a chair wedged in the far corner of the wedding. There were people talking all around him, music echoing through the tent from no clear source, and bodies moving on the big dance floor in the middle. The last time he’d seen Hermione and Ron had been at the very beginning of the celebration, before he’d snuck off into his corner. 

Luckily, very few people had tried talking to him so far, and so he had all the time to stay in the corner, alone with his notebook.

The photograph was small, fitting right into his palm, and Harry softly trailed his hand over it as he tried to block out the noise of the people around him. The camera hadn’t captured the colours—of course, as old as it was—but Harry didn’t mind. He could picture the colours of their uniforms well anyway, and nothing could ever stop him from remembering the exact shade of Tom's brown eyes and hair. 

Neither of them had had any ideas on how to pose—being the first picture they’d taken in their lives—and both of them had had very different approaches for that problem. Tom’s had been to sit there as rigidly as possible, staring straight into the camera, and Harry’s had been to take Tom's hand and look at him with a cheeky grin on his face.

Tom had chided him for it afterwards, of course, but Harry had seen the blissful looks he’d snuck at it, so he’d done the same thing again for Tom’s photograph.

Carefully, Harry tucked the picture back away into the first page of his notebook, and looked out into the tent. There were so many people around him, laughing and dancing contently, and Harry could almost forget that they were in the middle of a war, and that Tom was somewhere far, far away, somewhere where not even the magic of their notebooks could reach him.

Sighing, Harry pulled his legs up on the chair and leaned his head down onto his knees as he looked out into the crowd, hair falling into his face. 

If Tom was here right now, he wouldn’t be sitting around so miserably in the far-away edge of the tent. Or, well, perhaps they would do it together instead. Maybe they would sit there at the corner of the tent, talking quietly and making up other' people’s strange conversations. Tom would be good at that. Smiling slightly, Harry tilted his head to his knees. Maybe Harry could even convince Tom to follow him to the middle of the tent—to get himself something to eat, perhaps, and Tom would come with him, complaining loudly, but he would. 

They’d hold hands too, of course, and Harry would try to balance the full plate with one hand through the crowd until Tom reminded him to use a spell instead, and then his full plate could join Tom’s floating behind them in the air. Tom would go ahead, because he was better at pushing through the crowd, and then maybe Harry could stay close behind him and hope that Tom's glare would discourage people from talking with him.

Harry wrapped his arms tightly around his knees and tried to burn away the image of Tom’s hand in his.

He could also imagine that Tom would ask Harry for a dance. That would be a very Tom-like thing to do, Harry thought, if only it was to see Harry blush at the memory of the day they’d first kissed. And Harry would whine, of course, because dancing in front of that whole crowd was too embarrassing. But he’d give in after a while, because it’s Tom, and perhaps dancing with him wouldn’t be too terrible after all. 

Harry’s smile was long gone when he pressed his face into the fabric of his knees and squeezed his eyes close, the laughter of the people ringing in his ears. 

Later, when the Death Eaters attacked the wedding tent, and Hermione ported them away to the cold streets of London, he wished he’d savoured it for a while longer.

Nothing could’ve prepared him for the following year.

He’d gotten too used to how the worn cobblestone tiles felt beneath his shoes, where now only dirt and pebbles sat, had gotten too used to having deserted, dark corridors to escape to when everything became too much. But that wasn’t possible now, in the wide, empty fields or forests around them, their space caged in by Hermione’s protection spells. 

They all tried their best, of course, to make the tent as comfortable as they could, but no amount of extension charms, books, pots, or carpets could ever replace the soft, ever-present feeling of ancient magic that was woven into the air at Hogwarts.

So just like that, the vast, empty sky replaced the familiar arches of Hogwarts’ halls, and it was just the three of them, alone, the presence of Tom’s notebook sitting hidden in Harry’s bag.

That didn’t stop the longing, of course, but Harry had stopped believing that after the first few months. On the contrary, he was pretty sure that it only grew stronger with every day he spent without Tom, with every step he took without Tom leading the way, and with every time he fell asleep without Tom lying beside him. There was something so terribly lonely about waking up in the middle of the night, in complete darkness, accompanied only by the vague memory of peacefully falling asleep on Tom’s shoulder.

Though, seeing Hermione and Ron together hurt even more, even if he felt terrible about it. It reminded him of sparse days he’d spent with Tom in the Room of Requirement, the few last ones they’d had before the summer holidays—it reminded him of kissing Tom after their duels, or holding his hand tight as they walked through the room, or sitting shoulder to shoulder and experimenting on the notebook, trying to find some sort of loophole through time. 

Ron left soon after that, but the reminders didn’t go with him. They stayed there, in Hermione’s sorrowful looks that reminded Harry too much of his own, or when he caught her fiddling absentmindedly with Ron’s favourite chessboard that she’d taken with him on the run. It was comforting and terrible at the same time, the way they both went through the same misery simultaneously. 

Of course, some days were better, and some were worse. 

There were days when it barely ached, where he really didn’t mind to be on the run together with Hermione, where they spent the whole day wandering around the premises of Hermione’s newest hideout, bickering on and on about new plans, further possibilities of Horcruxes, and improbable manoeuvres Voldemort would make in the future. 

Sometimes, he and Hermione built a small fire just outside their tent and the smoke hidden away with magic, and they just sat before it and talked about nothing at all. Never the future, mind you, but rather the past. Days spent inside Hogwarts, of Quidditch matches, interesting bits Hermione had read in books, or summer nights at the Burrow. Those were the good days, where he almost forgot about the independent doom of war and the ache that reminded him of Tom eased up.

But there were also the bad ones. Days that stretched into weeks, where nothing happened and the thought of further plans sickened him to think about. Days where he felt like all he was doing all day was to stare into the sky, where he was painfully reminded of all the suffering that was happening in the wizarding world right then, at Hogwarts and at the empty Diagon Alley street, where people were cowering inside their houses in fear of the Death Eaters. And he could do absolutely nothing about it.

Then, he mostly talked to Tom.

‘It’s not working,’ Harry wrote hastily into the notebook that laid on the ground next to him. ‘Are you sure it’s the right hand movement?’

A few moments later, words appeared on the page, and Harry squinted down at them. ‘I copied the description written in the book letter by letter.”

‘Maybe I’m not doing it right,’ Harry wrote, standing back up next to the notebook with a sigh. He tried the spell again, whispering the incantation under his breath and flicking his hand in the air. But nothing happened.

Sighing again, he looked back down to where the notebook was leaned onto a tree, but Tom hadn’t written anything more into it. Harry guessed he’d gone and reread the passage in the book. He turned his wand absentmindedly in his hand as he sat down on the ground and leaned his back against the tree.

Those last few months, Tom had been helping him out as best as he could, trying to teach him all sorts of spells through the notebook. Most of them were ones he’d found in the library, random ones he thought would be helpful on the run, but there were also those they learned during class, all under the guise of helping him survive.

But secretly, Harry guessed he actually tried to prepare him for his return to Hogwarts. A bit unnecessary, Harry thought, considering he wasn’t even sure if he would survive this year.

He picked up the notebook and placed it in his lap, looking down at the empty spot beneath his own scrawly handwriting.

It just wasn’t the same, talking to Tom over the notebook. Even the teaching, a normally fun part of their duels, was just plain frustrating right now. He missed Tom’s objections from his side, or the way his hand sometimes settled on Harry’s when he kept messing up the wand movements.

But mostly, he just missed having Tom by his side.

Green ink on the paper interrupted his thoughts, and Harry looked down, not to see the familiar handwriting appear, but rather drawings. He frowned and picked the notebook up to look at it more closely. His eyes followed the ink as images spread over the paper, and he’d already had his pen in his hand to put a few question marks next to them, when he realised they were supposed to be instructions for his wand movements. ‘I tried to copy them from the book,’ Tom added.

‘Your drawing skills are lousy, Tom,’ he answered with a tiny smile on his face. ‘Thanks.’

Groaning just slightly, Harry pushed himself back up from the ground, and tried the spell again. It was one of those that Tom had picked from Hogwarts curriculum, or so he’d said. He glanced down at the paper again to look at Tom’s drawings while slowly moving through the wand movements with his arm. Nodding to himself, he squared his feet on the lawn and tried again, this time with the proper incantation. 

The chirping of the birds was loud in his ears as he stood there, waiting for something to happen, when suddenly, the ground beneath his feet started shaking just slightly.

With a huge grin on his face, Harry supported himself with one arm on the trunk as the trembling continued for just a few more moments, the barren branches above his head rustling. Then, as soon as it faded out, Harry collapsed back down onto the ground next to his notebook and snatched up the pen.

‘It worked!!’

Tom’s dry response came almost immediately. ‘My congratulations.’

Smiling, Harry added, ‘The shaking wasn’t as strong as you described, though. Maybe that changes with training?’

‘Perhaps. Be sure to try it a few more times.’

Harry set his pen onto the pen again to write a ‘Will do!’ when he heard Hermione’s voice in the distance, calling for him. He looked up from the notebook and saw her stepping out of their tent and waving at him, before glancing back down and scrawling ‘Sorry, need to go, talk to you later.’

He stood back up from the ground, and walked down to the tent with the notebook still open in his hands, and added a shaky heart next to his message before closing the book and entering the tent. 

Inside, Hermione was just setting two sets of steamy plates onto their small table, and he sat down before it, and began eating.

“Thanks for the food.”

Hermione didn’t look up from her plate. “It’s fine. Remember, it's your turn tomorrow. No time to run off to do whatever you did right now.”

He smiled. “I’ll remember. Thanks.”

They continued eating in silence, spoons scraping against the plate and its steam fogging his glasses. He really liked the tent Hermione had taken with them, with the bright, cosy light bulbs dangling above their heads and their own little quarters to sleep in.

Despite its big size, it seemed to him as if it was their own little hideout, away from the rest of the world. The wide open landscape outside the entrance to their tent only reinforced this impression.

He’d grown used to it, slowly but surely, in the last few months. 

Got used to days spent either walking or plotting, or to both of their shitty meals that gradually improved over time. Got used to the long, tired mornings where every moment was spent in cold, lonely darkness until either Hermione or him managed to turn on the lamp—Hermione didn’t believe in sleeping in late, and Harry guessed neither did he. It helped to have a structure in his day, because even if the whole world fell onto their heads, they’d still wake up at the same time as the Hogwarts students.

It helped him to feel connected to them, to Hogwarts, somehow.

He sighed and ran a hand across his face before taking another bite. Hermione noticed it.

“What is it?”

Harry glared down at his plate, unable to turn his gaze at her because he knew his anger wasn’t aimed at her, but rather anything but her: The Wizarding World, Voldemort, Snape, and the whole lot of them. But not Hermione. Never her. “Besides the usual?” he mumbled eventually.

She didn’t let herself be deterred by his snappy tone. “Yes. Besides the usual.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a quiet sigh. She was so good at calming his anger, his frustration, and even his sadness, even if he never showed it. He guessed she’d learned that over time. “Then I’ve got nothing. It’s really just the usual.”

She hummed. “Then tell me about ‘the usual’.”

Slowly, Harry took another bite, deciding to force through the panic that rose up at that. He’d never been particularly good at talking about his feelings—and for the most part, Hermione and Ron had left it at that. Probably because they were no better themselves, if he thought about it. Most of the time, they’d understand his dodging answers, his roundabout way of telling them that ‘Yes, I will be fine’ even if they didn’t particularly think it was the truth. 

“I’d rather not,” he answered, hoping that it would be enough.

If he was honest, even thinking about telling her was like ripping up the wound anew. It had scabbed over slowly but surely in the last couple of months, soothed by the calm presence of Tom’s notebook.

Sure, sometimes it ached for days or even weeks, aching with the thought of steaming cups of tea, lopsided smiles and the warm, soft feeling of Tom’s hand in his and all the memories that came with it. Of truth-vows, duels, and dances.

Home. 

“Harry,” Hermione spoke up eventually, and his eyes snapped up to meet hers. “I know you miss him.”

‘Him’ being, of course, Harry’s mysterious boyfriend, the one Hermione never met but had deduced her own story of. Deduced by heartbroken, frustrated looks on his face after the creation of Tom’s Horcrux, watching from afar as those looks turned from sadness to anger to ones of relief and immense happiness as he and Tom made up. 

“And, in truth, I haven’t got the slightest idea how to help you with that.”

He glanced away. “It’s fine. You’ve got your own load to carry. Don’t worry about me.”

Her exasperated smile was audible even in her voice. “But I’m your friend, aren’t I? And I thought by now you knew better than to think I wouldn’t worry.”

“Worry, maybe,” he grumbled, hand on his spoon clenched, “But there’s nothing you can do to help. Not with this.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, if you’d let me,” she replied, and Harry heard her take another bite. When she continued, it was with a soft voice. “I’m not… I just want to know a bit more about you, Harry. About him. Try, please?”

He fidgeted and finally glanced up to meet her eyes. She looked so gentle and hopeful that Harry found himself giving in. “I mean…” he hesitated, “What would you even want to hear?”

“What’s he like, for example?” she asked and broke their eye contact to grab for her tarnished glass and take a sip. “You never told me much about him.”

Harry’s eyes flickered from his empty plate to the flickering bulb above their heads, as if searching for some kind of release, before eventually settling back on Hermione’s face. Slowly, he began forcing the words out. “He’s tall, but not as tall as Ron. He’s got nice black hair, with a hairstyle that he’s very peculiar about, but if I’m honest, I like it most when it’s tangled up and falling into his eyes.” 

Harry glances away, around the tent, picturing the way Tom’s messy hair after their duels, or at the end of a long evening, sprawled around in their lounge.

“He’s sort of interested in Herbology,” He continues mindlessly, feeling himself beginning to smile, “And very embarrassed about it. I don’t think anyone except me knows about it, and that’s not because he’s told me. I only know because I’ve seen the books he leaves lying around.

“He’s got a horrible personality, really. We duel sometimes, you know, just for the fun of it and because we both like defence. But Tom can be a really sore loser, and he really doesn’t know when to give up sometimes.” Harry laughed quietly to himself. “We’re sort of similar in that way. I mean, where would I be if not for my will to win?”

There, he glanced over at Hermione, who was just looking at him with a soft little smile on her face. Whispering, as if scared that the words might scare him off, she said, “Tom, huh?”

Flinching slightly, Harry looked away again, eyes fixated on the dark red rug in the far corner of their tent. “Yeah,” he breathed, and tried to stop his hands from fidgeting.

“Tell me more,” she prompted. “What’s his favourite subject?”

Hesitating just slightly, Harry continued, “If he was here now, instead of me, he’d say that all subjects are of the same importance,” he lowered his voice a bit and tried to imitate Tom’s way of speaking, giggling quietly to himself. “But it’s Defence, really. He’s marvellous at it, Hermione. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say he’s holding back during our duels. That’s just how good he is.

“We both know that my strong points are my reflexes,” he continued, and shot Hermione a quick look. She nodded. “I’m quick on my feet, that’s what he’d always say. And it's true, of course, but he’s just as quick. And so much better at technique, Hermione. He’s really got the willpower to practise spells for hours at a time, I’ve seen him do it.”

She gives him an odd look. “You could do that too.”

“Yeah, but you know how easily frustrated I get.” He smiled. “And anyway, it’s not just that. It’s also how he handles himself during duels. Tom thinks very logical, you see, and although he can get hot headed at times, and caught up in a battle, it never lasts.”

“I see,” Hermione says, and slowly a grin starts to form on her face. “See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

He blinks once, twice, and pulls a face. “Oh, shut up.” She starts laughing at that, and Harry has to turn his face away to hide the wide smile creeping on his face.

There, suddenly, the loneliness seems a bit lighter.

They go to sleep not long after that, the dangling, bright lightbulb above their heads extinguished, and Harry falls asleep with Tom’s notebooks on top of his chest and a small smile on his face.

Eventually, Ron came back, entering their lives alongside a couple of other events that took the shape of the Sword of Gryffindor and a possibility of getting to Bellatrix’ vault and the Horcrux inside it. Everything moved very quickly after that, and before Harry knew it, he found himself at Hogsmeade, in the house of Dumbledore's brother, with a passage to Hogwarts opening up in front of his eyes.

But it was only after they stepped out of it and into the Room of Requirement that Harry fully realised he was home. 

Chapter Text

Harry rushed down the stairs from the Ravenclaw Tower, feeling his feet hitting the stairs too hard and his hand on the railing burn. But he didn’t pay attention to it, nor the cold wind coming in from broken windows or the bruises forming beneath his clothes. His mind was far occupied with the story he’d just heard from the ghost on top of the tower.

Because half-way through her speech, he realised something that turned the entire hunt for the Horcrux for his side: he finally figured out why the Horcrux looked so familiar to him and why he'd recognized it right away when he first saw it.

And exactly where it was tucked away.

He nearly slipped on a piece of broken glass laying on the stair, before catching himself hastily on the railing and continued down at a neck-breaking speed. The sounds of the battle grew louder and louder in his ears as he scampered down the last couple of steps. 

As he continued through the corridors towards the heart of Hogwarts, however, there was something more on his mind.

Harry knew intimately that very few people remembered Tom. Even in this ancient castle that still recalled the names of students from centuries long since passed, the name of young Voldemort seemed to be long forgotten by most. 

There were very few that remembered Tom Riddle, and even less that spoke of him.

So it had been a bit of a surprise for him to hear his name from the Ghost’s lips, even though it shouldn’t have been. He’d asked a centuries old ghost about Voldemort, after all. But still, something inside him had been shaken.

Harry didn’t like to be reminded of the Tom Riddle of this timeline, the one born from hostility, distrust, and heart-wrenching fear. He despised the fact that this was how everyone remembered Tom, when Harry knew he was capable of so much more. Now that he knew how Tom could be—brass, harsh, and a little cruel, but nonetheless gentle and honest—it was hard to be reminded that he was the only one to ever bear witness to that side of him.

He shook his head silently and turned his focus on the way his steps echoed through the empty corridor. The sounds of the battle, with all its cries and explosions, were hard to block out—ringing through the thick walls of Hogwarts and its broken stones. 

The castle seemed so weak now, in the midst of battle, and Harry was unsure if that was a good thing. 

When Harry arrived at the Grand Staircase, it was flooded with people, with paintings hurriedly switching from frame to frame to escape the battle, and staircases moving at random, dragging the panicked students on them along. Harry struggled to find his way over to the seventh floor through the chaos.

Luckily, in its midst, he found Hermione and Ron.

He called their names seconds before he grabbed their hands at once and dragged them down the stairs, then away from the crowd and towards the Room of Requirement.

"I found out where the diadem is," he said in an urgent tone as he hurried down the corridor, his eyes darting around wildly as they approached the entrance. He would not fall for yet another trap here. Not again.

“That’s great, Harry,” Hermione said, and gently tugged her hand free from his grip. “We’ve gotten the Basilisk Fangs from the chamber, like we discussed. It’s stored in my bag.”

He briefly glanced back at her and the brown bag swinging at her side. The words of relief, grief, or encouragement got stuck in his throat, unable to find their way out through his lips, and so Harry just nodded and tugged them both down the corridor. He let their hands go just right before the far-end wall, wordlessly pacing three times in front of the far end wall and watching the door appear before his eyes.

When Harry entered the room at a fast pace, he was going in front, determined to lead the way and get back to the battle as soon as possible. But after the first few steps, his feet faltered, slowing down gradually until he stood there in the midst of the room, looking out into it and hearing his friends stop behind him.

“Harry?”

Everything was just like he remembered: The sight of the familiar shelves, pantries, pianos and general mountains of things and stacked up books were almost too familiar to handle, with all the memories tied intimately together with them. If the thought of speaking had been too much before, it had become unbearable now, with everything hitting him at once, with every detail of the room catching up with him like a ghost from the past. To Harry, who had spent almost a whole year away from Hogwarts, away from its familiar sights and smells, it seemed like those memories almost belonged to a different person, a different life. 

And oh, the smell.

It was the smell of parchment pressed tightly together, the one of books opened up for the first time in centuries, together with the scent of dried, old wood and dust. And somewhere in all that, Harry seemed to imagine the scent of freshly brewed tea, the one Tom liked the most.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Do you have any idea where the diadem might be?”

He snapped around, flinching slightly, and looked over at Hermione and Ron. After staring at them for a few long seconds, to remind himself that this was real, he pinched the fabric of his jeans and grasped for the notebook. “I know exactly where it is,” he muttered quietly, and opened the notebook without a word more, turning away.

Trudging ahead in a determined pace, he scribbled an ‘i’m here’ into the book, trusting Tom’s ability to read the shaky words, and closed it again.

Even if he wasn’t here, in this room, it felt wrong to step into it without letting Tom know.

With Hermione and Ron following close behind him, he walked down the path he’d taken almost every day the year before, down towards the mirror. Because, as he’d realised before, that was exactly where the diadem was located.

There had been many pieces of jewellery in this room, almost too many to count, so the beautiful tiara Harry had spotted on the very first day he’d stepped into this room had only been one of many, easily forgotten.

And he would have, had he not seen it again so often since then. 

He stopped before it now, his eyes falling down on the stiff-looking velvet cushion it was lying upon. Its dark, embedded crystals glimmered in the dim light of the room, and if Harry concentrated really hard, he could still feel the soft whispers coming from it, sinking into the cushion and the air.

On that first day, he had thought it was nothing more than a spell, perhaps even a trap from Malfoy, but now he knew better. Almost hesitantly, he picked it from its velvet cushion, the stones glinting angrily, and felt the whispers sinking into the skin of his fingers. It tingled and buzzed under his skin, making goosebumps prickle his fingertips and run down the back of his hand, across his arm, and right down his spine.

He’d never felt the traces of Voldemort's soul so clearly before, not even the piece of Tom’s soul stuck in the ring, the one he’d seen in the past. Perhaps it was the room, or perhaps Harry just sensed them more clearly now that he’d destroyed so many of them. He didn’t particularly care either way.

Fingers shaking slightly, Harry laid onto the hard stone floor, and turned around to Hermione, meeting her eyes. “Hand me the Basilisk fang, please.”

Nodding, she pulled her bag to the front and rummaged through it before fishing the fang out and laying it in his hand. Harry met her eyes when he pulled it close, before kneeling down in front of the diadem and stretching the fang high above his head. The white bone, tinted with dark dried blood, contrasted starkly with his tense, white knuckles and the glinting blue jewels. The colours blurred together in the corner of his eyes as he brought the fang down onto the diadem without hesitation, his other hand holding it in place.

But then the yellow light of a spell hit him too fast to react, his vision was filled with its colour as the fang flew from his grip and into the air. Harry heard it hitting the floor and curling across it as he turned his head to look in the direction of the spell.

Standing there, with his wand stretched out proudly in front of his body and blonde straight hair swept back, was Malfoy. Of course, it was Malfoy.

Harry rose from the floor, drew his wand, and met his gleeful stare with a glare. Then, in the far corner of his eye, he saw Hermione starting to shuffle toward the fang, but he just shook his head lightly. “Leave it,” he whispered, gaze not leaving Malfoy. “I’ve got to deal with him first.” Only there, he quickly glanced over at Hermione and Ron and met their eyes. “Don’t let him get the Diadem.”

Then, seeing them nod, he began to look back at Malfoy, and stepped forward. There, making his way through the maze of objects around him with a clear opponent standing before him, he felt more at ease than he had in months. 

This room was his home, more than the castle, the Burrow, or his and Hermione’s tent. He wouldn’t be defeated so easily here.

“You’ve come to be beaten again, Malfoy?” he called out as he approached, steps slowing until he stood facing Malfoy. “I hope you remember how our fight in here ended up for you, wandless and on the ground,” he continued, voice unwavering, “I know you’ve always had a tendency to forget the lessons others taught you.”

Malfoy finally caught his breath back from running to them and squared his jaw. “Tch, don’t think so highly of yourself, Potter. You taught me nothing.”

“A pity,” Harry said, and even though it wasn’t audible in his tone, he meant it. Then, with his hand cutting through the air, he cast a spell at the bookshelf standing behind Malfoy.

It was a tumbling spell, one of the many Tom had taught him. With a small, proud smile, Harry watched as books and shelves tumbled out of their frames and down upon Malfoy, who looked away from Harry to try to dodge them. At once, Harry sprinted forward and pushed Malfoy to the floor, similar to the way he’d done all those months earlier. 

Unlike then, however, Malfoy was no longer so easily defeated, and before Harry could reach for Malfoy's wand, he had already escaped Harry’s grip and conjured small, pointy arrows that shot rapidly from his wand. 

Thanks to his quick reflexes, Harry was able to jump away from Malfoy and avoid most of the arrows. Even so, one nicked his cheek, and his skin burned as he brought some distance between him and Malfoy, watching as the last couple of arrows spilled from Malfoy's wand and toppled to the floor.

He felt a trickle of blood run down his face and was just about to brush it away when he heard loud, pounding footsteps approaching. A split second later, Parkinson and Zabini came barging from behind a big grandfather-clock, and rushed forward to help Malfoy up from the floor. 

Wide-eyed, Harry cursed and ducked behind a potion cabinet to get back to Hermione and Ron safely. Behind rows of bookshelves, he watched as Malfoy, ever the proud git, pushed their helping hands away, and stood up by himself, grimacing. 

His friends crowded behind him, their wand stretched out even higher and more proudly than Malfoy’s, a difficult thing to achieve. 

“Listen,” Harry said as soon as he’d reached Hermione and Ron, glancing back and watching as Malfoy brushed off his clothes and talking to Parkinson and Zabini in inaudible words. Then, letting out a nervous, quiet sigh, he eyed the distance between him, Malfoy, the diadem, and the fang lying far away on the ground. “They’ll get here in a moment,” he said, softly, “and we don’t have enough time to destroy the Horcrux, especially if it's like the locket one and would fight back.”

“What if we run away with it?” Ron suggested.

Harry shook his head. “We’d have to deal with them, eventually. If we go hide, they’d just wait at the entrance. Malfoy knows as well as I do that it’s the only way out.” He glanced back at Malfoy, just in time to see quick wand movements and pull Ron and Hermione behind a cabinet. Spells slammed against the wood as he continued talking, “That’s our backup-plan, okay?”

They both nodded, and Harry hesitated a moment, before casting a Protego around them, and spoke up.

“I thought I’d be able to deal with him alone,” Harry admitted, and anxiously ran a hand through his hair. The wound on his cheek still burned. “I’m sorry I wasted that chance. We’d have been able to defeat him together. Definitely , not just possibly.”

“It was a bit stupid,” Hermione said, ignoring the spells that crashed against Harry’s Protego . "But we can talk about that later. Right now, we should concentrate on defeating them and getting out of here."

“About that,” Ron chimed in. “I want to fight Parkinson, if that’s okay with everyone.”

Harry gave a surprised laugh. “Sure. Hermione, if you’d please take Zabini, then I’ll go get the diadem…” He glanced out from behind his Protego to look at Malfoy’s big, furious eyes. “...and take care of Malfoy.”

Then, after seeing them nod just slightly, he smiled and jumped out from behind the wooden cabinet, the Protego dissolving behind them, and ran in the direction of the diadem, spells crashing in the floor behind him. 

As he grabbed it from the floor, his feet not stopping their movements for a single second, he heard as Hermione and Ron joined the fight with loud steps and cries of spells, successfully occupying both Zabini and Parkinson. There, he glanced back at Malfoy for a quick moment, seeing him stand there in the midst of the colourful chaos of spells, and, with a taunting smile on his face, Harry ducked away out of sight. 

The diadem burned in his hands, so he absentmindedly put it away, looping it through his belt and pulling his shirt on top to hide it. It did little to stop the furious tingles on Harry’s skin, even through the fabric of his jeans, but it should be good enough to let him fight without distractions. Then, taking a few forceful deep breaths as he ran, Harry glanced out from behind a bookshelf and shot a disarming spell at Malfoy. It didn’t hit, but instead Malfoy’s spell came back seconds later, crashing into the old, dusty books arranged on the shelf.

The books went flying into the air, dust swirling up into the air as Harry ducked to the ground to dodge yet another spell, and cast a small Protego on the rest of the bookshelf.

“Stop hiding like a little rat, Potter,” Malfoy called, and a heavy spell crashed into Harry’s Protego , making it burst. He rolled away from it before another curse hit him. Feeling a little dazed, Harry stood up from the floor and started running again.

“No, thanks,” Harry yelled and took a sharp turn. By now, he’d made a half-circle around the group, and had reached the spot where his friends were fighting against Parkinson and Zabini, dodging stray spells from them. 

Harry cast yet another hex from behind a shelf, sprinting away from the spot and giggling as it came flying at Malfoy from seemingly nowhere. There, that seemed to be the last straw for Malfoy, and Harry had just enough time to before a forceful burst of wind crashed into him and all the objects around, pushing them away and successfully destroying every chance of cover he’d had.

He cursed, but nonetheless moved forward. That had been a powerful spell, yes, but it also meant that Malfoy was exhausted for the next few moments. So Harry sprinted forward into the battle. Lips pressed tightly together, Harry ducked out of the way of one of Pansy’s hex, the floor scorching where it hit it. He heard her cackling as he ran and cast a spell on the ground beneath Malfoy. There, from the spot where the spell had hit, roots started shooting out and climbing up to Malfoy.

But before Harry could reach him and take his wand, a trail of fire snuck past him, burning the roots down with careful precision until nothing remained of them but ash. Harry looked back to see Zabini shoot him the smallest of smirks, smugness openly visible on his face, before glancing away to protect himself from one of Hermione’s spells. 

Malfoy had caught himself now, his clothes unharmed by the fire, and he was casting spell after spell, and Harry deflected each of them. He was soon out of breath, still worn out from the battles earlier in the day. His bruises were bothering him, aching slightly when he moved, but he tried to ignore them as best as possible. The smell of smoke, ash, and burned floor filled the air, making it heavy and hard to breathe.

There, Harry suddenly felt very anxious for the fight to end. Voldemort was somewhere out there past the castle, and there was still one other Horcux left to destroy, not counting the diadem that stung relentlessly at Harry’s skin. But still, Harry was stuck here, fighting against stupid, irrelevant Malfoy, while his friends could be dying outside this room, and he wasn’t doing anything about it. He wouldn’t even know .

Harry suddenly shot a spell at the floor and came to a halt for the first time in minutes to concentrate on the curse. It caused a powerful quake that swept across the floor, knocking Malfoy and Zabini to the ground. Only Parkinson and his friends were the ones left standing—she was standing a bit further away, out of Harry’s reach. There, in the brief moment of distraction the quake gave him, Harry rushed forward, ready to cast the finishing blow.

Malfoy was faster than him. He'd caught himself quickly, only losing a brief moment to the quake before he cast a spell directly at Harry from his prone position. It hit Harry very unexpectedly, right into his chest, and the force of it hurled him backwards, and his shoulder crashed painfully against the floor.

“Harry!” Hermione’s cry rang in his ears, and Harry could do nothing but watch as Zabini trapped her, conjuring up walls of fire that spread in a circle around her, effectively cutting her off from everyone else. Ron tried to rush over to Hermione and Harry, but he only made it halfway before Parkinson transformed a nearby coat rack into a rope, slinging it around his legs and flinging him to the ground.

Harry tried to move, tried to scream—if not as a warning, then as a curse—but he couldn’t. Malfoy had hit him with a Body-Bind curse. As Harry lay helpless on the ground, watching his two friends struggle, Malfoy stepped into his view, laughing, and grabbed both the wand and the diadem. He stared down at the items, his laughter turned into a big, unbelieving grin.

“I did it!” He held them in the air and laughed again—breathless, giggling laughter. Then, a few long moments later, he looked back at Harry. “Who’s wandless now, huh, Potter? Who’s the one laying on the floor, at my mercy?”

Harry couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t even move his eyes away from Malfoy’s big smile, all teeth and taunting glee. By now, he felt the heat of Zabini’s fire spreading over to them, slowly creeping over the tiled floor. He wondered if Hermione was alright, if her Protego held out. 

There were plenty of times in his life where Harry had felt helpless, felt powerless. In the graveyard, for example—When he’d watched Cedric die in front of him, unable to move and help him, or when Voldemort resurrected from the cauldron. Or the same night, just hours later, in Moody’s office, when he’d been bound to the chair by Barty Crouch Junior. Harry wondered if Malfoy knew about that. If the most terrible moments of his life were common talk of Death Eaters, if they were something to be amused about. He wondered if Malfoy had chosen the Body-Binding spell on purpose.

Wrapped up deeply in those thoughts, Harry almost missed how Malfoy's eyes flickered up from him, and over to someone standing far behind them. But he certainly didn’t miss Malfoy’s small step back, or the voice that echoed through the room, “Let him go.”

A moment later, the Finite-Incantatem struck Malfoy, and Harry quickly pushed himself up from the floor, craning his head back to see Tom standing there with a fierce grin on his face. He walked forward with quick, easy steps, and swiftly cast an Expelliarmus on Malfoy, making both wands and the diadem fly to his hand. With wide-eyes, Malfoy ran away.

Tom’s steps faltered just slightly as he caught the diadem, only visible to Harry because he was watching him so closely, but he continued on firmly until he stood next to Harry and set a hand on his shoulder. 

“I got your message, darling,” Tom murmured into his ear, and Harry couldn’t help the huge, sappy grin that spread onto his face. At once, Harry turned around and pulled Tom into a hug, burying his head into Tom’s collarbone and taking a deep, relieved breath. Tom’s warm hands wrapped around Harry’s shoulders, and he felt the shape of the wands and the diadem press into his skin. But this time, the stinging, vile magic of the diadem was easy to ignore.

Because Tom smelled like safety. Like home.

Tom conjured a Protego around them, before slowly loosening his arms and gently pushing Harry away. There, handing him back his wand, Tom whispered in a teasing tone, “No time for that now, Harry. We’ve got an audience.”

Hesitantly, Harry stepped back from him. “I know.” But nonetheless, he took a moment to look closely at Tom’s face, at the way his hair curled, at the curve of his eyebrow and the gentle shape of his eyes as he glanced down at Harry. His jaw was more refined than Harry remembered, and his hair was the tiniest bit shorter, but beside that, Tom looked exactly the same. Older, perhaps, but not unfamiliar.

Harry took it all in while spells crashed into Tom’s Protego , but never once did he think that it would break. There, after one last look, he nodded and turned away from Tom. No more words were needed between them as they both stepped out from Tom’s protective shield, and Harry immediately rushed towards Ron, not caring if Parkinson or Zabini would try to stop him. He knew Tom would look out for him.

And true, not a single spell hit him as he slowly transfigured the rope that bound Ron back into a coat rack. Instead, just as Harry helped Ron up from the floor, he heard Parkinson cry out as she got hit by one of Tom’s powerful disarming-spell. Then, he cursed her back with a Body-Bind spell, making her suffer a fate similar to Harry's earlier, falling helpless to the ground. Except she would not be rescued. He left Ron standing there, next to a disarmed and unmoving Parkinson, and moved back over to Tom.

They both rushed at Zabini at the same time from opposite directions, forcing him to quickly leave the fire that had engulfed Hermione to defend himself properly against them. Tom was the one to strike the final blow mere moments after the fight began, making Zabini’s bright green tie tighten precariously until he slumped to the ground, gasping for air. Harry seized the opportunity to rush over to him and knock his wand away.

They stood there both, Harry out of breath and Tom smiling widely, before Harry moved over to check on Hermione. “You got a bit plebeian at the end there, Harry,” he heard Tom call out from behind him, “Physically disarming the poor guy.”

Harry rolled his eyes, crouching down next to Hermione, but also couldn’t help his lips from curving into a small, sappy smile. Hermione appeared fine, coughing from the smoke but otherwise fine, and Harry asked her if she knew any healing spells for that.

She said yes and began casting a bunch of them. Satisfied with that, Harry stood up and walked back over to Tom. There, he looked down at the diadem in Tom’s hands, and cast an Accio on the basilisk fang. At once, it came flying to him, and Harry stretched out his hand as a sign for Tom to hand him the diadem.

Tom eyed it for a moment. “Is that what you used to destroy the Horcruxes?”

“Yeah,” Harry nodded, hand still outstretched. “It’s a basilisk fang, similar to what I’ve used to destroy the diary. The one from my second year.”

Tom forwent Harry’s outstretched hand, instead gently tugging the basilisk fang from his other one. Harry let it go, curious what he was doing, and watched mutely as Tom laid the diadem on the floor, in a similar fashion as Harry had before, and brought the fang down at it.

This time, no spell interrupted him, and Harry’s eyes went wide as a big, furious wave of magic came buzzing out of the diadem, toppling them both to the ground, before it all went quiet.

“You–” Harry wheezed as he pushed himself up from the floor and stared at Tom open-mouthed. He gingerly bent down to touch the diadem, and could no longer feel its dull buzz. “You destroyed it?”

Tom shrugged and handed Harry both the fang and Malfoy’s wand. “You seemed too exhausted to do it properly. Besides, I was curious.”

Instead of replying, Harry stepped forward to him and started hugging him tightly for the second time that day. Tom slung his own arms around his neck, and pulled their chest’s flush, head sinking down to rest on Harry’s shoulder. 

“Thank you for earlier,” Harry breathed against Tom’s chest, his words muffled by the fabric of Tom’s robe. “Your timing was perfect.” There, Harry pulled back to watch Tom closely. “Almost suspiciously so. Did you wait out of sight to watch me fight him?”

“Perhaps,” Tom said, lips curving into a small, surprised smile. “You did well, despite your obvious exhaustion.” The smile changed into a smirk. “We have to work on the timing of your Expelliarmus , though. A faster one would’ve averted my intervention.” The smirk grew bigger. “But I can gladly continue to be your knight in shining armour, if you wish.”

Harry kissed him for that, right on that annoying smirk, and hooked his hands over his neck to pull him closer.

Merlin, how he’d missed that smirk.

Tom’s hands wrapped tightly around the back of his head, pulling him closer, and a hand brushed through his hair, gently and lovingly, as if that was Tom’s way of saying that he’d missed him. 

Harry smiled against his lips, and only pulled back when he heard shuffling, awkward steps behind him. After he put one last, chaste kiss to Tom’s lips, and turned back around to Hermione and Ron with a sheepish grin on his face. “I think it’s time for introductions?” 

Hermione just shook her head with a soft look in her eyes, and said, “You must be Tom. Harry’s told me so much about you.”

There, Tom put on his most charming smile. Harry had half a mind to roll his eyes at him. “And you, Hermione.” He took a few steps forward and stretched out his hand. “Tom Riddle. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Hermione's hand hung in the air for a few long moments, their fingertips just barely not touching, before her face fell and she shuffled back, wide-eyed and eyebrows raised, her hand falling limply to her side. 

"What–" she began, pushing her valuable bag out of the way and reaching for her wand. Harry rushed forward and stopped her, finally realising what was going on. 

“Hermione, stop. It’s not– He’s not who you think he is, I promise.” When he drew her hand into his, it shook slightly, and Harry gripped it tight. “He’s not Voldemort.” 

At the mention of Voldemort, Ron had pulled out his wand and was glancing between him and Tom with a puzzled but resolute look. “What? Who the hell is he, then?"

“I can explain,” Harry promised, letting go of her hand, “But only if you put your wand away.” He looked back at Tom and gave him a warning look, but Tom just shrugged. With a heavy sigh, Harry returned his gaze to Hermione and murmured,"We really don't have time for this."

"You tell me," Tom said quietly behind him, his hand resting on Harry's shoulder. "That Malfoy boy has to be around here somewhere."

"This is your fault, Tom, you don’t get to complain," Harry said quietly as he started leading the other two to the room's entrance. "If you hadn't told her your full name–”

Hermione cut in, "I would've found out regardless," Her chin was pushed up and she held her shoulders high, but Harry could see the tremors shaking through her body, recoiling slightly. It was something that had stuck with her since the Malfoy Manor, presenting in the most stressful and inconvenient moments.

"No, you wouldn't have," Tom replied, oblivious to how much that could upset her. Or, even if he did know, Harry knew he wouldn’t care. “If Harry hadn’t forgotten to tell me you would recognize my name, I wouldn’t have made that mistake. According to him, everyone only knows me by Voldemort.”

Harry rolled his eyes at him. “Remember the Diary? Of course they’d recognize your name.” There, he paused, looking around the room. He could’ve sworn he’d just heard a noise, but no one else seemed to have noticed. Shaking his head, he continued, "By the way, it doesn't help if you tell them you're Voldemort."

Tom chuckled, “What, did you want to tell them that I was a distant relative of his, with the exact same name? That would just be plainly foolish.”

“We can hear you, by the way,” Ron called, frustration clear in his voice, and Harry saw Tom smile. He shot him another warning look. 

“Basically,” Harry started, hoping to cut it all close with a single, short explanation. “I found a way to travel back into the 1950s, met Tom. He can’t leave this room, and I can’t leave the one in the past. Well, more like an alternate timeline, but that's something we’ll definitely have to talk about later. Point is, there I met Tom and we became friends.”

“Well, to be fair, you planned to kill me first–”

Harry cut Tom off, glaring at him. “Still not helping the case.”

Shrugging, Tom retorted, “I’m just adding to your explanation. I wouldn’t exactly classify us as ‘friends’ either, by the way.”

“Boyfriends, then, if it makes you happy.” Harry rolled his eyes and turned back to Hermione and Ron, “Anyway, There you have it. And before you start, you’ve seen him destroy the Horcrux. Voldemort wouldn’t do that, would he?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but Ron spoke first, seemingly torn between glancing at Tom with fearful, wide eyes and casting concerned glances over at Harry. “Well, it could still be a ploy, Harry. Don’t be so sure–”

“How would destroying a part of my soul be a ploy, exactly?” Tom scoffed, and twirled his wand in his hand, “I can see, you’re not…” There, he trailed off, hand stopping its movements. He seemed to be listening to something, or waiting, perhaps, and Harry started glancing around curiously. Suddenly Tom turned around, wand clasped in hand and his eyes darted around hastily. “Harry,” he said, his voice sounding urgent in a way Harry had rarely heard before, and he turned around hastily to face Tom. “Something is happening.”

There, before he could answer, Tom had already taken off, striding quickly into a direction. Harry hastened after him, glancing around nervously. He could hear Hermione and Ron arguing quietly behind them, before following. “Tom,” Harry stared over at him, studying the blank look on his face, and shuddered. “What’s going on?”

“It's magic,” Tom said in a quiet tone. “Something’s happening to the magic. I can feel it change.”

Harry frowned in confusion, but kept close behind Tom even as his steps quickened further, until he almost seemed to be running. 

Then, suddenly, Tom stopped right in his tracks, and turned around to Harry, grabbing his hand. Tom’s eyes were wide. “It’s the Malfoy boy. He’s casting a spell, probably with that other persons’ wand. The one we didn’t take.”

“Zabini’s?” Harry muttered and shook his head. “What would he be–” 

There, a wave of magic hit him, physically tumbling him to the floor. Tom’s hand was the only thing holding him upright, and he heard Hermione and Ron’s scream somewhere behind him. When he caught himself again, and tried to cast a Protego , his wand only shook slightly in his hand. Nothing happened. 

“What?” He looked behind to see Hermione getting up from the floor with a look of utter confusion on her face, probably having tried to do the same thing as Harry. There, Tom suddenly pulled him close, and Harry had only a brief moment to see his brown, wide eyes before Tom wrapped his arms tightly around him and held him close.

“I recognize the spell,” Tom mumbled, voice quivering slightly. “It’s dark. Very dark. It extracts the magic from its surroundings, typically to make wizards unable to cast spells.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “It’s a smart move, even if it leaves the caster unable to cast any other spells in the next hours. I didn’t think that Malfoy boy had it in him.”

“But why…”

Tom set his head onto Harry’s shoulder, nose brushing his skin, before whispering into his ear, “Because this room is made of magic. He thinks he could stop you from using the door, and keep you in here.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll be able to leave it just fine. He’s too far away from the door for that.”

Around them, bookshelves started toppling down, the ground quaking just slightly, and when Harry looked up, the magical lights at the ceiling seemed to flicker. Harry had never seen them flicker before. Hermione and Ron yelled something behind him, shouting questions, exclamations to leave, but all Harry heard were Tom’s whispered words.

“But…” Tom’s voice shook. “I can feel the mirror flicker, in the distance. It’s trying to pull me back, I think, but it’s too weak. It’s not going to hold much longer, I fear.” Harry pulled back hastily, and Tom let him. There, Harry just looked into Tom’s wide, panicked eyes and tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come out. Tom seemed to understand regardless. “It’s not going to survive.”

There, Tom carefully unwrapped his arms from Harry’s shoulders, hand shaking just slightly as he began to gently wipe the blood from Harry’s cheek. Harry had “But.. you can stay here, right? You can’t leave,” Harry said, wide-eyed and voice raspy. “I can’t– Just… Just stay here, with me.” His voice felt quiet, the sound of falling-over bookshelves drowning it out. “We’ll find a way to bring you back to your timeline. Together. But you have to…”

Tom smiled. It was a small, tired smile. “I’ll do my best. Perhaps I’ll be able to protect it,” He said, but Harry wasn’t sure he meant it. He started shaking his head, but Tom was already stepping away from him, lifting his hand away from Harry’s cheek. “But you have to leave now, okay?” There, he looked over Harry’s head at Hermione and Ron. “Take him to the exit. I’ll go deal with the Malfoy brat.”

Hermione made her way over to them, and took his hand to start pulling him back towards the entrance. But Tom was leaving. He wasn’t coming with them, when he had to . He had to stay with him. Harry yanked himself from her grip when Tom began walking away and ran back to him, fingers digging into his clothes and tearing at them. Tears spilled from his eyes, and down his cheek, but Harry paid them no mind. “You can’t leave,” he forced out through his closed-up throat, “Don’t leave me.”

There, Tom’s wand found his temple, and the last thing Harry remembered before everything went dark was the gentle touch of Tom’s finger, brushing away his tears, and whispering, “I love you, Harry.”

The next time Harry awoke, he was outside the Room of Requirement and there was screaming ringing in his ears. He wasn’t sure who it belonged to—all he knew was that the door had fallen close behind him, perhaps for the last time. He’d let it fall close. And then, when he tried to stand up and open it once more, Hermione grabbed his hands and pulled him away.

“Don’t, Harry,” she said softly. “We have to get back to the others.” Harry was too dazed to object, and let himself be dragged away from the Room. From Tom. The screaming grew louder as they walked towards the heart of Hogwarts. Towards the battle.

“But what about Tom?” Harry mumbled, the tiles of the corridors dancing slightly before his eyes. “I’ve got to go and help him.”

Hermione’s hand squeezed his tight. “It’s what he wanted, Harry. And I’m sure he can handle himself, you know.”

At that, Harry giggled breathlessly, “That’s right,” he slurred, and glanced back to the empty wall where the door to the Room stood. “He’d be insulted if he knew I’d try to go back and help him.”

Hermione sent him a tight smile and pulled him along.

The screaming resided stubbornly through the entirety of the battle; When Fred died, George’s cries were the loudest, the ones speaking the most grief, but the screaming came from the other’s too. But when Snape died—slowly and painfully—his groans were quiet and choppy, as if he was keeping them down. For who’s sake, Harry didn’t know. 

The screams accompanied him as he watched Snape’s memories, and they stayed there, in his head, as he sat in Dumbledore’s old office and thought about dying. Then, as he picked himself back up and slowly exited the castle, he heard the cries of the battle echo through Hogwarts’ crumbling halls, and listened as they got quieted.

Then, as he entered the Forbidden Forest, they finally died down, and Harry was left all alone.

His shoulders were slightly damp as he took his first steps into the forest, his Lumos illuminating the path ahead as he walked, hand holding it low. It had drizzled a bit on its way down to hills, but the high, dense branches that were now above his head seemed to catch the rain and swallow it altogether.

The leaves crunched loudly beneath his feet as he walked, but Harry didn’t care. It didn’t matter now, whether Voldemort heard him or not. If Harry got killed now, or a couple minutes later. 

It all didn’t matter anymore.

The forest was quiet besides his footsteps, suspiciously so. Ever since Harry had remembered, the Forbidden Forest had always been so loud, full of strange creatures that you had to look out for when you entered it. He could never have imagined it without the animals, without the howls, owl hoots, and distant noises. But today, the forest was silent.

Funny thing, that the animals would flee the place Harry was going to die in. As if they knew.

He’d almost expected the moon not to be there anymore when he’d stepped outside the castle. But it had been there, peeking out from between scattered clouds, and  its scarce light weakly illuminating the path down the hill. Now it was gone, swallowed by the trees much like the rain was. 

Harry glanced back, as if to look at the castle standing in the distance, but it wasn’t visible anymore—He’d wandered too far into the forest. Shuddering in the cold night air, Harry wrapped his arms around himself, turning back around and promptly staggered over a root. His notebook fell down even as Harry caught himself with one hand on a tree. He fell down hastily onto the ground, leaves sticking to his clothes, and picked it back up. 

With his knees sitting in the dirt and his eyes wide open, he started wiping at it with the sleeve of his robe, worrying that it had gotten wet, somehow. 

But the leaves were dry, and the only thing Harry was brushing away were scraps of dirt. Until it wasn’t. 

Vaguely, he felt tears flow down his cheek, and fall onto the red envelope of the notebook. Tom had put it there, Harry remembered. The cover and the tears sinking into it were barely visible in the darkness of the forest, Harry’s wand laying forgotten on the side, but that didn’t matter to Harry. He’d memorised its exact colour, alongside the little cracks and tears that had formed over the months on the road, as if to spite Tom and the protection spells he’d put onto it.

He cradled the notebook to his chest as he sank down to the dark, damp forest ground, his hair catching on pieces of dirt, branches, and leaves. He wrapped his arms tightly around her as his body wracked with silent sobs., the edges of the notebook pressing painfully into his stomach. But it all didn’t matter, not now, when Harry was about to die.

“I love you, Harry.”

He sobbed, loudly now, gasping for air as leaves impeded his quick, shallow breaths. But that didn’t matter either, now that Harry was never going to see Tom again. He could stop breathing right there, and it wouldn’t change a thing.

He held the notebook tight and thought of its contents—pages upon pages filled with his and Tom’s words of encouragement, longing, and sadness as it was—so brimming full of love that Harry was sure he could never look at it again. It had reached him where Tom’s touch and words couldn’t, the words inside only written down and never spoken aloud. It had stayed with him on lonely, long nights and cold mornings outside the tent, all those nights that Tom had spent wedged inside that little chair inside the future-room. Night’s spent lonely because of Harry. Or rather, for him. 

It was too much, right then, knowing that he’d never do that again.

He sat up, slowly, brushed the tears off his cheek, and thought of the way Tom had done the same thing before. He’d teased Harry about it, afterwards, but not at that moment. No, in the one time where Harry had cried in front of him—the day before summer holidays—Tom had been soft and gentle, kissing the top of his head and holding him close.

Harry remembered it now, the way the rough fabric of Tom’s shirt had rubbed against Harry’s cheek. It had smelled like Tom, he recalled, something that was tangible in the haze of sadness, of panic. There was a comfort in this, as was the feeling of Tom’s head laying on his, or the way that Tom’s fingers had dug into Harry’s shoulders, unbearably tight, as if they wanted to physically stop them from shaking.

It was there, with the memory of Tom’s lips brushing against his forehead, that Harry picked himself up from the floor, wiped the dirt from his hair and put the notebook back into his jacket, continuing walking down further into the forest. To his death.

Harry dropped the invisibility cloak onto the damp forest floor mere minutes after the stone, and soon joined it, dying at the hands of a mangled version of the man he loved.

But the notebook stayed. It laid there with him on the damp forest ground as Harry’s heart stopped beating, as his soul left his body. And when he opened his eyes again, and his heart resumed what should have been its last beat, the notebook was still there with him.

It stayed. And with it, so did the memory of Tom Riddle.

When everything was done and over, Harry returned to the Room of Requirement. 

He left the remnants of the battle behind, left the Great Hall with its dead and wounded and his friends who were grieving there. He left the body of Voldemort behind, too, laying on the damp floor of the courtyard. 

By the time he’d rushed up the stairs to the seventh floor, he was out of breath, and couldn’t remember a time where he had not been. The injuries spread across his body were wide and numerous, hurting him when he walked, and the dried blood on his cheek had long since dried up.

But still, as he entered the room with puffy, loud breaths, his cheek stung as if the wound was fresh, and Harry could almost feel the ghost touch of Tom’s fingers brushing its trail blood away.

The objects blurred before his eyes as Harry made his way down the familiar path to the mirror, steps quick but hesitant at the same time. He passed the velvet cushion one which the diadem had laid, the harp he’d touched all those months ago when he’d first entered the room, and then ducked beneath the arm of the statue of the headless witch. Then, he rounded the corner to the mirror. 

With slow, careful steps, Harry stepped towards it. The sound of his shoes against the floor was oddly loud as he held his breath, stopped before the mirror and brought his hand up to it. But when he put his arm through it, hesitantly and slow, there was no coldness enveloping it. 

His jaw clenched up, his arm swaying and trembling as he pulled it out and tried again. And again. There was no light shining on his fingers as he gripped its frime so tight his knuckles were strained, and the sheet inside seemed paper thin, as if it would break at the slightest touch. With shaky Harry stepped through it, holding his breath and squeezed his eyes shut.

But when he opened them again, nothing had changed. The air was still cold and filled with remnants of smoke from their battle, still smelled like fire and fallen over shelves stacked with dusty books. 

He was still in the same room. 

With quick, hastily steps, Harry stumbled away from the mirror and its thin, ripped sheet, and continued towards the lounge feeling like he was drowning.

There was nothing to say about the things he passed on his way to the lounge—the tears blurred them all together before his eyes, mixing them into this mix of darkness and colours.

But Harry knew that the destruction was worse here—shelves and cabinets had been sent into every direction, many of the towers of books he’d memorised as landmarks had been toppled over by the power of the spell, and were now laying strewn over the floor, blocking it off. 

But all that didn’t matter to Harry. He knew the way to the lounge intimately, landmarks or not. Even though he’d hadn’t walked down this path for almost a year now, the path to the lounge was burned into his memory. He’d know it blind, in death, at the end of the world. 

By the time he’d rounded the corner to the lounge, when he stepped past the shelf with candlesticks and vases he’d thrown over all those months ago after Tom had created his first Horcrux, his breaths were quick and shallow, and his feet ached.

But when he set eyes on the figure slumped down in front of the couch, all that slipped out of focus and Harry’s breathing stopped altogether. 

Tom was lying asleep, head positioned on the spot where Harry usually sat, his face burrowed in his arms and hair falling into his face. With careful, hesitant steps, as if he didn’t believe that he was real, Harry stepped close to him, laid the notebook down onto the dusty coffee table, and reached out. 

“Tom?” Harry called, his fingers swaying in the air above Tom’s shoulders. The words came out hoarse, and painfully quiet, but Tom stirred nonetheless, head lifting slowly from his arms and strands of unkempt hair blocking his vision. He blinked, carefully, and lifted his head, shoulders now pushing up into Harry’s fingers.”

“Are you really here?” Harry rasped even as he felt Tom move beneath his touch, standing up hastily and pulling him into a tight hug. There, Harry’s hand hesitantly moved to Tom’s neck just so it could feel his pulse there, strong and steady beneath his skin. Here. 

“Of course I am,” Tom whispered back in a hoarse, tired voice, head pressed into the crook of Harry’s neck and his hands digging into the fabric of Harry’s tattered robe. “You didn’t really think that Malfoy brat would stop me from being here for you?”

Harry laughed at that, breathless and giddy, laughter that melted over into short, choking sobs as he crumbled into Tom’s arms. Tom pulled him down onto the couch, which creaked beneath them, the sound loud against his muted sobs. There, Tom’s hands wrapped even tighter around Harry’s back,  his arms warm and steady around Harry’s shaking body, and Harry just cried, Tom holding him there. 

Like he always did.

When the last sobs had left Harry, and the shaking slowly ebbed out, Tom’s grip loosened just slightly to press a kiss to Harry’s hair. 

“I’d offer you tea,” Tom started, a small smile on his face that got another breathless giggle out of Harry, “But I’m afraid the kettle here won’t do much good.”

“I’m fine,” Harry said, even though his throat felt dry and hoarse, but even the thought of leaving Tom’s arms for even a moment felt unbearable. “I was there, at the mirror,” Harry murmured at last, eyes still closed. “It’s… not good. It didn’t work anymore, for me.”

“I know. I’ve seen it,” Tom answered, and Harry could feel his chest raise with every breath. It rumbled slightly when he spoke. “It still works, when faced with large amounts of magic, but just barely.” He took a long, stuttery breath. “I don’t think it’s going to last.”

Harry whimpered, a quiet, raspy sound, and squeezed his eyes shut. “I see.”

It was there, in the silence filled with  that Tom suddenly laughed, a stuttery, cruel laughter, and Harry felt Tom drag his arm over his own eyes. “We were never meant to last, were we?” The laughter dissolved into breathless, faint giggles, and Harry’s body shook with Tom’s chest. “We were never meant to last. Not with this… foolery of a relationship. We can’t even…” His words were slurred now, mumbled, and Harry strained to understand them. “We can’t even meet each other without this room, without that goddamn mirror. What kind of relationship is that?”

Harry lifted his head from Tom’s chest, and pushed the arm away from Tom’s eyes. When he met Harry’s eyes, they were shining with unshed tears, and Harry kissed him, slowly and gently. “Does it matter?” he asked in a quiet tone and stroked Tom’s cheek as if brushing those unspilled tears away. “We knew about it from the beginning. About the timelines, and the mirror. We knew, but always pushed the knowledge aside.” His lips curving into a sad bitter smile, and his eyes started to burn, just when he was beginning to think there were no more tears left inside him. “And now that knowledge has caught up with us. It’s as simple as that. Doesn’t make it a waste, though, does it?”

Tom shook his head, a miniscule, soft motion. Then, he laughed again, but this time, it felt less panicked, less sad. Just bitter. “I’ll miss you, though,” Tom said, eventually, his voice hoarse, when his eyes met Harry’s, they burned into his with the same ferocity they had since the beginning, from the first time they’d locked eyes all those long, long months ago.

“You better,” Harry answered, his smile small but teasing, and he sank his head back down onto Tom’s chest. “Because I will too.”

There, Tom kissed the top of Harry’s head again, and his hand brushed through the strands, until it stopped and rested there, soft, on Harry’s head. Holding him there. “Get some sleep, Harry,” Tom whispered against Harry’s head, and his hand tightened. “I promise to stay here until you fall asleep.”

Harry didn’t ask him to be there when he woke up. Somewhere deep down, he already knew that he wouldn’t be. That it would be a promise given and still broken, even though Tom never broke his promises. So he just took what he could, every sense filled with Tom, the familiar scent of his robes, the movements of his chest as it lifted with each breath, the steady stutters of his heartbeat, and fingers clasped into the strands of Harry’s hair.

He took it all in and then tucked it away in the corner of his heart to hold it there tightly, so he would still remember it when he woke up.

Tom was gone.

Harry woke up alone, on the dusty, old couch in their lounge, surrounded only by deep darkness and the smell of fire and smoke. He took a few stuttery, shallow breaths of its smell, a smell that wasn’t Tom’s, and felt his eyes burn. But his tears were all dried up, their old tracks brushed away by Tom’s gentle fingers, so Harry didn’t cry. Couldn’t, not when that would wash away Tom’s touch.

The couch creaked again when he stood up, it’s sound loud in Harry's ears. He stood in the middle of their lounge and glanced around. The spots where their things stood were empty, like they had always been in this room, but still Harry could see them before his eyes. Their cups, the kettle, and the many bags of tea stacked onto each other. The books Harry had assembled there, and the few that Tom had gifted him. His chair at the lounge. The blanket that Harry had given Tom on his last day in Hogwarts, with the little, clumsy green T stitched into its corner, as a thank-you for the notebook. 

He could picture it all, right before his eyes, could even picture the soft, easy smile on Tom’s lips as he stepped into the lounge, book clasped beneath his arm as he greeted Harry and made them a cup of tea, could picture the teasing smile as he won yet another duel, and kissed Harry right afterwards. Could picture soft, good-bye hugs and smiles pressed to his cheek, and hair, and…

It all got too much, then, and Harry just grabbed the notebook up from the coffee table and turned around. He would’ve walked straight out of the room, if it wasn’t for the soft sound of something falling to the ground that made him stop. There, as he glanced down, he could see a folded note laying on the ground, white paper shining against the dark tiles. 

He picked it up, hesitantly, and opened it with shaking hands. Wand illuminating the thin, light paper, he began to read.

Harry

This is a goodbye letter, of sorts. It’s unplanned, and you will have to watch out for the rambling that is sure to come. To be fully honest, I probably would’ve written the same thing if you hadn’t come back if the door wouldn’t have opened anymore. 

But, you came back.

I don’t want to lea

It feels quite odd to address you like this, I’ll have you know. You’re asleep right next to me as I write this, after all. You know, I’ll also have you know that it's awfully difficult to get out of your grip, like an annoying panda, or whatever animal it is that holds on tight and never lets go. 

I wish you would never le

But oddness aside, I wanted to write this letter to you. Because you deserve it. You deserve a proper goodbye. 

So let me just say this: Harry, you have mesmerised me since the day we met. Back then, that was purely from the oddity of your actions, the strange and contradictory excuses and lies you told, but there was something more there that I didn’t know at the time. 

Never in all the world could I have expected the truth that stood behind those lies, and I honestly thought you fancied me. And then I was the one in love, like a sick joke of the universe, until I brought you to realise otherwise. But let's not dwell on that for now. 

Harry, you are fierce, beautiful, and everything I could have wished for in my life. And I’m grateful for the time I got to spend with you.

I want to thank you, with this letter, for all that you’ve done for me. And I’m not solely speaking of the memories you showed me. But everything else that you taught me; to be kind and nice, when people deserve it, and to be unforgiving and stubborn when they deserve that too. I hope I’ve taught you something in return, of course, be it only the proper defence during battle and a handful of spells. 

There is so much more that I could tell you, and I’m sure I’ll come up with plenty of more things in the long, lonely nights to come, but my mind is tired and I might say things I will regret.

But let me just say one last thing to you:

I love you, Harry, and I’m grateful that you loved me back. It was a gift I never expected to possess, Merlin, I never expected to be capable of loving someone so deeply. But I do. 

So it is in this love that I shall leave now, because I know that I could never bring myself to leave when you are awake.

Tom

The letter shook in Harry’s hand, the light casting deep shadows across its creases, and Harry gently folded it back together, laid it inside the notebook, and walked away, out of the room. He didn’t look back. 

Harry didn’t visit the mirror on his way back. He knew it’d be empty, and powerless, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of it. So, he avoided it, steps hasty and his eyes glued stubbornly to the floor as he made his way to the entrance. They only slowed down once he’d reached the door, his fingers touching the handle. There, he lifted his eyes off the floor, and looked back. 

He looked over the room and thought of times exploring every least one of its corners, of times spent duelling, dancing and laughing. He thought of the way Tom’s hand had felt like in his, dragging him around the room, of the conversations they’d had, the good and the bad, and how his surprised, breathless laughter had felt like against his lips when Harry had pulled him into a kiss.

And then Harry smiled. Because he’d got to spend all this time with Tom, he got to love him here, something he could not have was it not for the mirror, for this room, and he was grateful for that.

When Harry opened the door and left the Room of Requirement for the last time, it was with a smile, his notebook, and the memory of Tom Riddle. The man he loved.