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8) School Colors (part 1)

Every student was watching the Sorting Hat in an awed silence. Harry Potter was finally being sorted, and while there was no doubt he would end up in Gryffindor, it didn’t change the fact that the first year had been sitting up there for over ten minutes already. Surely that had to be a new record.

If Harry Potter was destined for Gryffindor, what was taking the hat so long?

Even the teachers were beginning to look concerned, Snape’s grimace deepening and McGonagall fussing with her robes slightly. Even Dumbeldore was starting to lose his “grandfatherly twinkle” his eyes always seemed to carry.

Harry Potter, however, looked to be perfectly at ease where he was. Even, perhaps, enjoying himself, one could say.

(Oddly enough, the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher—Professor Puzzle, or something similar, was sipping his drink with a small smile peeking out from the corners of his mouth.)

“Well, well!” Booms the hat, suddenly. “You were a hard one to sort, Harry Potter, but I know just where to put you.”

Everyone collectively leaned forward in their seats; not even the teachers were exempt from the sudden anticipation. Which house was the Harry Potter going to end up in?

“You, Mr. Potter, are a HUFFLEPUFF!”

... What?

A collective silence fell over the entire school as Harry Potter’s uniform faded into yellow and black, matching the rest of the Hufflepuffs’ clothes. Nobody knew what to say. Even Dumbeldore looked at a loss for words, and McGonagall (and the entire rest of the Gryffindors) looked ready to protest his placement.

However, Harry Potter didn’t seem to mind the absolute lack of encouraging words, trotting over to his new table with ease.

Professor Puzzle was the only one who clapped for Potter’s placement, breaking the silence that had fallen over the school. And in return, Harry Potter sent a beaming grin right back his way.

. . . . .

9) Save Spot

It started with an innocuously muttered “Oh no.” from Harry during dinner, something that Dumbeldore only overheard because of his fixated attention already on the boy. (Who knows when Voldemort would try something, and little Harry was the perfect key to watching for it.)

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked from next to him.

Ron, mouth still half full, looked up from his food. “You alright, mate?”

“Oh, no, it’s fine,” Harry waved off, then, even quieter, “He’s going to be so upset.”

“Who?” Hermione inquired with furrowed brows.

But Harry only waved them off. “Don’t worry about it. Just talking to myself.”

Dumbledore calmly sipped his tea as if he wasn’t eavesdropping on three teenagers. Truly, Harry’s sudden concern for “him” was quite random—there had been no mentions of this person in their previous conversation, nor had Harry received any sort of letter from Sirius Black, so Dumbeldore was at a loss for who Harry’s concern is about.

Harry didn’t mention his friend again throughout dinner, though Dumbledore wasn’t oblivious to the sneaking glances towards the door, as if Harry was waiting for somebody to walk through them. Who could he possibly be watching for, if all of the students, and thus, Harry’s friends, were in the dining hall with him?

And yet dinner remained uneventful. 

. . .

Severus Snape wasn’t one to express many emotions (aside from his usual scowl). It was a defense mechanism he’d learned young, and had mastered under Voldemort’s reign, where the slightest hint of fear could get you killed and the slightest bit of hesitance would get you tortured (and then killed). Snape would like to say he’d perfected the art of controlling his emotions, or at least what he shows of them, especially after working under the Dark Lord, or even Dumbledore , for so long.

However, this did not account for Voldemort strolling into Hogwarts with no warning only minutes after curfew. It’d been a relatively calm day; there had been no hints of burning from his Dark Mark, nor had Dumbledore voiced any new suspicions about the Dark Lord’s activity. For all intents and purposes, Voldemort should not be walking through Hogarts’ halls, and yet there he was. So while normally Snape would balk at showing his befuddlement and dawning horror (for why else would the Dark Lord be in Hogwarts, except for one thing?), his blank expression slipped just this once, his eyes widening just in time for them to meet blood red ones from across the hall.

There was no doubt that this was the Dark Lord, even with the drastic change in appearance. His Dark Mark confirmed this man’s identity with no doubt, no matter how strange it was to see the Dark Lord with a human form once more. (The last time Snape had seen Voldemort look so human was that night. ) Somehow, and Snape didn’t want to know how, Voldemort had gained a human appearance again. (And wasn’t that a terrifying thought, that the Dark Lord could blend in in a crowd.)

And yet Snape had bigger issues to deal with at the moment, than wondering the hows and whys of the situation, with the Dark Lord scowling deeply at the sight of his follower. Quickly covering up his emotions once more, Snape didn’t know what else to do but ask, “My Lord?”

“Do not bother me now Severus.” Voldemort stalked right past him without a second glance. “But worry not, I am not here to kill today.”

Somehow, his reassurance didn’t feel comforting in the least. The Dark Lord was in a bad mood today, to the point that his emotions almost seemed palpable in the air (and yet the mark remained so very silent). Snape could only wait until the Dark Lord had turned the corner to the stairs and his footsteps had quieted into silence before speed-walking towards Dumbledore’s office.

. . .

Minerva hadn’t seen Tom Riddle in many, many years. 

He’d always been such an upstanding student, a few years older than her, and undoubtedly the most admired student throughout the whole school. She remembered every girl in her year trying to earn his favor through sweets and compliments, remembered them all being turned down with a charming smile, remembered the crowd of Slytherins that all seemed to defer to him.

Minerva also knew the rumors. (Dumbledore is not as sneaky as he thinks he is.)

She knows what most likely became of him—his obsessive behavior towards the Dark Arts, the way some of his “friends” would sometimes flinch away, the curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. She’d seen the way his endearing smile and pleasant attitude would slip into something colder, sometimes. She’d seen his hatred for Dumbledore, and Dumbledore’s suspicions towards him in return.

Tom Riddle may have become Voldemort. Dumbledore could know that as fact, or perhaps only be guessing as to his identity. (Though she has to admit that all of the pieces line up, and it does not paint a pretty picture.)

However, Minerva is just maybe , just slightly , starting to doubt Dumbledore’s claims on the matter. Starting to doubt her own judgement as well, in fact, of Tom Riddle’s character.

There’s no way the Tom Riddle from her memories would allow himself to receive comfort from anybody . And even less of a chance that Voldemort would do so, especially from Harry Potter.

And yet, in front of her lay Tom Riddle with his face buried into Potter’s stomach, arms wrapped around the boy’s waist while Potter gently stroked his hair.

There were students littered around the common room, no doubt “discreetly” watching the spectacle going down, even before Minvera had appeared. It’s not every day that a random adult breaks into Hogwarts simply to receive affection from Harry.

( Well, she rephrased, thinking of Harry’s reputation as savior of the Wizarding World, it’s not every day that they succeed.)

Harry, for one, didn’t look the least bit surprised, perfectly comfortable in his lounge chair with a Dark Lord (?) half on his lap. His two friends were nowhere in sight, and Minerva quietly hoped it stayed that way, for she didn’t know what kind of ruckus Granger would bring if she knew this was happening.

Tom Riddle shifted his hold of Harry, then broke the silence that had overtaken the room (only overshadowed by the crackling of the fireplace) with a small murmur that Minerva barely heard, “I miss Quirrel. I miss him so much. ”

Quirrel?

An equally quiet mutter from Harry, followed by gently stroking Riddle’s hair, “I know you do.”

“I was so close to winning.” Riddle’s hold on Harry’s waist became tighter.

Another agreement from Harry, “I know you were.”

Minerva could only stare in shock as Voldemort (and the Quirrel comment confirmed that, didn’t it? And winning? ) continued to hug Harry, both of them acting as if there isn’t a place they’d rather be.

Of course, the peaceful and somber tone of the room was interrupted only a moment later, before Minerva could work through her surprise to do more than stare. Dumbledore burst into the room with a speed she rarely saw of him, followed by Snape lurking through the doorway. The headmaster’s wand was gripped tightly in his hand, and an unusually stern look adorned his face.

(For a quick second, Dumbledore looked completely bewildered, before an odd determination came over him.)

And yet, he still tried to make pleasant conversation, for some strange reason that Minerva will never understand. “Mr. Riddle, I’m afraid we weren’t expecting your presence today.”

The students in the room had never been so quiet as they were now, watching with undivided interest as bombshell after bombshell dropped out of the blue. This most certainly wasn’t how she expected her night to go either, so Minerva cannot fault them for watching the spectacle, even if they may be in danger. She wouldn’t want to leave, either.

Tom Riddle, for the first time, made a motion other than hugging Harry tighter. Blood red eyes peaked out from Harry’s abdomen, then buried themselves once more. For someone so obsessed with immortality, he seemed oddly unconcerned about the threat posed to his life.

(Blood red eyes. So different from the dark brown he’d had in school.)

It was Harry who answered instead, still comfortable in his seat with one of his hands loosely tangled in Tom Riddle’s hair. “Did you need something, Headmaster?”

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore started, looking unsure as to how to continue, “I would recommend you separate yourself from him.”

Riddle’s response to that was to tighten his grip on Harry’s clothes, no doubt not a fan of that idea. Harry, in return, pulled the Dark Lord closer to him. “No can do, Headmaster. My friend is in mourning, you see.”

Snape, apparently having enough of this, finally stepped into the room with a snarled, “Potter, for once in your life , stop being an oblivious idiot and do as you’re told!”

Harry raised a single eyebrow in return. “No, there’s no need to kill him. I’ve already packed.”

(Little known to Minerva, Snape’s Dark Mark had started burning with anger, dying out as soon as Harry finished speaking.)

It took the other two another moment to realize that Harry wasn’t talking to them, but the Dark Lord. Snape had figured it out immediately, blanching at the implications that his life had been spared only by the grace of Potter, and the Dark Lord’s willingness to listen to him.

(Packed for what?)

It was Dumbledore’s turn to lose the rest of his patience, next. (Minerva felt like a bystander in this whole situation, which, as she hadn’t done more than stare, was quite accurate.) “Mr. Riddle, release your hold on Harry. I will not allow you to harm my students.” This was accompanied by Dumbledore raising his wand in a threatening manner, no doubt feeling like he had the advantage and yet unwilling to strike first. Was it because of the prophecy, Riddle’s hold on Harry, or his morals that kept him from attacking first? (Why not defeat the final boss while it’s easy, even if it may be underhanded? This was a war .)

This time, he was completely ignored by both of them. Harry was muttering softly to Riddle with a thoughtful look. “Well, what are you in the mood for? We can work on the time travel idea more, or do you want to go traveling?”

From his lap, a muffled, “Travel,” sounded.

“Harry, my boy,” Dumbledore tried again, “That man is dangerous. I do not want you to get hurt.” It was obvious he was trying to be careful, what with Riddle’s tight hold of Harry (though Minerva really doubts it’s a hostage situation) and the other students in the common room. 

“Yeah, yeah. He’s Voldemort, I know,” Harry snarked, shifting his hold on Riddle’s hair to grab his wand out from his sleeve.

“You know?” Dumbledore repeated, dumbfounded.

“You know?!” Snape stressed, angrily.

Minerva has decided that she is going to raid the kitchens for their best alcohol tonight.

“Oh yeah, me and Voldy here go way back,” Harry answered, as if that didn’t raise more questions, and wasn’t in the process of casting a spell on the Dark Lord. “We met that night that he murdered my parents and- we just clicked , you know?” 

Minerva may not know what’s happening, but she couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped her. It is clear, however, that even if this man was Tom Riddle or Voldemort or (Merlin forbid) neither , Harry felt perfectly safe with him, and Riddle with Harry. She’s not sure how this friendship came to be, and honestly doesn’t want to know, but at least she knows Harry is safe.

Snape, on the other hand, obviously does not feel this way, turning red with rage. “Potter, if you do not cease this immediately-”

He never finished his sentence, because Harry finished casting whatever spell he had been working on and the two of them glowed a bright white, forcing everyone to look away. When they looked back over, both Harry and Riddle were gone, and Dumbledore looked far more irritated than worried.

Minerva didn’t know how to feel about that , either.

. . . . .

10) Relic of the Past (part 2)

Only a couple of weeks later, long enough for Albus to go back and forth a hundred times on whether the ring was truly the Resurrection Stone, Harry Potter is seen holding a diary.

A diary with a black binding, and the golden initials of T. M. Riddle stamped on the cover.

When asked about where he got the diary-

“It was a gift from a friend.” Harry’s eyes were always such a bright green, far brighter than Lily Evans’ had ever been. 

“Oh?” Dumbeldore nudged. “Who is your friend?” 

And why were they sending you Tom Riddle’s diary?

“Does that matter, Professor?” Harry asked.  It was a perfectly innocent question, and yet, somehow, Albus felt as if there were hidden emotions behind it. Snark that wasn’t quite there. Anger simmering just below the surface. Loathing hidden deep within, where Albus would never notice.

“Of course not, my boy. I just thought I recognized it for a moment there,” he started. “One of the students, back a couple of decades ago, had one exactly like that.”

“Oh, I’m aware, Professor.” Harry smiled, amused and yet cold. “Where do you think I got it from?”

Albus truly didn’t know what to think. Nobody had ever seen him write in it, nor was little Harry disappearing for hours, nor did he have any blank spots in his memory. But he never once let that book out of his sight, the same with the ring still on his finger.

Albus would wait and see where this all led, and hopefully put an end to it before it was too late.

Once is strange, twice is a coincidence, but three times? Would Voldemort truly let Harry Potter hold so many parts of his soul? His path to immortality? Was it Voldemort giving little Harry these pieces of dangerous, vile magic, or was it somebody else?

Why would Voldemort give Harry so much power over him, if not for a trap?

No, Albus truly had no idea what to think about this.

. . . . .

11) A Meeting Worth Remembering

Lucius would never admit this to anybody, not over his dead body, but he was trembling in his seat. It wasn’t noticeable by any means, but his hands were shaking and his stomach felt full of lead.

And yet he took comfort in the fact that he was far from the only one cowering in their seats. The Death Eaters sat around the meeting room, all trying to hide their fear from each other and, of course, the source of their fear. Even Bellatrix was silent in her seat, though that might’ve been out of reverence instead. It was hard to tell with her.

Voldemort, their Lord, sat in his makeshift throne at the head of the table, radiating anger and fury. His wrath was almost palpable in the air, thick to the point of suffocation. Lucius didn’t know why, but the Dark Lord was in a bad mood today.

Well, “bad mood” was an understatement. 

And, like usual, Voldemort’s anger was directed at the Potter brat. The one topic that none of them can really do anything about. Even if they did come across Potter, it’s a battle between wiping out their biggest threat (a 16 year old child, really?) and leaving him for the Dark Lord, who has staked his claim on killing Potter whether he knows it or not. Lucius, for sure, doesn’t want to be the one to tell him that ‘No, sorry, you can’t torture Potter, I already killed him’.

They had been in this meeting for almost an hour now, and yet somehow Voldemort found something else to complain about. Perhaps it was because he was repeating his main few points with increasing displeasure each time, or perhaps it was because nobody wished to be the one to speak up and point out that the Dark Lord was acting as insane as the rumors claimed him to be.

(Lucius studiously ignored those rumors, because whether the man is insane or not, he’s still far more powerful than Lucius, both in magic and the fact that Lucius had the mark of a servant branded on his arm.)

The low creaking of the door gained everyone’s attention, subtly glancing at who would dare interrupt a Death Eater meeting and guessing at how long they would live. And yet, even as the door opened wider with a groan and the person behind the door was revealed, even as every Death Eater in attendance poorly stifled a gasp, Voldemort never once stopped in his rant to even glance over.

Harry Potter, Harry Potter , walked into the meeting room without a single bit of hesitance, to the point where Lucius couldn’t tell if he were completely stupid, horribly oblivious, or if the entire room of people were having a shared delusion of seeing the stupid Potter boy after listening to their lord rant for an hour about him.

Bellatrix, who had been hanging off of Voldemort’s every word until the boy had come in, was the first to act. She stood up in her chair and raised her wand, ready to cast a curse, while every other Death Eater were still pondering if they were seeing things.

However, she didn’t get farther than the first syllable before Voldemort paused in his rant to cut her off with a sharp, “I will not tolerate you interrupting this meeting, Bellatrix.”

(In Lucius’ very important opinion, this hardly counted as a meeting.)

The rest of the Death Eaters took a cue from Bellatrix’s failure to keep seated quietly and simply pretend they didn’t see anything. Lucius sure wasn’t going to be the one to act out.

“But, My Lord-” Bellatrix tried, vaguely gesturing wildly towards Potter, who was still making his way over to the meeting table with ease. And- What was he holding? Were those apple slices?

“Hush, Bellatrix, before I lose my patience with you,” Voldemort commanded, glaring until she sat down (unwilling to disobey, even when Potter was right there-) .

It was a miracle none of them had been cursed thus far.

Before the Dark Lord could continue with his rant, the Potter boy reached the head of the table and gently tapped their lord on the arm. Voldemort turned to glance at the boy as Potter muttered a soft, “I brought you a snack.”

Lucius was sure he was hallucinating, or perhaps he’d fallen asleep and this was some horrible nightmare, especially when the Dark Lord returned the soft words with a murmur of his own, “Thank you, my dear.”

Definitely a nightmare.

 No matter how realistic it may be, it was definitely a nightmare playing out before him.

Lucius caught the expressions of the other Death Eaters in attendance, ranging from horrified to shocked to distraught to in complete denial.

(Lucius was not in denial. This was a dream.)

After sharing another soft touch with Voldemort and leaving the apple slices on the table, Potter left without another word, not even a glance back. The door clicked shut, and each of the Death Eaters turned to face their lord in various stages of grief, perhaps even inventing new ones.

The Dark Lord grabbed an apple slice to munch on, even as he said, “Now, as I was saying, Potter’s reign has gone on for far too long! He needs to be taken care of swiftly so I can enact my will on the Wizarding World as a whole! Once I get rid of that stupid Potter brat-”

Lucius hoped he would wake up soon.

. . . . .

12) Wrong of Conquest (part 1)

When Hermione had imagined the final battle—the end of the war between Voldemort and her best friends , she’d imagined a battlefield, a final desperate attack between both sides. She’d prepared herself for the possibility of death, whether she included Harry’s horcrux into that mix or not. They were all children , how could they be expected to fight against experienced adults?

How could Harry be expected to fight against the Dark Lord by himself?

She’d prepared for many things, through books and supplies and erasing her parents’ memories, but mostly, she’d prepared herself for death.

She’d been prepared for Harry’s death.

And yet, the final battle had gone so very different from what she’d imagined. Voldemort had only brought a few of his Death Eaters along, even if they were some of his most loyal and ruthless ones, and even then he’d ordered them to back off because the Dark Lord apparently wanted to fight Harry in a one on one duel. Harry, being his usual self-sacrificial self, of course, accepted, despite many people’s protests. 

(It wasn’t like he had a choice .)

Somehow, for some reason , Voldemort had wanted a fair fight between the two of them, graciously allowing Harry to ready himself and both of them respectfully bowing to each other, as the duel tradition states. The duel started not a moment later, and yet to her surprise none of the colors of the spells were a sickening green, nor were they a ruthless red hue. None of Harry’s spells were meant to kill or torture, him favoring Expelliarmus as per usual, but none of Voldemort’s had either. For some reason she could not possibly fathom, the Dark Lord seemed determined to have a fair duel.

And really, that was only one of the weirdest things about all of this. Another one to note as an extremely strange situation , in Hermione’s opinion, was the horrible realization that Voldemort was gorgeous. She remembered Harry explaining what he looked like after the TriWizard Tournament, though it hadn’t truly set in how horrid a beast he looked until she’d seen him herself at the Department of Mysteries. But this version of Voldemort, for whatever reason, no longer looked like a snake creature. Instead, he had styled black hair with a hint of curls, a delicate hold to his wand, casting spells with nothing more than a soft murmur, blood red eyes that almost glowed in the dim light cast over them, and a well-toned body that looked no older than 25.

Hermione hated to admit this, but this version of Voldemort—Harry had told her he was good at manipulating people through his good looks and charm—she could see it. If they’d met under a different light, or perhaps if he’d been a student in school, she would have fawned over him just as much as the next girl.

Ron may be the love of her life, but damn if the Dark Lord isn’t her type.

That does not make up for the fact he is literally the Dark Lord though, and thus Hermione has decided that he is no longer handsome nor her type at all.

However, what may possibly be the strangest part of all of this, and that’s really saying something, was the fact that it looked like Harry was winning . Not that she doubted her best friend’s skills, but this was Voldemort she was talking about.

Spells were being cast left and right, some of which Hermione couldn’t even recognize, yet none went towards the crowd of people watching this spectacle in awe and horror. Even the Death Eaters were starting in blatant shock, except for Bellatrix, recognizable for the loud cheering for her lord mixed with several threats towards the students.

One after another, Voldemort cast spell after spell, with Harry dodging or blocking every one. However, after a few minutes, the positions almost seemed reversed, with Harry leading off with offensive spells and the Dark Lord seemingly on the defensive. It was a spectacle like none other Hermione had seen, sure this battle would go down in history.

Ron clutched her arm in the same amount of shock that she was in herself.

And finally, with a slip on Voldemort’s end, Harry was able to disarm the Dark Lord, much to the horrified awe of the crowd. He held his wand against Voldemort’s throat, even as Voldemort made the move to surrender, holding his hands to the side with a small smirk on his face.

(The smile itself was worrying, even before Hermione noticed Harry was holding back his own grin.)

She expected a surprise attack, perhaps an ambush from unseen Death Eaters, or a wandless and nonverbal curse. There was no way it was over that easily, not with Voldemort’s cheshire grin and almost glowing eyes. Hermione raised her wand, prepared to defend or run, and saw Ron copying her movement with his own.

And yet, instead of an attack-

“I forfeit. You win, Potter,” Voldemort said blithely, far more cheerful than anybody would have ever thought.

The schoolyard was so quiet Hermione could hear Harry’s huff of a response from across the yard.

“And with this comes my surrender to the war,” the Dark Lord continued, as if there were not many things wrong with that statement.

“You’re surrendering?” Harry repeated. “You?” He shoved his wand closer against Voldemort’s throat as he expressed his disbelief.

Voldemort’s grin only grew. “Yes. I surrender.”

“Prove it.”

Hermione took a step forward, ready for whatever may come, whether it be spells, an ambush, or even a bloody fistfight between the two of them.

She was not, however, prepared for Voldemort to drop to his knees and say-

“I, Tom Marvolo Riddle, hereby enact the Right of Conquest upon myself. I give myself freely in body, soul, and magic to Harry James Potter and bind myself to his will. So mote it be.”

The Death Eaters had paled from the first few words, Bellatrix screeching out her displeasure. Half of the students and all of the teachers (who knew what the Right of Conquest was) had wide eyes and an aghast expression, while the other half (who didn’t know) were watching the scene with a wary look.

They didn’t know the true weight of those words—how irreversible such a binding was—to properly react. Not that there was a correct way to react. Ron, as a pureblood, knew the implications perfectly well and was frozen in place, unable to comprehend what was possibly happening.

Hermione herself was having a hard time with it. She’d read up on the Right of Conquest a few times, but books on the subject were rare. It was- It was slavery. It was binding a person’s being to another willingly after being defeated in a battle. She hadn’t heard of a case of it happening since the early days—Merlin’s time early—which had been filled with an honor system she couldn’t imagine anyone agreeing to today.

It was seeing Voldemort willingly on his knees after being bested in a duel as her best friend stood over him, looking so very young for the burden he’d been placed with.

(And had somehow come out on top.)

“So mote it be,” Harry whispered, as a golden light bound The Boy Who Lived and The Dark Lord Voldemort together irreversibly.

. . . . .

13) Commitment

Harry woke up with a pounding headache and a sense of dread that only grew as he became more aware.

He was on a soft bed with rumpled blankets, but this was no doubt a hotel with its just slightly too cold air and too loud air conditioning. Without a second glance, Harry turned the contraption off with a gentle nudge of his magic, firmly ignoring the loud ‘crack’ it made in protest.

The body in bed next to him groaned as he awoke, until Tom was sitting up with the same annoyance of a headache that Harry was currently sporting. He kept the blanket tightly wrapped around him as he yawned, and only then became more aware of his surroundings.

“Merlin, how drunk did we get last night?” Tom asked in a grumble. He felt around for his wand on the bed, eventually finding it buried under his pillow.

“I don’t even remember,” Harry mumbled, sighing in relief as Tom rid him of his headache with a spell. “I remember.. a party? And.. did we make out?”

“I think,” Tom agreed. “But why are we in a hotel?”

Harry was curious about that too. “I’d like to say something to defend our drunk selves, but there’s no way they would’ve checked into a hotel without a reason.”

That feeling of dread hadn’t left him either, and Harry had a horrible suspicion he was forgetting something important.

While Harry pondered over what he could have possibly forgotten, sorting through blurry memories of the previous night’s events, Tom, still bundled up in the blanket and refusing to leave the bed, reached to the floor to grab a piece of paper. He stared at it for a minute, then another, before dropping his head to his hands with a huff of exasperated breath. “I figured out what drunk us did.”

Harry grabbed the paper to see for himself, only to freeze on the spot.

This was.. This was a marriage certificate.

Drunk them had gotten married.

Tom let out a sardonic laugh. “Well, I hadn’t anticipated this happening, but you know what they say, my dear, till death do us part.”

“Even in death I won’t be rid of your dumb ass and you know it,” Harry retorted.

“The memories are starting to come back to me, now,” Tom grimaced.

The same for Harry—there was lots of drinking, and he definitely did make out with Tom as they were getting their wedding vows, and there was him and Tom surrounded by empty glasses of what had once been filled with alcohol, and Tom stumbling out a “wanna get married” and Harry jumping on the idea immediately. Harry also remembered a specific point where he muttered “Sober me is going to be so surprised,” and Tom nodding along seriously.

“Guess you’re stuck with me now,” Harry finally said.

(As if they hadn’t spent hundreds of years with each other at this point.)

“You’ve got it all wrong, my dear,” Tom countered. “ You’re stuck with me. ”

With a sudden bout of worry, Harry ripped the blanket off of both of them, exposing the two of them to the cold air. He ignored Tom’s shout of “Hey!”, sighing in relief.

At least they were still wearing clothes.

. . . . .

14) Origins (part 2)

Harry Potter didn’t quite know what was going on. This is the second time, now, that he’d seemingly gone back in time.

The first time had been in the middle of him hunting down the horcruxes with Hermione and Ron, and he’d thought of how good a chance it was, that he could change things for the better, even just a little. Though he mourned the future he had been building with his friends, he could save so many lives (Fred) , even with only a few months of time extra.

It had felt so good wiping out Voldemort from the start, and the Death Eaters had fallen not long after. Why they didn’t think of getting rid of the main body just to start was a mystery—it wasn’t like his revival was instant , after all, and it’d give them precious time that they were lacking. However, for some reason, Voldemort hadn’t come back at all . Even before Harry and his friends had wiped out the remaining horcruxes, Voldemort had never made a reappearance. While it was strange, Harry hadn’t questioned it too much, and had gone on living his life with the knowledge he’d saved at least a few lives.

He’d been in the middle of eating dinner with his friends, celebrating the end of the war, and now suddenly he was back in the graveyard.

(It felt far too real to be a nightmare.)

There was the sound of Peter Pettigrew sniveling near a cauldron, the stinging pain of his arm, the silence of the Death Eaters surrounding him, and the Dark Lord seemingly frozen in.. confusion?

Well, no matter. Harry remembered how this happened. His nightmares wouldn’t let him forget this. With how he and Voldemort were both holding their wands, they were most likely about to duel.

He may not understand why Voldemort has decided to freeze up suddenly, but Harry wasn’t one to let an opportunity go to waste. Before anyone realized what was happening, Harry took the opportunity to strike with a lethal green. 

Voldemort’s eyes widened with terror as the spell shot toward him, and then he fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

And good riddance.

. . .

Tom Riddle didn’t quite know what was going on. This is the second time, now, that he’d seemingly gone back in time.

Only seconds ago, he’d seen Potter climbing through his window, throwing the killing curse at him with a brutality Tom didn’t remember him having. Tom had blacked out, no doubt because he’d died (he died he died but he’s alive-?), and now he was standing in a graveyard for reasons he didn’t understand.

He doesn’t want to admit it, but the terror of dying hadn’t left his mind (he died he died he died -) . His hands were shaking, and it’s hard to see anything but a green so bright that it makes him want to be sick.

(He doesn’t want to die-)

The panic blinded him, so much so that he didn’t realize when memory turned into reality—when the glimpses of green he couldn’t stop seeing led way for a real one. Tom doesn’t have time to do anything more than suck in a sharp breath, eyes wide with fear, before everything goes black.

Tom Riddle dies.