Chapter Text
Harry never really did move on from the War. Sure, it had only been three years, but to him it may as well have been yesterday. He watched as his friends moved on, not from him, they claimed but there were times where it really felt like it. New jobs, new relationships, new people, but Harry just couldn't let go of it like they did.
Hermione was quickly climbing the ministry ladder, and any get-together with her entailed at least one impassioned rant on whatever new bill she was trying to get through. Ron was working various odd-jobs, though he was more focused on enjoying his time with friends and family. Ginny and Harry had long since broken up but they were still friends, or as close as you could be when one person was quickly becoming a Quidditch star, while the other was closer to a ghost than a real wizard.
He absolutely couldn't blame them, Merlin knows how often they were there for him in the beginning. Many nights spent together at Grimauld’s Place, commiserating about the War over takeout or a few wine bottles. Sometimes, especially in the beginning, they would just let silence seep into the room. Each of them thinking about what they had lost, together. As Ron and Hermione moved on they tried to urge Harry to do the same, always suggesting events or new people to try and talk to. None of it ever really interested him.
His career as an Auror was a spectacular failure. He had zero interest in the amount of paper work and constantly disagreed with the codes they had to follow, the shows of force. But by far the worst part of the job was the toll it took on his mind. Sometimes when the stakes got high his mind would blur, scenes of the War superimposing themselves onto the current threat. It made him jumpy, aggressive. He never went too far. But he constantly had a short temper and was always on edge. After almost a year he eventually admitted to himself that it was a mistake and resigned.
Working as an Auror ate away at him, but so did the aimlessness of his life now. He picked up a passing hobby in curse breaking. It was a practical interest, since many of the objects in Grimauld’s were cursed to hell and back. It was something to do, and it often got him outside. He often found himself going to shady antiques dealers, places he would have never would have gone prior to his new hobby, to see if they had anything he could pick apart. It couldn’t be so bad, he was breaking the curses after all.
This is why Harry was currently staring down a shattered hourglass filled with Timeturner sand in his living room. He was just able to register that quite a bit of it had gotten on his shoes before his surroundings became a blur.
The next second he found himself in a busy street. Shocked, he looked around, uncomprehending of his surroundings. Why did everything look so old?
Then it clicked.
As it turns out, many people will not take you seriously if you ask them what year it is in a panic. Harry’s frenzy was stopped when he saw a newspaper on the ground, picking it up, ew, he was met with the date. He was stuck in the 1940’s.
Dazed, and at a loss of what to do, Harry walked the streets. After who knows how long of aimless walking he heard a commotion in a nearby alleyway. ‘May as well’ he thought as he moved towards it. In the alleyway was a woman getting mugged by two boys.
“What’s going on here?” Harry asked, surreptitiously grabbing his wand, which, thank Merlin he still had on him.
There was a moment of indecision from the muggers. Then the boys, clearly caught out and lacking tenacity, made their poor excuses and left. They couldn’t have been older than fifteen, but Harry knew that even at that age people were capable of quite a lot of cruelty. After making sure the woman was alright, Harry took his leave and continued wracking his mind on what to do.
There were a few benefits to living in an orphanage in the middle of London, namely the hordes of people Tom could pickpocket. Granted, he often stole because he was trapped in said orphanage. Poor rations drove most of his outings. It wasn’t exactly much, most people had barely enough for themselves with the way things were. But something was better than nothing. Though the scarcity meant that getting caught was a harsh affair. At any rate, it simply acted as an incentive for Tom to learn faster.
And though he knew it made no sense, there was something so satisfying about successfully stealing from someone, anyone. There was something cathartic about finally winning against those nameless faces, nearly making up for all the boxed ears he had received.
Spotting an easy target, a dazed looking woman walking along the street, Tom initiated his scheme. Seemingly paying no mind to her as he walked past Tom turned the moment he got behind her, he yanked the strap of her bag and ran. Her limp arms and poor attention was no match for his plot. The bag was a modest thing, not very ornate or heavy but also not a pauper’s. It was nearing the end of the work day and the streets were crowded. It was beautifully simple to slip past the mass of tired, apathetic bodies. No one answered the woman's cries
Entering an empty alleyway a fair distance from the scene of the crime Tom began to go through the bag. The side had what looked to be the hand embroidered initials of the owner. Cute. There was a note pad, a chewed pen, some kind of makeup container, and a few shillings. Tom pocketed the notepad and the money and unceremoniously dropped the bag on the floor. It was then that he spotted something out of the corner of his eye.
Two older boys had positioned themselves in front of the alleyway. Clearly wanting to start something.
Anger seared through Tom, what did they want? They certainly weren’t getting his rightfully earned money. He stood his ground, not daring to step back for fear of displaying weakness, and began looking for potential methods of escape. He looked at his assailants, the one to the left held a shattered bottle in his hand, the other had nothing.
Tom ran to the right. Hoping to slip by, but just as he passed them he felt hands grasp his shoulders. He was shoved into the wall, pain split through his shoulder and head.
He heard indistinct words, he couldn’t make them out, only understanding the malicious tone. He needed to leave, to get away. There was a hand on his shoulder forcing him into the wall. He leaned down and bit it, hard. The hand dropped him.
He continued running, nearing the light at the end of the alleyway, when a broader hand pulled him back by the collar.
Back against the wall again his desperation only increased, this was the other attacker, Tom knew he was armed. Growling, Tom tried to dislodge himself, but it only resulted in a tighter hold and a mean laugh. One of his attacker's hands slipped into his breastpocket, clearly heavy with the shillings. Once his money had been taken from him the grasp only got tighter, angrier. It was then that Tom registered the prick of glass against his throat. At some point the boy he had bitten had gotten ahold of the shattered bottle.
Tom redoubled his efforts. Every last part of him was looking for an escape, he thought back to other incidents, in stressful situations he could always somehow manage to find a way out, even if it didn’t really make any sense.
A nearby garbage can was knocked over, distracting both boys.
Tom kicked and tried to dislodge him again, but even being distracted it did not work. The kick only made it worse.
Both boys had their full attention on Tom, and never in any other moment had he hated attention on him as he did now.
He needed to get away, for something to happen, he couldn't take being in this position. He scrunched his eyes closed, hoping for anything to happen.
He felt glass dig into the edge of his eye.
Pain. Searing, marrow deep pain erupted from his face. He had no understanding of his surroundings, only of his mind lit in rage and indignity and so much pain.
This cannot happen to me! This would not happen to me! Things like this do not happen to me!
The sound of shattered glass, of something gurgling, reached his ears. There were no more hands on him. He had fallen to the floor.
He raised his own hand to his face, to his eyes, and immediately regretted it.
His hands felt across the floor, the tips of his surely bloodstained fingers grazed a lukewarm puddle. He numbly moved away from it. The only thing on his mind was to get away. He crawled, seeking the ally wall. He was infuriated. He should never crawl. No, he will never be made to crawl again. His hand finally found where the ground met the wall and he staggered up. Heedless of the pulsing pain, of the still body he accidentally stepped on, the warmth dripping down his face, he left the alleyway as fast as he could. The hand he had on the wall left a long streak of blood, of which he could not see.
He could hear the sounds of people all around him, but no one moved to help him, no one listened to his cries. Eventually, his hand that had been pressed against the wall, as though he were trying to find his way in a maze, found itself on a door knob. He blindly stumbled in, hearing the cheery ring of a bell above him.
“Christ, son. What’s happened to you?” a gruff voice a few steps from him called. Footsteps came towards him and before he could move away a callused hand grasped his shoulder, Tom flinched. “Anybody see a constable? This lad needs help!” the man ordered in a no nonsense tone to people Tom couldn’t see. Sensing that he was no longer in immediate danger, numbness sank into Tom’s bones, it was as though he could also not hear, for how the voices around him washed away.
Stuck with no options for return Harry set out to find some stability. Finding a job was hell. But with liberal document forgery and some spirit Harry managed to get himself a job as a clerk at a grocer's and a house far from the city. Commuting wasn’t such an issue when you had magic.
With that done Harry now had to confront what exactly he should do about Tom Riddle. He could just leave him alone and let his past, future, whatever self deal with him. But as soon as he thought that he knew he couldn't, the faces of everyone he had lost flashed before him. No, he had to do something. He wouldn't kill him, not even a war could make him do that outright, and the idea of killing a child was revolting, no matter who they became. So what was there? He could always try to subtly change Tom’s perspective, or just foil his various plots through the years. But the moment he thought that he knew it wouldn't work. Tom’s ideas couldn't be dispelled with just small interactions, and the moment that the timeline veered off course, Harry had no hope in predicting what Tom Riddle would do. Nowhere close to making his mind up, Harry apparated.
Walking up to Woll’s gates only deepened his conflict. Half formed plans swirled in his mind. Any lingering thoughts of recompense died a sputtering death at this barren sight, and in its place was a confusing empathy. In front of him lay an austere building, near colorless and ungracefully aged. This was what Tom Riddle knew, this is all he ever really saw of the world. Opening the door he was greeted with the matron.
“Hi, I'm looking for Tom Riddle?” Harry said.
At this, her expression immediately sunk, though not just in fear and distaste, but in...was that sadness? “Him? Are you another doctor? I wasn’t told you’d be coming by.” She took in his dress with a dubious expression, “You’re not a family member, are you? Oh, I’m so sorry if you are.”
Jumping at the opportunity Harry exclaimed, “Yes! Yes I am a family member, can I see him?”
She paused for a moment, then said, “Well, you can, but I need to warn you, there’s been an accident. The boy, he... isn’t all right right now. He might need accommodations.”
Harry, expecting a spiel about how Riddle might be the source of some accidents, did not know what to think of this. Why was she being so vague? “That’s alright... can I meet him?”
The air got heavier as they climbed up the stairs to Tom's room. Harry was unsure of what was going on. In the past that he knew the idea of Tom Riddle ever getting so injured was laughable, he did the injuring. His mind whirled with what this accident could be, what could have happened, why it had happened. Eventually they reached a chipped, grimy door.
The door opened to what could only have been an eight or nine year old Tom Riddle, sitting defensively at the head of a bed, with bandages covering his eyes.
Nothing could have prepared him for the sight. The image settled into his bones with a deep sense of wrongness. It simply shouldn't be possible for Tom Riddle, the child self of Lord Voldemort, to get hurt in this way.
“What happened?” Harry asked quietly to the Matron.
She responded in a hushed voice. “An awful accident, he won’t tell anyone wha-”
Tom interrupted her, “I can hear you, don’t talk about me like I'm not in the room.” His voice had an empty, and very bitter quality to it. “Who are you? You’re not one of the doctors, I don’t recognise-” he stopped himself there, a frustrated expression flickered across his face.
“H-Hello, I’m Harry Potter.” Harry said, his tone somewhat contrite. A conflicted moment passed and he spoke again, “... And I’m here to adopt you.”
Shock was written over Tom's face, or what of his expression that could be discerned with bandaging over his eyes, it quickly morphed into disbelief, a small furrow at his brow formed, as though the idea was unthinkable, impossible. He remained silent.
The silence stretched
“Tom?” The matron quietly questioned. She had also held some shock in her expression, as though the sight of an injured boy should’ve sent Harry running.
Tom curled into himself, “yes...” he said quietly, “I’ll go with you” he responded, looking sightlessly up at Harry.
A solemn feeling followed Harry as he walked out of the orphanage with Tom, hand in hand. At first Tom had insisted on walking on his own, but once they reached the stairwell he, clearly frustrated, begrudgingly accepted Harry’s help. ‘Just keep holding on to the rail,’ ‘I know!’ A stumble. ‘Alright... for the next flight just hold the bannister in one hand and my hand in the other, okay? I won't let you fall.’ Afterwards their hands were still intertwined. Tom’s nails sharp against Harry's palm
At the sound of Wool’s gates creaking Tom halted. Harry looked down, a question on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped. Tom’s small face held a heartwrenching expression. The look on his face was one of deep loss, of a yearning that Harry could only guess at. Tom said nothing and after a moment started walking.
A lurching sensation washed over Tom. He pushed the man away, staggering away from him “What the hell was that! What have you done?” He said through his nausea. Oh god, he couldn’t see, how could he get out of this! He didn’t even understand what had really happened.
“Woah, hey, it’s alright!” the man said, panicked. “What you just experienced is called apparition, it’s a form of magic, we traveled from Wool’s to my house. I couldn’t explain much back there with so many muggles around.”
“What are you talking about!” Tom said, confused and angry. Is he somewhere different? What’s a muggle? He couldn't see anything but if he paid attention he could feel that there was a slight breeze, and he could hear birdsong, neither of which was very common at Wool’s. Where was he? What did this man just do?
“Well! Uhm, have you ever done something you can’t explain? Lights in the dark? Healing overnight? Levitating objects? That would be an example of magic. Accidental magic, but still.” Harry quickly tried to explain.
Tom stopped. That did seem familiar, though when he did strange things it was more along the lines of forcing other children to tell the truth, or using it for particularly challenging pickpocketing victims. Though he remembered when he was younger the strange things he did were more innocuous, raising feathers into the air, chatting with garden snakes, sometimes making himself seem invisible. He preferred his current methods, they were much more useful. Usually.
But who was to say that this man was being honest? Perhaps he was trying to catch Tom in a lie, or was otherwise trying to fool him?
Sick of this game, Tom folded his arms, took a moment and exhaled, “How can I believe you?” His voice was even, but disappointingly still carried an edge of distrust and petulance.
The man paused for a time, then made a considering noise in the back of his throat, “Hold your hands out for me?”
Tom hesitantly did so, the man grasped his hands, causing Tom to flinch, and with a murmured ‘sorry’ he placed a small stone in his hands. Slowly, gently, he placed his hands over Tom’s and murmured something indecipherable. Tom startled when the shape of the stone changed, turning into something soft and delicate. Ripping his hand away Tom investigated the shape in his palm, feeling it between his finger tips “A flower.” he murmured to himself. He was astonished, magic was real, this man had it, Tom had it. With this realization he felt such delight, such elation in this moment he could hardly contain himself. He could feel as his expression filled with pure wonder, it must have been the first time he felt anything good since... He gently placed the flower in his breastpocket and turned to the man, Harry.
“I don’t believe you. Do it again." He did believe him, he just wanted to feel it again. “And could you pull up your sleeves? You could have just hidden the flower there.”
Harry gave a startled chuckle at that, “Alright.” Tom could hear the sound of lightly rustling fabric and stepped towards the sound. He reached out, grabbing both of Harry's arms. He checked that the sleeves were indeed folded up, then he set his own hands out again. Harry set another stone in his palms and folded his hands on top of it, murmuring again. Tom dedicated himself to soaking in as much of the experience as he could, the slight callouses he could feel on Harry's hand, the weight of the stone, the tone and sound of his murmuring. Then he sensed something else, as the stone began to change shape he felt...something. A wave of energy passed through Harry's hands. It was gone before he could really understand it, but it stuck in his mind.
Harry lifted his hands and Tom inspected the flower once again, it was larger, with smoother petals, “What kind of flower is it?” He asked.
Harry hesitated for a moment, then answered, “It’s a lily.”