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Chapter Text

Harry James Potter, defeater of one Dark Lord as of twelve years ago, takes a swig of his drink as he ignores the massive headache he harbors. The amount of pain he’s currently in is enough to have him pass out for a week straight. He cannot even tell if the pain in his head is worse than the one his heart carries. Go figure that the Potter luck would strike again when he least expects it. But that’s the crux of it, isn’t it?

Grimacing, he swallows another mouthful of alcohol, just completely feeling sorry for himself. He knows he should be making plans, getting up and doing something, anything other than wallowing in self-pity. If Hermione were in his shoes, he knows she’d be making lists upon lists of things she needed to do and researching the hell out of her predicament. Except, it is not Hermione that is here. It’s of course Harry who really at this point in his life, should have expected the unexpectedness.

Taking a shaky wet breath, Harry glances at what’s left in his bottled drink of choice and decides enough is enough.

He’s been in the same pair of trousers and jumper for the past week and a half with no shower in between and has barely left the sofa, too busy despairing at his predicament and what led to it.

If the press could see him now, they’d have a field day surely. Famous Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, taken a hit from a broken heart and locks himself in sorrow! Is probably what they would write. Too bad for them that they weren’t getting even a cursory glance as Harry is not only nowhere nearby for the masses to stalk him, but he also isn’t even in the same time period anymore!

That’s bloody right.

Somehow, someway on the same day that he found out that his on and off again longtime ex had just gotten engaged, Harry drunk himself into a stupor and woke up in some random dirty, cold alleyway with an old woman hitting him with her cane.

Harry could sit here and explain to himself of all the ways that absolutely none of this makes any sense. How it is literally impossible to just wake up one day and find yourself just unceremoniously thrown into the past of all places. That seeing your ex in the arms of one Blaise Zabini in the throes of passion does not negate being unfairly punished.

However, instead of doing the responsible thing and making sense of all that unfolded, Harry decided to fish for coins after witnessing a newspaper with the date of 1931 and proceeded to spend those coins on alcohol and made progress on getting drunk. Again.

Why not? If it’s led him here it may lead him elsewhere if one’s so inclined.

There is no sense he is just going to be sittin’ here and say, ‘Right. Found myself where many before me had hoped to be, time to make some changes yea?’ No.

Harry is still in fact reeling from the betrayal of being tossed aside for bloody Zabini! One crisis at a time thanks. Besides, who’s to say he wouldn’t find himself back where he belonged if he just got as drunk as before. Made sense at the time to try and if it failed well, he’d still have the alcohol at least to console him after.

Waste not and all that.

He only had enough energy to grab the alcohol and find an abandoned building to temporarily squat.

So here he is now, many days later, still squatting in some random, rundown empty factory save for a bent and ripped sofa in an office where he had then continued to have his heartbreak in peace.

One day at a time. He’s currently passed the stage of crying and is slowly working his way to disappointment.

All past exchanges between himself, Hermione and the Weasleys made a lot more sense and not a one of them had warned him.

He wants to be angry at them, but he can’t. Not really when he is equally to blame and a small part of him had somewhere seen where this had been heading but chose to bury his face in a pile of denial.

He had hoped though that Hermione would have at least had his back, regardless of her position with Ron seeing as they were friends before her relationship. Her words used here not Harry’s. So much for that. He could understand Ron as Ginny is his little sister but why didn’t Hermione say anything? He’s starting to remember all of the guilty glances she gave and remembers asking about it, but she never said anything, and he never pursued it.

Coughing back a burn from his last swallow Harry just sighs tiredly.

He’s being rather unfair.

Of course, he knew why she never said a word. Not when Ginny and he have had many arguments in the past and got Hermione and Ron involved enough to pressure them to choose sides. Enough to wear them down and put their foot down to say enough was enough and that their relationship was between the two and no one else’s responsibility to take care of. He agreed. Still agrees in fact. But Harry wants to be angry at someone!

“Blegh,” Harry swallows reflexively the acid reflex. Grimacing in self-disgust, he tosses the bottle away, flinching at the loud clank sound the glass gives when meeting the floor.

Harry is most angry at himself, however.

Here he is in 1931 and he’s done absolutely nothing about it in the days he’s been here. He had not gone on some adventure binge to discover how this came about and find a solution. He’s made no attempts to contact the Ministry to find if there are answers there. And he most certainly made no effort to go about improving his current circumstances in anyway nor the people he cares for. In fact, Harry would go so far as to say that he doesn’t even care about making it back to the future and some small dark part of him knew this from the start.

All of Harry and Ginny’s breakups ended consistently by one thing and that was Harry’s ever-growing apathy towards things that should have mattered most than the ones Harry chose to cling to.  

Case in point, finding out about Ginny and Blaise when he damn well knows they had broken up amicably and mutually and he hadn’t once thought of her in the time they were apart. So why is he sitting here, dirty and starving, crying himself to sleep?

Because he’s starting to unnerve himself.

Sometime after the defeat of Voldemort, Harry has lost a part of himself, weary and depressed and just ready to sleep for months on end with no sight of waking up. At least, not anytime soon. He is not suicidal.

At the very least, he wasn’t at that point in time, but he supposes perhaps that he could have been. Just thinking about the lone walk, he took to meet Voldemort in the forest is still enough to have Harry clutching his chest, making sure his heart still beats.

Shuddering, Harry mentally swats it away. Not now. Not ever if he has the choice.

The devasting news though told him something in the privacy of his mind. He is not heartbroken that Ginny found someone to love and appreciate her for her but, despairing that he was no longer going to be an official Weasley. That the family he fought for, made memories with were now going to include someone else who had a part in Harry’s misery right next to Malfoy. That once again, he was unneeded, unwanted.

And while he knew in faith that the Weasley’s would never abandon him, it isn’t the same. This desolation of his heart had no impact on anyone but himself and he deserved to be punished for selfishly thinking he could have it all and not give Ginny the love and adoration she is entitled to. To not settle for someone like Harry.

Just, you know, he didn’t think that that punishment should have been him thrown in the past is all.

Either way, Harry hasn’t the energy nor coherency to do any sort of thinking let alone planning at this very moment. So, he sleeps. Let tomorrow him deal with this mess.

~ . * . ~

‘Tomorrow him’ is here and is seriously bemoaning a lot of life choices he’s made thus far.

Presently, it’s the foul odor coming from his mouth and sniffing his shirt has him coughing and dry heaving, making his headache worse.

Fuckin’ bloody hangovers.

He regrets not picking a place with a shower. The thought did cross his mind to use his wand for hygiene, except for the lovely little surprise that awaited Harry in the alleyway had included a missing wand, didn’t it?

No money, no wand, no dignity. He’s already got started with the best start here, hasn’t he? If Snape were here, he’d surely find the humor if only to be able to get one last jibe at him.  

Sighing, he thought to himself that he really should have learned more wandless magic that did not consist of flashy and defensive spells. Really, the everyday basic is where it’s at.

While Harry felt as if he’d been dragged through the depths of the forbidden forest by a herd of thestrals, he couldn’t help but notice that he also felt lighter.

Never mind the fact that he hadn’t eaten once in the entire week and that that could be the reason. No. He is fairly sure it is because his thoughts no longer feel so burdensome. That could very well change, but at present all is clear.

It is time to make some much-needed plans but first, to find a place that allows showers.

Twenty minutes later and the best Harry could find is a cold arse half frozen pond which no, he did not attempt to swim in.

Grumbling in frustration and already irritated as well as thirsty for some desperately needed water, Harry mentally goes through his options.

He could go to this times’ Leaky Cauldron, but he did not have any money to pay for a room. His next choice is to go to Gringotts and deal with the Goblins for a heritance test and get money that way. The downside of that option is well, dealing with the Goblins who had made it noticeably clear that Harry wasn’t welcomed and did their very best to make each visit awkward and headache inducing every single time. And while these Goblins did not know what the future him had done; the memories alone are enough to have Harry grimacing now. Lastly, the third option is breaking into a place that will have a bathroom. Choices, choices.

In the end, Harry decides to take his chances with the Goblins. While he might have it easier by breaking into a home with amenities, he didn’t feel comfortable taking advantage of anyone, even temporarily.

With a great sigh of disappointment, Harry silently prays that all goes well. And that he doesn’t smell too bad. Perhaps he should go fishing for more coins just in case? No. No, he should just get this over with. Keep some little dignity left even if it isn’t much to begin with.

Finding a secluded corner where there are no muggles nearby, Harry apparates near the Leaky Cauldron. Thankfully, still here and looking the same if not a bit newer than before. Not by much though. Taking a quick, deep breath, Harry braces himself and steps into the building wondering if the inside is any different.

Estimating it is around lunchtime, the Leaky looks to be quite busy and packed in than usual. Wanting to be done already, Harry quickly bypasses people left and right and making it finally to the brick wall outside where an older Witch just finished tapping the wall. How convenient for him, he thinks.

He too steps through and can’t contain the gasp of shock that leaves him.

Nostalgia wracks through him at seeing a fully packed Diagon Alley filled with chattering and laughing people, brooms flying about and owls hurrying to deliver packages and letters.

The only difference Harry notes from his 11-year-old self is that there seems to be far more colour and shops than he remembers existing.

“Oi! Get a move on lad!”

Alarmed, Harry quickly steps aside as an old Wizard with a large beard that completely covers half of his face shakes his head at Harry. In his surprise, Harry had blocked the path and the old man zooms pass, muttering all the while about ‘rude young wizards no longer respecting their elders.’

Shaking his head, Harry dazedly steps into the crowd and gets swept along.

How is this possible? Where did all these people come from and why weren’t they there in Harry’s time?

Surely Grindelwald’s and Voldemort’s wars weren’t enough to cause this amount of devastation?

Further into the crowd, some shops jump out at Harry that he’s never even seen in his time, and off where Knockturn Alley is at, Harry sees that even there it’s bustling with people.

Even more, Harry can see a small sign veering off the main path that reads, “This Way to Deliciae Alley where your everyday luxuries are met!”

What?

Wait, what?

What is this? There’s absolutely no way that there’s an alleyway in the Wizarding world he doesn’t know. Not after signing up to be an Auror whose very job was to patrol where any road may lead, all the better to protect everyone. Not even abandoned roads were saved from patrols. Has this alley always been here until the war destroyed this too? Or…or is he in some alternate universe?

Harry did not like this at all. For the first time since he’s awoken to this time, he feels a note of seriousness instead of his heavily clinging indifference, a fissure of unease settling into his bones.

Looking away, he picks up the pace a bit, Gringotts within his sights. He needs answers. If this is indeed an alternate universe, he does not know what he will do. Is it better to be in the past or somewhere else? He doesn’t know the answer, and that makes him afraid.

Reaching the door and the Goblin guards standing outside, Harry steps in without hesitation, ignoring the looks he’s receiving. He understands the concern as he didn’t look like he had anything to his name with his current looks and they would be right to think so. Fortunately for them, he has nothing nefarious planned.

He waits in line for the wizard in front of him to finish his business with the Goblin. After a few minutes the wizard leaves in a huff and its now Harry’s turn. The Goblin watches him approaching, his mouth forming into a sneer as he takes a look at Harry’s unclean and rumpled looking self.

Clearing his throat, Harry says, “I’d like to take a heritance test please.”

“That will be 7 Galleons.”

“Sev—seven!?” Harry shouts a little before lowering his voice as the people around him startle and look. “Three,” Harry bargains instead.

Glowering, the Goblin replies, “Five and that is final Wizard. Leave if you cannot pay.”

“Fine then, five Galleons, but that’s bloody expensive for a damn heritance test,” Harry grumbles aloud. “I’ll pay after the test.” Hopefully there’ll be a vault that Harry can claim guilt free and one that had monetary value, or the Goblins would probably have him arrested then and there for daring to try to use a service he cannot afford.

The Goblin looks displeased but writes the service down in a book.

“Very well wizard, wait to the side and another will be with you shortly.”

Harry breathes out a sigh of relief and does as the Goblin mentions, another customer quickly taking his place. Even the bank is filled with a great many deals of people.

He only had to wait for a few minutes before a Goblin walks up to him, giving Harry a curt, ‘Follow me,’ and swiftly bypasses everyone leading Harry to an obscure door off to the side of the main doors.

Stepping in immediately quietens the crowd like noise Harry had tuned to without realizing until it is suddenly cut off. He’s then led to another door with a name that looks unpronounceable and steps in after the Goblin gestures for him to do so and then closes the door, leaving.

There’s a sturdy and bulky looking Goblin seated at the only desk in the room wearing tiny spectacles who motions for Harry to take a seat at the only available chair left.

The nameplate on the desk reads completely different than the one on the door which has Harry assuming that this one is meant for the Wizard/Witches to read and the other for the Goblins. The name reads as: HawkIron who pulls out a roll of parchment and a long, thin needle.

“Prick three of your fingers with this and press onto the parchment at the same time, holding for five seconds then remove.”

Harry grabs the needle, nervously pricking his index, middle and ring of his left hand and presses into the paper. Counting five seconds he then removes his hand and is surprised to see HawkIron holding out a napkin for him to use. Harry gives his thanks, pressing the napkin to his fingers and watching as his blood is then used to form lines onto the paper. Many lines, Harry notices with trepidation.

He had not expected to be helped so quickly. He had mentally prepared himself to be interrogated first before taking any action. Though, he supposes he shouldn’t have been totally surprised as the Goblins are, first and foremost, creatures that value good working relationships. Still, it’s only been fifteen minutes at most since he’s entered the bank.

Wizard and Goblin sit in silence for 10 minutes before a soft bell like ring clangs in the otherwise quiet and HawkIron grabs the parchment.

Sighing in quiet relief, Harry hopes he’s just about done as those 10 minutes felt the most awkward, he’s been in a long time.

HawkIron signs the bottom of the roll, not even bothering to read the information provided and then looks at Harry, saying in a practiced and most likely often repeated phrase of, “This here is old, tried and true magic of your own blood and therefore no mistakes were made in the making. No, we cannot change the results and after reading, you are to sign the bottom on the line provided, confirming your understanding of these results and that Gringotts is not responsible for any action you may take afterwards. When ready to sign, give me a signal and I will let in a witness whereupon the completion of all, you are then to pay the required fee of five Galleons regardless of your satisfaction with the results. Failure to do so will see you banned from our establishment with a fine of five hundred Galleons and a night in Azkaban. Do you agree and understand Wizard?”

Harry could feel the blood draining from his face and his eyes wide in fear and disbelief. He can only nod and pray that he is able to pay and leave with his name intact. What a life tale this would be to get thrown away at a different time only to be housed in Azkaban a week in.

Molly Weasley would surely faint.

Hesitating, Harry grabs the parchment held out to him and gives another prayer to whoever is listening and finally reads his results. Nothing is registering at first and Harry knows it’s because he’s so nervous, so he swallows and tries again, taking in deep breaths as he does so.

Skepticism has him suddenly speechless.

Harry looks towards HawkIron who narrows his smaller eyes in warning, daring him to complain.

Clearing his throat, he looks back down at the paper. In clear but bold letters in the same colour as his blood, reads as follows:

Parental Individuals for wizard of: Harry James Potter

Father: James Fleamont Potter - wizard

Mother: Lily Jane Potter nee Evans - witch

Guardian Individuals for wizard: Harry James Potter as a minor but not applicable when witch/wizard reaches of age-

Guardian 1: Sirius Orion Black – wizard – Godfather

Guardian 2: Alice Longbottom – witch - Godmother

Guardian 3: Remus John Lupin – wizard - werewolf

Guardian 4: Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore – Wizard - Magical Guardian

Guardian 5: Petunia (middle undisclosed) Dursley nee Evans – Muggle - Aunt

Relations for Harry James Potter:

*Hardwin (middle undisclosed) Potter – wizard - Great, Great, Great Grandfather

*Iolanthe (middle undisclosed) Potter nee Peverell – witch - Great, Great, Great Grandmother

*Henry Hardwin Potter – Wizard – Great, Great Grandfather

*(First, Middle, Last Undisclosed) – Witch – Great, Great Grandmother

Fleamont Henry Potter - Wizard - Grandfather

Euphemia Hesper Potter nee Black – Witch - Grandmother

Charlus Fleamont Potter - wizard - cousin

Dorea Violetta Potter nee Black – witch - cousin

Potential next of kin to heirship as follows unless stated otherwise:

House of Potter

Noble House of Black

Noble House of Peverell (You are currently not applicable to title)

Noble House of Macmillan (You are currently not applicable to title)

House of Burke

Through extenuating circumstances:

Ex-Noble House of Gaunt (You are currently not applicable to title)

Noble House of Slytherin (You are currently not applicable to title)

Vaults ready to be used unless stated otherwise:

Vault #713 (Currently unavailable as funds have yet to be added)

Vault #507

Vault #214 (Currently unavailable)

Vault #344 (Currently unavailable)

Vault #354 (Currently unavailable)

Vault #909

Vault #7 (Currently unavailable)

Vault #13

Vault #21

Vault #687 (Currently unavailable)

Though the parchment isn’t as long as Harry has seen of others, it is still impressive and a bit daunting, nonetheless.

However, he now faces a problem in gaining a title. He doesn’t want any notice here from anyone by standing out as he’s still figuring out what he wants to do.

He has already decided that any attempts to go back to his time would be fruitless considering he lacks the knowledge of where to even start and the simple matter that even in his time it was ruled impossible to travel to the future. Only the past. A Time Turner gave you 3 hours but nothing more than that and nothing that Unspeakables ever released to having change.

Harry is decent enough in his studies but he’s no Hermione. It would have to be pure desperation on his part to make any headway to figuring out how to go back and would involve a lot more help than he could hope to ask.

Also, Harry is questioning the logistics on why vault numbers are on a family tree parchment and can only assume that this is a Gringotts feature. He doesn’t ask aloud in fear that this would be considered a complaint of some sort.

He withholds a grumble of frustration and quickly decides on a different plan to pursue.

He cannot not go without a name here in the Wizarding World unfortunately where their whole society is built and formed on it, especially any time before Harry entered Hogwarts in the future. He also needs money soon as getting a job, even a seedy one isn’t just going to walk up to him in a day or two without some serious effort on his part.

While possible on both fronts, it isn’t without some risks and Harry is still unsure of his current plans that he doesn’t want to block any available avenues he can use now or save for later. So, rationally he thinks he should go the least troublesome route possible.

If nothing else, he can always travel to France or somewhere else and start new there.

He reads his parchment one more time, grateful that HawkIron isn’t rushing him.

Harry is not happy to see the names Gaunt, Slytherin or even Macmillan but fortunately, he does not have access to them. He is 100% certain that even if they were accessible, he still wouldn’t have chosen them to make his life easier. No thanks.

He’s unsurprised to see Black on the paper, though is surprised to see that it’s available to him in any manner currently. Peverell certainly is a shock to an extent as the connection should certainly be diluted enough to not count and assumes that the ‘not applicable’ is in reference to Tom Riddle being alive.

Tom has a greater standing to attain the name if he so chooses and even though Harry is older currently the magic surrounding the parchment must be counting the timelines together and concluded that Harry is the youngest of the two. He is most definitely flabbergasted to see the name Burke though and can see no relation as to why it’s there. He wishes to burn the parchment alone on principle but refrains.

His brain hurts just thinking about the logistics to be honest.

HawkIron starts shuffling some papers and closes an open book.

Heart racing, he goes over the parchment again and again.

Undecided still on where to even start, he elects to make a pro vs. con list in his head.

His only choices, Potter and Black. Not much of a choice really if he wanted to stay unnoticed in this timeline. In fact, it is the very last thing he wants to pick for either, as both names were recognized in this timeline for vastly different reasons. He’s not even going to entertain the thought of using the name Burke! Not if he wants to stay clear of Aurors and the Ministry really.

What a mess!

Using the Potter name would mean getting close and personal to the Potters and though an exceptionally large aching part of him would love nothing more than to do so, to get to know the people he never got a chance to, it would also mean coming clean eventually and leaving them potentially in danger of the Ministry. Not to mention so many of them die way before Harry’s time.

He’s still undecided on Riddle.

As for the Black family, there’s a whole list of reasons for why he shouldn’t bother. A list that would honestly take Harry days to fill out and still run out of paper to add. However, there’s only one reason to even contemplate taking the name. Sirius. The thought alone to saving and helping Sirius as Sirius has tried to help Harry is reason enough in his book.

Ugh. But the thought of dealing in any way with Walburga, Bellatrix, and anyone else in the Black family sounds absolutely dreadful.

He is hoping for a bit more options than what he got.

“Is there a problem Wizard?”

HawkIron must have gotten tired, waiting in the silence. Harry is no closer to choosing an alias, all half-arsed plans made earlier, crumbling to dust.

Wanting to bang his head against something, anything, Harry alternatively looks HawkIron in the face and decides that honesty is going to have to count for something.

The only pro of telling him anything is that no Goblin would willingly run to the ministry for any reason other than to cause them trouble twofold. They take every chance they possibly can, to guarantee their patrons satisfaction and reliability services and their willingness to stay discreet.

“Listen HawkIron, I’m not sure how to tell you this nor if you’ll believe me.”

“Get on with it.”

Harry can’t tell if HawkIron’s frown deepens.

“Right. Yes, well, you see…I’m not from here. I mean, time. Era. Erm, I’m not from this time exactly, is what I meant. Yes.”

Wizard and Goblin stare in silence. HawkIron’s face doesn’t change.

“You still have to pay your fee.”

Flabbergasted and flustered, Harry replies, “What? No. I mean, yes, of course I’ll pay.” He changes his statement real quick at the look HawkIron gives. “What I mean to say is, uh, does Gringotts provide…services? For unexpected time travelers?”

HawkIron taps a few claws on his desk, contemplative. Or at least Harry thinks he’s contemplating and considering Harry’s situation if he isn’t, Harry’s then doomed. He doesn’t want to spend a night in Azkaban, and he needs Gringotts! Maybe he needs Gringotts. Well, he isn’t sure he needs them per se, but the option in case that changes is definitely needed.

Afterall, what if he does somehow make it back to his time and the Goblins remember the Potter boy that failed to pay his fee and ban all other Potters? Disastrous that would be.

Finally, the ‘CLACK, CLICK’ noise pauses. HawkIron looking like he’s come to some sort of conclusion.

Sighing, he gets up and walks behind his own chair where seconds later, a wall shimmers away to reveal a set of hidden drawers.

Surprised, Harry watches as HawkIron proceeds to rummage through them, scouting for something specific. Harry figures he’s found it when he pulls out a folder that’s thicker than Harry’s bed of hair. The drawers shimmer back into a wall and HawkIron already settles into his seat with the folder.

Digging into it, he pulls out what looks like a clause form.

“Read this and sign. No witnesses required other than my own at this time.”

Grabbing the paper offered to him, he swiftly skims it. He’s right, a clause for what’s to be discussed. He reads from the top, slowly this time to make sure he understands what he’s signing.

Contract of Wizardy Act III

Time Traveler Clause in accordance with Gringotts Wizarding Bank

In the event that a time traveler (you) makes it in one piece in an era not of your own and requires the assistance of our established reputation, you agree to the following down below.

This is an understanding/agreement between Wizard/Witch/Folk _____ and Goblin _____ of Gringotts Wizarding Bank whereby _____ agrees to a period of __ years, beginning ________. Mr./Mrs./Miss/NA ____ agrees to pay 45 Galleons and Mr./Mrs./Miss/NA ____ agrees to the following:

1. Must provide accurate enough information to Gringotts to invest.
2. Will require you to inform Gringotts of any possible danger/inconveniences related.
3. Give accounts of trials for potential growth to Gringotts.
4. In the event that you must go to the Ministry in relation to your contract, you must then forfeit any and all assistance Gringotts provided.
5. Not to supply any competitor of Gringotts with your patron that we can otherwise provide ourselves.

In return, Gringotts will offer with the included fee, completed paperwork for a workable alias, passing the inspection of the Ministry upon your oath to not reveal said service. We, the Goblins will provide per contract clause, a curse breaker, ward maker, lawyer, loans, (an additional +12 Galleons needed) and exclusive access to the library of Gringotts specific to time travelers only. In addition, Gringotts will file said paperwork and all legal requirements filled to the Ministry, promising a 100% success, and establishing a workable background.

If you decide to reject this offer you must submit to a memory removal regarding this contract and the removal of any and all discussions related. Sign here upon agreement of doing so ____.

If in agreement with all of the above, sign here: ______.

Harry’s head feels like it’s swimming in the Black Lake all over again. Just what in the world is he getting into? Avoiding the ministry as an oath? Having to give any and all information he has on Gringotts from the future? And 45 Galleons!? He’s still stressing about paying the bloody five! And they want more? And just what is he supposed to do if he gets caught out?

He’s not sure if he even should agree to the contract at all but also saying no would mean losing the advantage.

If only Hermione had been here. She’d know what to do.

Rolling his tongue across the front of his teeth, he finally decides.

“Can you guarantee a success with my current bloodline tree? In order for this to work, I would need access to a vault that fits the requirements under the alias.”

At the mention of vault, HawkIron’s focus sharpens. He tilts his head. “Are you saying that if there are no vaults for you, you are unable to pay your fees?”

Flushing, Harry hunches in a bit. Should he be honest or try another route? Ugh. He nods in strain honesty. Hermione would be beaming in pride if she were here while Ron would’ve been shaking his head, asking why?

Clearly irritated now, HawkIron thrusts his hand out, demanding Harry’s parchment. Harry hastily gives it back and watches silently as he reads through it.

If he seems surprised by any of the results his face doesn’t show it. He grabs a quill and mutters something in Gobbledegook making the quill into a deep blue instead of red. He draws lines into a path that only he follows and understands, making notes here and there. He leaves his seat for a moment to go to a different wall that also shimmers into place. Harry wonders if every wall in Gringotts hides a plethora of drawers to the unseeing. Would certainly make a lot of sense.

HawkIron comes back with a large and incredibly old book this time. It makes a loud ‘thump’ when it hits the desk. Pages upon pages are flipped until the Goblin settles for one, he’s clearly been looking for.

Harry waits.

HawkIron makes some more marks.

Flips some more pages.

Harry wants to so bad to shout aloud to ease some of the tension but immediately squashes down the impulse.

Finally, finally HawkIron puts down his quill and shuts the book close, looking Harry in the eye.

He says nothing though and just stares in a way that makes Harry nervous.

“Was there a problem?” Harry asks.

HawkIron hums noncommittedly and looks off to the side, snapping his fingers where two folders zoom across the room and lands on the desk. Harry has no idea where the folders came from as the walls are still very much in place.

“There is…a slight hiccup in your plans Mr. Potter.”

Harry has no time to be surprised at the use of his surname before HawkIron pushes on.

“Am I to assume you had wanted to keep your lineage as close to your timeline as possible?”

“Er, yes?” Harry isn’t sure what HawkIron means exactly. Is he talking about his parents?

“Hmm, yes, a slight problem. There are only two Wizards in our records of vault holders that would fit your description, disposition, and needs but is not of your bloodline from whence you came in the ways that matter.”

Sitting there stunned, Harry feels the thrum of excitement that HawkIron has found a potential alias to help him build himself in this society but also dreads that he thinks HawkIron is hinting at him leaving behind familiarity.

“I’m sorry? Bloodline? Wait, two Wizards!?” As in, two fathers?

Dazed, Harry watches as HawkIron opens the folders, pulling out two separate parchments. He lays them facing down towards Harry and starts pointing out the details.

“This was Corvus Reginald Black, a known carrier who left home in a fit of rage and went exploring across the wizarding countries. Last known location was Kenmare, a half-magical town of Ireland.”

HawkIron pulls the other parchment closer, pointing at the name at the top. “And this was Montonius Henry Potter, two years younger than Corvus who left Wizarding Britain after graduating from Hogwarts. Went chasing after the lore of Gryffindors lost treasure and broom making. Last known location, Kenmare. Witnesses claim to have seen Montonius together with Corvus, both seemingly to have had a heated argument before separating. Both soon disappeared altogether and have not been seen for over 30 years now current. Both descriptions and statements were collected after their disappearance and recorded in Gringotts for follow up clauses.”

Reeling from the information and not having time to process anything as of yet, Harry does not put-up protest to HawkIron continuing.

“Both have vaults to their names, currently unclaimed and both fit the age and most requirements to act as pseudo parents for your needs with little to no questions.”

Harry begs to differ. If there is one thing Harry took and understood from the Wizarding World, it is that there are always mile long questions and entitlements for answers. And always in regard to Harry.

He grabs the parchments anyway to read over them himself.

He blinks after reading over Corvus Black’s paper. He then blinks again to make sure he isn’t seeing things. He doesn’t bother asking HawkIron if the information is true considering the Goblins pride themselves with their intel prowess. Corvus Black is a half-blood. Or was, if he isn’t around anymore. A half-blood!

Son to Isla Black and a Bob Hitchens.

Corvus must have taken his mother’s name if he went to Hogwarts or had been homeschooled at the very least.

Sirius nor Dumbledore ever mentioned a half-blood that wasn’t Tonks from the Black family. And to think that this information is so readily available at Gringotts of all places if anyone were to look if they so choose.

If Tonks wasn’t the only half-blood, then did that mean that Corvus was also a carrier of the Metamorphosis ability and that that was the reason he hadn’t been found since 1905?  

Masquerading as someone else…being someone else that had no relations to the Blacks.

That was a thought to ponder about later. Reading further showed that Corvus seemed to be tolerant enough of muggles base off his last whereabouts and his overall background. There is however no description nor pictures included to tell Harry if he could pass as this mans’ son though seeing as he has no idea if anyone who knew Corvus so closely is still around kicking.

Corvus was an only child and his vault spending records showed that he had traveled many places and regularly showed his galleons being spent at an owlery.

Harry is assuming Corvus was still very much in contact with his parents. The date shows February 4, 1905, as the last time Corvus used the owlery in Kenmare. Most likely this was also the date that he was last seen arguing with Montonius.

Humming under his breath, Harry reaches next for Montonius’ information. There isn’t much compared to Corvus. Just that he took out a large some of galleons from his vault upon the day he received it, meaning this must have been the day he graduated from Hogwarts. No surprise that he was a Gryffindor for sure.

Montonius hadn’t been to too many places compared to Corvus, but Harry sees that on the same date of February 1905, Montonius made his last known purchase at a Wand shop.  Again, no picture included for Harry to see.

Harry didn’t exactly have a lot of options right now to not go ahead with HawkIron’s choice.

He could feel the Goblin’s stare.

Harry knew though, that once he made this decision, there’s no going back. A tiny part of him understood that there’s a bit of acceptance in motion the moment he signs the waver. No. The moment he decided to walk into Gringotts it’s been made, hasn’t it.

Sighing aloud, Harry looks at HawkIron and nods.

“Let’s go ahead with this option then. What do I need to do?”

Chapter Text

Several hours later, and Harry now has a plan ironed out with HawkIron’s help.

He’s already signed the needed documents confirming his new identity along with ownership of two vaults that were not listed from earlier. Harry then got an additional two vaults, making it a total of four.

Perks being, he suspects, of fraud. It should make him feel guilty, but Harry thinks he’s still got leftover alcohol making his decisions at the moment.

Each vault had anywhere ranging from 100k galleons to 400k, awaiting for anyone to claim and use. Harry just happened to be the ‘right’ sort of person to lay claim to them. Now while that is because of the Goblin’s doing or just because of timing, Harry is nonetheless, a little suspicious as it feels too convenient.

He isn’t exactly used to having things go his way like this, not without Ron’s or Hermione’s help anyway.

Heart twinging and heavy, Harry has to clear his throat suddenly.

At the very least, he now has enough galleons to give himself a room and shower and some clothes. Now he just needs to get an apparition license and maybe find a job. For that he’ll need to head to the Ministry when given the chance.

Peering down at his new identification papers he can’t help the small sigh of disappointment.

At the top where it says to state name it reads, Hadrian Montonius Potter-Black. Eurgh. What a pompous sounding name. While he knows that currently the times are different compared to his own, it makes the ridiculousness no less sounding.

Nothing of Harry James remains in the name where it matters most.

While he can still get away with using ‘Harry’ for Hadrian, he had to reluctantly let go of ‘James’ and that had hurt immensely.

No matter how he argued his case, HawkIron could not let him keep the name, not and conceivably go unbothered by the Ministry. Apparently, you couldn’t just make up a name, you had to claim what already existed in the system of paper trails to make a lie believable and unanswered questions, answerable. To not do so was to invite the Ministry’s speculation and the curiosity of the Unspeakables.

If not, Harry would next find himself buried in the system of the government, experimented on until there would be nothing left of him.

So, says HawkIron anyway. Harry’s willing to believe him and so had grudgingly dropped the matter.

Certainly, a bitter thing to swallow, but what was giving up one more thing anyway in the life of Harry Potter.

So now, he’s sitting here, double checking that all looks satisfactory for both himself and the Goblin’s before he can go get that much needed shower.  

HawkIron then had Harry write down all the changes the Wizarding World had gone through in his time for businesses, Quidditch matches, most popular music artists, upcoming celebrities. Anything and everything that is related to making deals and money. He did make sure to include the Dragon bit as well as his guilt and thanks would allow nothing less.

In return for the helpful information, Harry would receive some of the profits depending on the results given. Overall, it was more than fair enough seeing as Harry gets an entire new life and an income, illegally.

Rita Skeeter would have had the last laugh.

That done, he says his thanks and byes to HawkIron then follows another Goblin to visit one of his newly acquired vaults.

Another 30 minutes and Harry now Hadrian can leave the bank with fuller pockets.

He wastes no time heading over to the Leaky.

The place is still in full swing. Several witches and wizards avoid looking at him and one Witch practically runs when she gets close enough to smell him. He can feel his face heating but bulls on forward. He still has many things left to do today before he can call it quits.

At the counter pouring drinks looks to be a young woman who maybe just recently graduated from Hogwarts. She clearly gives him the stink eye when he gets closer, but Harry doesn’t allow that to bother him. He’s got a goal in mind thank you.

“One room for the week please,” pulling out several Galleons, he places it on the countertop. “I’ll also need a hot meal sent up, along with a butterbeer and a change of clothes if you have it.”

The young Witch looks happy to see the money which Harry can understand. He does look haggard, and he cannot even put a name to how he smells. It just makes him uncomfortable to be silently judged like that when no one knows why.

She takes the money and writes into a book before pulling a key out from underneath the counter. She does all of this smoothly, which tells Harry she’s been here for a while now. Maybe even older than he first thought.

“Room 304 sir. I’ll have a meal sent up in 15 if that works and we do have some spare clothing but they’re not really nothin’ to write home about if I say so myself.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll take it anyway and 15 minutes works just fine, thank you.” Harry gives a small smile but leaves before the woman can respond in kind.

Hurrying into his room, he rushes into the shower, ready to be cleaned. Ten minutes into his wash and he realizes he’d forgotten to ask for a toothbrush. Dismayed, he hopes he doesn’t have to talk to anyone really lest they run from his breath too.   

After 40 minutes, Harry leaves the bathroom to see a tray on the table in the corner with a still steaming plate full of food and on the bed are clothes. Just a plain white and loose button down with a pair of dark trousers. 

He dresses then sits down to eat, all the while mentally tallying what’s next on his list.

What he needs right now more than anything is a wand. He doesn’t even know if his own wand has been made yet or if it will even recognize him as its’ owner. Either way, he isn’t willing to be parted long without it.

Running his hands through his hair in frustration, he breathes out noisily. There is no other wand that will do. His holly wand remains the perfect fit for him and to not have that would be like severing his arm and hallowing out his heart at the same time.

Dramatic but nonetheless, true.  

He has no choice but to see for himself. If his wand ceases to exist just yet, he’ll just make do with a temporary one until his is fully created.

He also needed to stop by the Ministry and then get some supplies as well as a start at finding a place to reside in.

While he can now afford to stay at the Leaky for however long he wishes, he isn’t exactly comfortable with squandering away money like that.

Finishing his meal in record time, he goes to the mirror off to the side to make sure he at least looked presentable. The bed nearby looks tempting, but he cannot afford to put his much-needed list off another day.

“Oohh! Well don’t you look ravishing.”

Jumping in freight, Harry looks around wildly, his right hand glowing a faint red.

“Oh, come on now! No need to be afraid. Was just a compliment. Hmph!”

“What?” Harry doesn’t see anyone else in the room nor does his wandless and nonverbal Revelio show anything.

“Really? Are those glasses for decoration? Come now honey, right here, in the mirror.”

Whirling back around, Harry sees a version of himself reflected into the floor length mirror he’s standing in front of, with one hand on his hip and foot tapping.

His reflection looks mildly disappointed.

Sighing in relief, Harry realizes it’s one of those bloody mirrors that compliments you or destroys your self-esteem in one go. He’s completely forgotten about them as Mione had all but decreed them useless.

She hadn’t been too pleased with Fleur’s gift as the mirror had made it it’s lifeless mission to insult her at every turn. Needless to say, it had been another marked point in the discourse between the two women.  

“You look fetching and now go fetch more gazes when you leave this room!” His reflection starts posing exaggeratedly, all the while making silly faces. “Though those glasses are quite terrible! You can do better.”

Harry thinks Hermione had a point.

He didn’t bother buttoning the shirt all the way, so his collarbones are peeking out a bit. His hair’s a mess as usual and the trousers while not quite form fitting, are still clinging appropriately unlike his past cast offs. Face is a little flushed from the earlier chastisement of his reflection. Overall, he looks like his usual self just without his flannels.

Scoffing lightly, he walks to leave the room after grabbing his galleon pouch as he ignores the mirror hollering insults. He’s got a wand to find.

~ . * . ~

It took an embarrassingly long time for Harry to find Ollivanders’ wand shop. The shop apparently moves down two blocks at some point in the future as it had not been where he first found it at 11 years old. Go figure.

He had had to ask a passing Hag for directions for a galleon in exchange. It had not been well spent as she had had him hold her mystery black bag to which shrieked for every shifted movement. He feared asking what was in it as her eyes gleamed in strange light, silently begging for him to do so.

He’d remained silent and as soon as the exchange had been done, he’d booked it much to the Hag’s disappointment, he’s sure.

Now that he’s found the shop, he relaxes in silent relief. He makes sure to note mentally to avoid all Hags from then on.

Peering into the distance, he frowns as the day gets older. He must’ve spent a lot more time in Gringotts than he remembers.  

Stepping into the shop he immediately spots Ollivander behind the counter. He’s helping a customer, so Harry takes the chance to make sure his scar is covered. While it means nothing to anyone in this time, he’d rather not risk it with this man whose gaze unsettles him and remembers far too much. He’s quite younger looking which only unsettles him all the more.  

The Wizard in front of him pays and shuffles out.

“Hello there. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

Harry looks away from the exiting Wizard and looks to Ollivander whose stare un-wavers. Yea, still very unnerving.

“No, we haven’t.” Slowly Harry moves up to the counter, making himself look around here and there as he quickly builds a backstory. He has a feeling that he’ll be needing it soon and often. “I’m new here. Just arrived this morning after a long week. I am in need of a wand.”

“A wand you say?” Ollivander looks excited at the prospect. “If you’re looking for a second wand, I will need Ministry approved papers. Want to keep things proper and legal of course.”

“Erm, no, not a second wand. I’d been borrowing my last one for a long while. Been wanting my own but my parents had suggested I wait until I got here you see. They’ve boasted about it for the longest.”

“I see. Well, that certainly changes things. Far easier between you and me then. Might I ask who your parents are?” Humming to himself, Ollivander starts putting away some of the wands on the counter, but Harry can tell he’s listening attentively.

“Sure, Corvus Black and Montonius Potter.” He places one hand on the counter, waiting to be done with this conversation now. If he isn’t so desperate to be reunited with his wand, he’d been out the door already.

Ollivander looks up wide eyed. “Corvus and Montonius you say?” He drops what he’s doing and goes to stand in front of Harry. “Oh yes, indeed. I see now. Certainly, can’t miss that Potter hair for sure. Hmm yes, I remember Potter having green eyes but not quite as vibrant as yours. How curious. I can see a little bit of Corvus but not much. Potter genes are quite strong as I hear it. Yes, quite.”

Harry swallows reflexively, masking his confusion he hopes. He looked like them? As in, two Wizards? Maybe Ollivander is the confused one. What an odd thing to say really.   

“Why, it seems only yesterday that I gave your fathers their wands. I did hear rumors claiming that Corvus’ a carrier of course. It’s quite rare though I’m sure you’re well aware of that. And how are they? Your fathers?”

Startled, Harry coughs out an answer before he can think up a reasonable explanation. “They’re dead.” He wants to close his eyes in mortification.

“Oh dear. My condolences Mr. Potter—”

“It’s fine sir. Really. I’m just here for a wand.”

“Of course, of course!” Turing around, Ollivander paces one of the aisles and grabs a wand box at seemingly random. “Go ahead and try this one then.”

Letting out a small breath of relief to be getting somewhere with Ollivander being none the wiser, Harry grabs the wand from the box. He’s barely touched it before the glass of water nearby shatters everywhere. He quickly let’s go, stepping back. Of course. He’s not surprised.

“No, not that one. Thought perhaps Dogwood and unicorn hair would do it as your father Montonius got it on his first try you see.” He goes back and forth another time before selecting a slightly larger box. “Let’s try this one then.”

Cautiously, Harry touches the wand and when nothing damning happens, he grabs it and gives it a swish. The wand twitches before red sparks erupt.

“Not that one either. Corvus had one similar, Black Walnut wood and Dragon Heartstring core. A strong wand in my opinion. Well, let’s give another go.”

Figures that Ollivander would be excited this time too.

Ollivander then goes through several more wands in quick succession and each failure has him smiling wider with his eyes practically glistening. All the while Harry wants to run out and bury his head under a rock in the hopes of forgetting this day in general.

After another 40 minutes passes by with only two costumers stopping by for a wand holster, Ollivander finally, finally comes out with Harry’s wand. He can tell by the small pulses of magic the wand is releasing as if to also say ‘at last’ and Harry wants to weep in joy.

“This one is quite an unusual one Mr. Potter. Made it just a month ago now. I’m quite curious though to have you give it a try.”

Harry wants to yell out that he can be curious all he wants, just give him the bloody damn wand. He doesn’t though as it would be rude and arouse suspicions. He wastes no time at all in grabbing the wand and doesn’t even have to swish it before the tip is spouting mini fireworks in joy.

He hears Ollivander murmur ‘oh my’ but doesn’t respond. Too many times now has Harry been separated from his wand and he will have it no more.

“I see you’ve found your companion Mr. Potter. Congratulations are in order. Holly wood, 11 inches, phoenix feather and quite supple. A unique pairing in my opinion. Yes, quite curious indeed.”

Luckily for Harry, Ollivander doesn’t have anything more to say after and allows Harry to pay for both the wand and holster. He then leaves before the other man can say anything more.

Stepping out of the wand shop feels like Harry can properly breathe for the first time in a long while. He wants nothing more than to go back to the Leaky Cauldron and sleep. He refrains though as he still has much to do and wants to spend tomorrow making plans. Tomorrow will be the true test of whether or not the world will fall apart for buying his wand now instead of in the future. Or something like that. He’s no expert in time travels.

His next stop is much needed clothing. While he’s happy enough with what he’s got on, he doesn’t think it’ll last long under his cleaning charms. He’d learned the hard way for that one. Besides, he’d had to toss out what he arrived in; unsalvageable they were unfortunately.

He stops by Madam Malkins Robes for All Occasions and walks in. There are signs on the window advertising sales with promising deals. He’s in there for no more than a few seconds before his brain processes what he’s standing witness to, the noise level catching up.

Women.

Women of all ages everywhere arguing with each other, yelling across the room, some talking amongst themselves. All of them holding fabrics of an assortment of colours. There’s one woman holding the hand of a child who looks like she’s not present as her eyes are glazed, lost. Another pair of young women in the corner are grabbing hold of the same fabric and yelling at each other on who deserves it the most. And against the wall are several men who watches it all in horror and fascination, clearly there unwillingly but for a few who decided that it was an appropriate time for a nap.

One man catches Harry’s gaze, quietly pleading for help, clearly desperate.

With no remorse, he takes that as his que to leave.

Clearly, he won’t be getting his clothing here for a long while until this dies down. Not for the first time, Harry thinks, women were quite terrifying. He’d done a similar shopping experience with Aunt Petunia once and that was enough of an experience in itself. Never again.

Shuddering lightly, Harry wonders if there are other clothing shops nearby. As he walks around some more, he finds Twilfit and Tattings but ultimately decides against it. He remembers Narcissa Malfoy’s remarks after a glance at Hermione and mentioning this place. He has no interest in shopping at a place a Malfoy would approve.

Walking some more, he comes across the sign he saw earlier. Deliciae Alley. He decides why not and goes to explore it a bit.

The pathway is a bit narrower but not as bad as Knockturn and much brighter by comparison. Most of the buildings seem almost muted rather than loud colours of Diagon but not unwelcoming. There are far more creams and whites with gold detailing everywhere, making everything look quite new and if he dares to think so, modern. Well, modern for 1930’s. Even the stone path looks like it’s just been paved yesterday.

Harry is starting to wonder if this is perhaps a wealthier district.

Grimacing at the thought, Harry decides to head back but as he turns to do so, a shop in his peripheral catches his attention.

The building is pale blue and written on top in gold it reads, Attire & Garbs Dressed for all Occasions by Marbs. It’s the outfit in the display window that caught Harry’s attention. It’s a subtle wizarding robe that isn’t too long, opened and paired with a pair of muggle looking trousers.

While the entire Alley screams money, this is the only shop that Harry has seen for the first time in his life that dares to openly pair Wizarding attire with muggle clothing. Perfectly too if the rest of the shop promises the same details. Not even Madam Malkins shop had anything like it. While you could certainly request it, people like Harry who needed visuals would not know how to order nor think up full outfit ideas from imagination alone. Besides, most people back home would undoubtedly agree that Harry is the least likely fashion forward person out there in any regard.

Curious, Harry decides to give the shop a look around. If he decides that it’s all a sham and disappointing, he can just leave and take his chances amongst the women in Madam Malkins’ place, peace be damned.

He’s barely stepped through and already he knows he’ll be far from disappointed. He may not know how to dress himself appropriately, but Harry can see quality clothing for himself. There is none of the stiffness and impersonal in any garment that Harry imagines Twilfitt would be and none of the disruption of fabrics and textures like Madam Malkins that might burden sensory process.

Not quite bold in colour as Malkins nor dark and gloomy as Twilfitt’s display window suggests. There are no other customers around and the shop itself is quiet but not oppressively so. After taking everything in at a glance, a door from the back opens and out comes a middle-aged woman who looks dressed enough to go out to some gala. She looks surprised to see Harry.

Surprise quickly settles into a pleased smile.

“Hello there sir. Welcome to Attire & Garbs Dressed for all Occasions by Marbs. I’m Marbillow or Marbs and will happily outfit you as you deserve. Looking for anything specifically?”

Shuffling forward, Harry gets a closer look at Marbs and sees that her pleased smile looks a bit strain. It’s a smile that rings familiarity but Harry has no idea why.

“How do you do Ms. Marbs? I’m just looking for everyday wear, nothing fancy at the moment.” Or ever.

Ms. Marbs doesn’t say anything at first, in fact she looks shocked and simultaneously confused. “You, you want to shop here?”

Now Harry is the one confused. Is this shop not a clothing one? Oh no, don’t tell him it’s a cover up for something darker and more menacing, he thinks in a panic. Looking around again, he subtly has his magic do a quick sweep. However, nothing pops out to suggest this would be the case.

“I mean, yes?” Harry looks back to Marbs who now looks like she’s ready to cry.

“Oh sir, kind, kind sir. You’ve just made my day. Please, allow me to arrange your order.” Tearily, Marbs pulls out her wand and flicks it. A tape measure comes soaring out and starts wrapping around Harry in various spots while parchment and quill follow to write the details.

“Er, you alright there?” Something about her tears remind Harry of Lavender Brown.

Marbs looks up at Harry where she has pulled out what looks to be swatches of fabrics. “Oh dear. Yes of course. It’s just that…,” here, Marbs looks hesitant to continue. “Well, you see, it’s just that, my shop isn’t exactly popular. What with me mixing Wizarding traditional and muggle everyday wear.”

“Oh. Well, that’s actually why I stopped by,” Harry replies honestly. The tape measure finishes his wrist before suddenly moving to his inseam. Blushing furiously, Harry quickly looks to Marbs who again looks teary eyed.

“You are too kind sir. I will make sure that you are very satisfied with your purchase today.”

It’s then that Harry is able to put a name to the look from earlier. Rejection. Marbs had been ready for Harry to step back out of the shop.

Soon after, Harry is guilted to buy more than he needs as Marbs pairs him with fitted, snug trousers in greys, blacks, and creams. The fabrics themselves felt like a combination of tweed and wools, and one pair of acromantula’s silk in gold embroidery. He’s then fitted for button down’s similar to what he’s already wearing in the same colours and textures as the trousers.

After that, he’s then persuaded to match each outfit with Wizarding robes but each style different when draped on his frame. In fact, after trying each of them on, Harry felt like some soft, glam dueling wizard with a touch of casual. Each look in the mirror has Harry rethinking his stance on fashion.

He might not be a lost cause after all.

After the robes he is then coaxed into getting two pairs of dragonhide boots, two gloves and two finery wear in creams and emeralds just in case. He hadn’t the heart to tell Marbs no when she casually mentioned that this would most likely be her biggest sell of the year.

By that point, Harry’s resigned himself to allow the older woman to do as she wishes.

Finally, after what feels like ages, Harry completes his purchases with Marbs promising to have everything custom fitted to be delivered by tomorrow afternoon.

Fine with everything as is, Marbs convinces him that for the price he’d be paying he might as well have it fitted true to size as he is quite lithe and there’d be no extra costs.

Harry reluctantly agrees but adamantly refuses any hat accessories or anything near his neck. As for the payment, Harry winces inwardly for the steep price but does not complain about it as he’d sort of already expected this outcome.

He left the shop with Marbs excited giggles fading in the background. He’s curious about the other shops and the implications Marbs herself had given but finds himself immensely exhausted so promises himself to check it out tomorrow.

Harry then walks to one of the outdoor open stalls selling the Daily Prophet and other papers. By talking to the elderly man there, Harry is able to persuade him to sell any past editions he still holds. Surprisingly there are quite a few. He thanks the man before moving on.

Grudgingly, he does make a few more stops before the Leaky. One of them being a place to gather all of his hygiene needs. A must as he can feel his teeth rotting—they’re not but he feels as if Hermione is leaning over his shoulder nagging all the same—and makes sure to grab a pamphlet detailing the shops in the area. He might need that.

By this point, exhaustion really eats at him, demanding he sleeps so he finally makes his way over to the Leaky. He’s a little disappointed he hadn’t finished everything he wanted but is glad to at least have a change of clothes for tomorrow.

Besides, after some much-needed sleep, he still needed to think on what he plans to do. Most concerningly, what he plans to do with Tom Riddle.

Brain foggy, he can’t even remember how old Riddle is supposed to be this year, his steps feeling heavy and his thoughts sluggish. He yawns, eyes getting teary.

Gratefully, the Leaky comes into view so Harry forces himself to pick up the pace, happily stepping inside with his newly acquired items.

He bumps into the young Witch from earlier who upon taking notice of him suddenly flushes pink. Her eyes do not move from his general neck area.

Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Harry asks that she send up dinner and lets her know about tomorrow’s delivery. With that, he goes back upstairs to wait for his food and gets ready for bed. Tomorrow he’ll deal with everything else.

Chapter Text

By late afternoon, Harry receives all of his new clothing along with several undergarments that Harry himself forgot to order. Marbs little note thanks him profusely for trusting her services and so gifted him the undergarments to match his new clothing. He graciously accepts it as he really did need them though he could not seem to stop himself from flushing in mild embarrassment.

He's a grown man, what need is there for embarrassment? Alas, he isn’t so successful to dissuade himself from the emotion, so he just accepts it and moves on.  

Happy after a satisfying meal and shower, he dresses for the day in one of the outfits.

Black silk button down left partially open and tucked into tailored, matching fitted trousers. Black dragonhide boots that practically shine even in the low lighting, and he pairs it all with a half-draped cape over one shoulder, held across his chest that wraps around his back by a silver chain. Wand holster strapped in, and Harry is ready to head out once more.

Past him—really, it’s him of two weeks ago if he’s honest—would certainly find it a bit uncomfortable to put in this much effort into his looks but today, Harry is in need of a bit of a confidence boost after the months of a depressing break up and the days consumed by alcohol.

What really help though, is the fact that the clothing feels really nice against his skin. He’d been far too used to wearing rough and stiff type fabrics that he honestly never considered there would be that much of a difference to bother trying something else.

He supposes the saying is true, one does learn something new every day.

Passing by the mirror, he’s gratified by its silence, his reflection mutinously glancing back. He’d silenced it that very morning.

Stepping downstairs, Harry sees that the Leaky Cauldron has died down but not by much. A different young Witch stands behind the counter who smiles brightly at Harry, practically bouncing on her feet.

“Just a coffee and biscuit please.” Setting down the payment, Harry goes to sit down, feeling a bit awkward as many pairs of eyes seem to latch onto him since he’s walked in.

Disregarding all the stares, he pulls out his piece of paper detailing what he wants to do.

Today after his lunch he’ll be stopping by the Ministry to get his Apparating license, maybe find where to look for jobs, then go searching for a residence.

“Your coffee and biscuit sir.”

Harry’s thoughts are interrupted by the young woman who smiles kindly down at him. He thanks her, sitting up as she places his order down.

“If there’s anything else you need sir, do not hesitate to ask me. Anything at all.”

Confused, Harry watches in concern as the woman’s smile grows wider, her eyes glistening and frankly, not really Dumbledore proper if his instincts warning him is to be believed. Really concerning.

“Err, are you alright? Your eyes are…”

Squeaking in horror, the woman dashes away in a sudden hurry.

Harry debates going after her but ultimately decides against it as he doesn’t know any healing spells that would help her case any.

A man sitting nearby snorts into his drink before trying to clear his throat. Harry’s head swivels to look but the man already has his head facing down.

He instead takes a bite of his biscuit and goes back to look at his notes.

So far, his planning only goes so far as getting his license, a form of residence, and reluctantly, a job. In such an unfamiliar era to him, he doubts he’d get away with going by as invisible as he’d like. Not when he does not know what his future will look like now. If he’s quite honest with himself, to which he tries to be, he had not really expected to wake up to a world that isn’t collapsing when he’d finally left his depression hole and got himself an alias and his wand.

He’s listened to countless arguments and rants from Hermione detailing the dangers of messing with time and Wizards trying to fix their pasts. So, he had for the worst part, really expected for everything to go down to shite when he made the change to get his wand now.

However, nothing has changed as far as he can tell. His wand is still here and working and there are no missing body parts missing from his person.

If there are bigger forms of Fates and Apparitions out there determined to stop Harry from changing anything then they’ll need to try harder. Because as soon as he realized that he woke to no consequences that very morning, his mind already chose that he’ll be changing everything he can possibly set his focus to.

Starting with Tom Riddle.

He vaguely thought about him as soon as he had been able to realize where he woke up to but nothing that had made him get out of his drunken haze. No plans, no revenge, nothing.

That will soon change though.

A lot of things will need to be changed and it certainly does not end with Riddle. No, the hardest decision for him had not in fact been his long time enemy, but one he’d considered his long-time mentor. Albus Dumbledore.  

Heart twinging painfully, Harry absentmindedly rubs his chest, then takes a sip of his coffee in the hopes of soothing the spot. Of course, it does nothing. He hadn’t really expected it to either. Not when nothing would ever make it stop hurting when he’d been stuck, forced to realize how much pain his mentor had had a hand in his past traumas.

His therapist of two years he had hired in the hopes of fixing his and Ginny’s problems had not done much for his relationship but she had certainly opened his eyes to many things he had never wished to acknowledge. Not when there would be no closure for him as Dumbledore had died.

It had taken him the better part of the year to whisper aloud his pain, even to himself. How much it had hurt when he’d been forced to confront that Albus Dumbledore had had too much of a say in Harry’s life outside of Hogwarts. And he knew, he knew most of it had been for his well-being. That if not for Dumbledore’s guidance, Harry most likely would have fallen victim to many situations he would have otherwise not known to get himself out of.

However, for as much trouble he and his friends had gotten up to, most of it could have been outright prevented and/or been taken care of by an adult.

Albus Dumbledore’s attention and well-meaning actions for the better good had paved the way from good intentions. If he had just looked behind himself just once however, he’d have seen his hard worked surface beginning to collapse, a struggling Harry trying to keep up, to understand, and known that his good intentions or not meant the falling of another. Several others. Far too many.

While Snape had been a bully, Harry had had no expectations from the man outside of Potion’s class. While Voldemort had caused so much misery, such devastation, it had been an expected outcome for many after so many tales, so many years waiting.

For Albus Dumbledore, it had not been an accepted betrayal, but one Harry had thought a ‘must’ to follow what had been expected of him. Betrayal was not a concept he could accept when he had voluntarily walked to his death. This much, he had confessed to his therapist.

Grooming.

Such a visceral self-loathing word for him, one that Harry had refused to listen to.

It had taken him seven months in total to understand his therapist’s conclusion based off the details he had provided. To accept that grooming behavior was not inherently or outright sexual all of the time. That it meant any one person with all of the power making the decisions, preparing the other from promised commitments. Preparing them for outcomes they could not outright refuse without guilt and fear of abandonment or silent treatments.

It had taken Harry another month to stop the trembles. If it had not been for Ron, Harry actually does not know what he’d have honestly done but Ron had been a sturdy support then.

Ultimately, it was the knowledge that it had not just been himself that had been put in a complicated position. Dumbledore had also paid special attention to Hermione, Ron, at some points, Malfoy when he hadn’t even yet been involved with the Death Eaters. Harry’s parents, Sirius.

It started long before Harry. And Harry knows, he knows Dumbledore would have stopped immediately if someone had put to words what he’d been doing, except no one had because no one thought it a problem at the time if ever. It was Dumbledore, he knew best. But no one is infallible, were they? Harry had been taught that so many times.

Finishing his biscuit, the swallow painful against a dry throat, Harry decided the best way to not have Dumbledore under such a foul word with the intent to harm is to remove the problem to begin with.

So…there will be no Lord Voldemort. There will also be no placed favoritism on students based off of their school of houses because was that not what started the attention to begin with? Before Voldemort?

But how to go about making these changes?

Sighing aloud, he tiredly takes a sip of his now lukewarm coffee.

Harry can admit to himself and anyone else who bothers to ask that he’s not the smartest person around. However, while he might not be Hermione Granger, brightest Witch of their time, nor Ron Weasley, strategist extraordinaire, he’s Harry Potter, the one stubborn enough to find a way if it means making it himself.

With that, Harry finishes his coffee and leaves the Leaky, not noticing the wistful longing stares following him out.

In just 20 minutes, he makes it to the Ministry. Hopefully all will go smoothly and the paperwork regarding his identity should already be registered by Gringotts and HawkIron.

He’s just made it to the front desk but before he can even say anything, he’s rudely shouldered aside by a taller Wizard, snapping out, “Out of the way Potter! Important business.”

Gaping and wide-eyed, Harry watches as the man then carelessly drops his wand at the employee who grows flustered, almost dropping the stick before scanning it and giving it the all clear. “A-a-all good Lord Ma-Malfoy.”

Shite, of course it’d be a damn Malfoy. Of all the rotten luck.

This is clearly Draco’s grandfather or Great-grandfather. He never paid attention to the Malfoy line, nor does he want to know now. All he needs to know is that this man is to be avoided for his sanity alone.

Bloody hell, figures that this Malfoy is also taller than Harry by a foot at the very least. He looks more like Draco than Lucius in terms of hair length and pointy-ness. Though more filled out, his posture straight-backed and the way he held his wand…far more dangerous.

That’s not going to stop Harry though for calling out rude poncy looking arses.

So, Harry calls out aloud for all nearby to hear before Malfoy has a chance to leave.

“Did your mother not bother with manners for you? You damn pillock, we’ve never even met before, and you think you can just shove off on me and all will be a’right? Is it a duel you want then poxy?” Harry hears a gasp of shock from behind him, but he doesn’t look away from a shell-shocked looking Malfoy who stands there, lost.

Harry wills himself to not blush and ruin the façade.

He’s embarrassed. So bloody embarrassed but also glad that he’s even remembered some of the 30’s slang and insults from Dudley’s best friend, Piers who had made attempts at a 30s wannabe while practicing on Harry. Granted a lot of that practice included bruises but the words stuck so much more because Harry had laid on the ground often, so confused.

Who knew it would come in handy? Not Harry, that’s for damn sure.

“Pardon?” Malfoy finally rasps out, hand outstretched with his wand. “You da—”

Harry can see when Malfoy at last notices Harry fully. His cool toned coloured eyes glancing up and down, brows furrowed in concentration.

Malfoy puts away his wand in silence, the people at Harry’s back equally silent, waiting.

He expects this Malfoy to react like Lucius or even Draco, but he’s thrown for a complete loop when instead, Malfoy nods his head in a small nod of acknowledgement, murmuring an apology. “I do apologise young sir. I thought you’d been someone else for a moment.”

“What? That is no excuse to shove a person like that though. You’re an adult, are you not?” Harry won’t be swayed by an apology like that when Malfoy’s intentions were clear by the mistaken identity. He should really be quiet though and keep his head down as this will likely do him no favors. He never did learn that trait though, not even with the Dursley’s. Besides, he’s still rattled enough at the mere sight of any Malfoy knowing how to apologise. 

Now Malfoy looks more like Draco. He looks like he’s swallowed a lemon which he quickly fixes but not before someone from the gathered crowd giggles.

He says nothing though and leaves, robe flicking sharply from behind in his dramatic strides, back still straight as ever.

Harry now feels a little responsible as Malfoy had been willing to apologise.

For a moment there’s only silence, then it’s broken by loud chatters and low whispers. Still trying to maintain his façade, Harry goes to the security check point and mentions that he’s there for an Apparition license. He’s given the all clear and ushered through which he gladly does as the crowds’ chatters grows louder and more demanding.

He prays he did not make a mistake in confronting Malfoy but knows that if given a chance, nothing would have changed much as Harry cannot be trusted to be quiet. Not without his best mates at least.

Eugh.

“Wow! I’ve never seen Malfoy so agitated before!”

Harry stumbles, startled, looking to his right to see a laughing man. He faces Harry then with warm brown eyes and sandy coloured hair. Still chuckling, the man thrusts a hand forward, introducing himself.

“Len Abbott, Archivist here in the Ministry at your service. And may I know the name of the one who made Malfoy run for the hills, crying?”

“Erm, I don’t think he’d been crying.” Harry replies with an embarrassed frown.

“Shame. Would’ve been a wonderful sight to see.”

Abbott raises an eyebrow as he continues to follow Harry. It takes a moment longer to remember what the other man wanted.

“Oh! Er, I’m Har-Hadrian.” Internally wincing, Harry walks a little faster in the hopes that Abbott will take the hint and leave out of pity.

“Nice to meet you Har-Hadrian.” Abbott says this with a good-natured smile. “No surname?”

Harry inwardly debates for a second but figures he’ll be using this name for a long while yet, so he might as well get used to it now, he supposes.

Scratching his cheek absentmindedly, he answers halfheartedly. “Hadrian Potter-Black.”

It’s Abbott stumbling in his steps this time. Harry helps him regain his balance while the other man flushes and mumbles a quiet thanks.

“Bloody hell. I-well I mean I figured a relation to the Potters. There’s no hiding that hair after all. But a Black too? Just, I mean, wow.”

Harry just looks straight ahead uncomfortably. That doesn’t last long thankfully.

“Well, Malfoy would certainly spit if he knew.”

Harry grins with Abbott, pleasantly surprised. He for sure thought Abbott would ask all sorts of uncomfortable questions.

“So where to Mr. Potter-Black?”

“Oh no, just erm, Harry please. Surnames are too stiff and first name sounds too posh.”

Abbott looks startled but pleased. “Then call me Len in return Harry.”

“And er, you wouldn’t happen to know where to go for an Apparation license would you?”

“Sure, thing mate! I’ll take you there myself. Not far from my archivist post.”

Grateful, Harry and Len get to chatting about anything and everything unimportant with Len taking the lead. The conversation mostly centers on Harry’s outfit surprisingly enough. What the material is made out of, where did he shop and most importantly, would it look just as good on Len as it did on Harry?  

Shy, Harry answers as best as he is able. Seeing this Len then proceeds to tease him that there were several young witches and wizards in the auditorium who were happily eyeing Harry with covetous looks.

Grumbling, Harry retaliates that it’s the Potter hair. Everyone’s always sort of surprised with the imbalance of gravity.

Len laughs loudly and long, gathering several annoyed and amused attention from others.

They reach where Harry needs to go, all the while Harry is covering his face with both hands all the while Len continues to laugh.

The wizard working at the desk looks on curiously.

Harry rasps out a small mortified, ‘stop it’ but that only succeeds in making Len laugh some more. Harry finds himself unable to stay mad as something about Len reminds him of Ron and Dean.

“Well, here you go. Come find me if you want someone to talk to here. It gets bloody boring y’know? Unfortunately, I must leave now. Good luck on that license.” With a cheerful wave, Len leaves Harry to the Wizard at the desk.

He signs where the man points and is forced to read a document on the regulations and expectations he’s to follow upon obtaining the license and his responsibility to maintain wizarding decorum away from non-magical areas.

In Harry’s opinion, the document could have been shortened substantially and still get its point across as the lot of it is just repeating itself unnecessarily as all government official papers do.

He receives a side eye when sighs aloud in annoyance.

Signing his agreement and he’s then led to a separate room where for the next 20 minutes he demonstrates his ability to Apparate where he’s told, without any sings of splinching nor signs of distress. He’s approved for the license thankfully but already Harry is tired. He does make sure to grab Job posting ads and pamphlets to look over for later. Perhaps during dinner.

Leaving the Ministry Harry wants nothing more than to call it a day already but refuses. He’s unsure where all of this exhaustion is suddenly coming from, but he’d appreciate it if it would go away for the time being. He still has plenty of things to do, thank you very much.

Browsing the shops in Diagon, Harry does not see any place that advertises Realtor Estates or something similar.

He’s pondering his next move when he hears a sharp, whistling sound. Fast.

Reacting without much thought, Harry reflexively dives to his left, smacking hard into a building. The whistling stops to be replaced by a wooden clatter, where he’s just stood moments before. He looks to the cause of sound, eyes peering down before any colour left of his face soon vanishes, making an already pale complexion sickly looking.

“No.”

Straightening really fast, Harry shakes his head and repeats himself one more time. “No.”

Down before him, looking innocuous as ever, is the Elder Wand. The Elder Wand that Grindelwald is supposed to be carrying at this time.

“Fuck.”

A nearby Witch holding hands with another, gasps aloud, offended.

He disregards it as he’s still staring at the piece of wood on the floor.

Looking away, Harry does what any reasonable and self-respecting adult would do in his situation carrying his name. He walks away.

Making it no more than 30 paces, the wand smacks into the back of his head, making him stagger in both shock and feeling violated.

“Alright there lad?”

Harry waves an elderly man’s help away before roughly grabbing the wand and booking it away, quite humiliated at the sudden stares.

Not bothering anymore with the shops, he heads straightaway to the Leaky in no time to the safety of his room.

Once the door closes, Harry throws the wand at the nearest wall. Or at least, attempts to but the wand sticks to his hand, vibrating once in warning.

Groaning and suddenly feeling the urge to cry, Harry tries one more time. The wand sends a small but effective shock that has Harry cursing but ultimately stopping his attempts from harming the wand.

“I knew you were trouble the moment I got stuck with you after Voldemort.”

The wand does not respond.

“Well? What do you want? You’re supposed to be with Grindelwald you blasted thing.”

Silence reigns, leaving Harry frustrated all the more.

“Oh, bloody hell. Please tell me Grindelwald is dead out there somewhere instead of alive and noticing his wand is missing and therefore comes searching for it!?” Harry cries out, alarmed and only slightly hysterical. Really.

The wand lets out a weak stream of sparks in answer.

“Fuuuck. Oh, bloody fuck. You jest. Please tell me you are pulling one on me. Because Voldemort was one thing when he was absolutely, proper raving mad, but a Grindelwald in his prime? You’re trying to bloody damn well kill me!”

Sliding down the door onto the floor, Harry wonders if it is too late to start over? Maybe drinking himself stupid will fix this mess he’s in. It’s certainly gotten him here enough. Pondering the idea for only a few moments, Harry decides against it. He’ll just do what he’s always forced to do…deal with it until it becomes an issue. It’s all he’s got at the moment.

“Well, I’ve no intention of using you so you can damn well fuck off for a moment.” The wand sends another but longer shock to his hand and gracelessly allows Harry to put it in his wand holster. As he only has the one, Harry must carry his Holly by hand but then he’s faced with another dilemma. He hasn’t the forms to carry two wands on his person.

Sighing, he decides he will just have to make do for now. He isn’t sure if it’d be smart to go to the Ministry to request those forms just yet.

Right now, it is even more important to find a home with plenty of protection before Grindelwald somehow finds out.

Shite.

~ . * . ~

After buying another wand holster from a different shop lest Ollivander sees the Elder Wand—placed nearest to cape to better remain unseen—Harry again looks for a shop for a home and again is found with no luck. That is until he decides to check out Deliciae Alley with only a twinge of hope to carry.

Hope rekindles to a fire when one of the smaller shops advertises convenience managements for properties.

He’s in there for no more than an hour in which he describes his needs in a home, budget, preferable location and spells for proper, strong warding to the owner and is then set with appointment dates to later look at that week when the homes are available.

It’d been the fastest help Harry’s received and the owner seemed overjoyed to have Harry as a patron. He does find it odd though that he’d been able to find what he’d been looking for here and not in Diagon when it’s the place one goes to for anything and everything.

Shaking the mental thought away, Harry shakes hands with the owner, saying their goodbyes.

Relieved with that done, Harry is then left with the choice of what to do with Tom Riddle and his need for employment.

He’s already decided that while he’s here, there will be no Voldemort.

None of his loved ones will be dying now nor in the future, by Voldemort’s doing. In order to keep that self-proclaimed promise, he’s going to need to do something about Tom Riddle now. And he’s the only one able to as currently, Dumbledore has no reason to believe there’s anything strange about the boy, let alone one from an orphanage. Nor, does Harry need Dumbledore to be suspicious. Not when he’s also going to prevent the older man’s favoritism approach with Gryffindors and Slytherins.

Debating internally, he wonders if there’s a nice wizarding family here, willing to take the mini–Dark Lord in as a son.

Flashbacks of Diary Riddle force their way upfront enough that Harry amends his course. Riddle is far too good at manipulating anyone but Dumbledore so frankly, Harry will have to be the one to do this if he wants to remain ahead and preemptively active.

Eurgh. Raising Tom Riddle. What has his life come to?

Is he even able to do it though? Raising a child?

His own childhood was a failure and the only reference he has was witnessing Petunia with Dudley.

Molly Weasley comes to mind then. Ah. Of course. Then images of Andromeda, Hermione, Hannah and Fleur flashes, reminding him that he did in fact have many examples of a mother’s love to follow didn’t he.

That little ball of anxiety that’d been building from the pressure of raising any child, let alone the one responsible for destroying so many lives in the future, settles down a bit.

He can do this.

Harry knows he won’t be perfect, but he can at least try. That is more than anyone has done as far as he knows in Riddle’s previous life. Besides, this is the only route he’s willing to take as the idea of taking any child’s life, Riddle included, is enough to make him seriously ill.

He’ll just stop by for a quick peek, see the situation for what it is and go from there. Should be easy enough, right? It isn’t like he needs to take in Tom now, just needs to before his Hogwart’s letter.

Which, Harry realizes in dismay, he has no idea how old Riddle is. He’s completely forgotten the year Riddle is born. What if there is no Riddle?

Frowning at the thought, Harry wills away the strange mood trying to take hold of him. He’ll take a peek, return back to his room, and look for work.

Decision made; he stops by a random shop for a pouch that’ll blend in with his outfit. Making sure no one can see him; he quickly charms the bag like Hermione taught him to hold all manner of things no matter the size. Then he’s off to the streets of London, outside of the Leaky to call forth the Knight Bus. Or well, he hopes the Knight Bus is still around.

It arrives timely thankfully to which he tells the wizard that isn’t Stan to drop him off near Wool’s Orphanage. Harry has no intention of frolicking London’s roads in search of the damned building when the bus would make it so much easier.

He hasn’t the faintest idea of where the place could be.  

After slamming into a wall for the third time in a row however, he wishes he had indeed frolicked the roads or at the very least, stickied his feet to the floor. Bemoaning his memory for completely forgetting his first experience with the bus, he’s forced to wait it out.

“Oh dear. You should really be careful there deary. You’ll bruise like that.” A woman lying comfortably in one of the beds tells Harry solemnly, knitting as she pleases all the while.

“Sure. Exactly what I was thinking. I’ll make sure to leave the bruising for another day then.” The words are grunted out of him, the impact of the bus proving to be too much. It’s not much time later though that they call out for his stop.

Feeling like he can breathe easier now, Harry heads for the building ahead with the sign reading, Wool’s Orphanage. The Knight Bus behind him screeches away.

Reminding himself that he is only there for a peek, Harry walks on. It takes a few people passing him by with dubious looks that Harry remembers to take off his cape, stuffing it into his new pouch hurriedly.

Upon getting closer to the dreary and worn looking building, Harry notices that there aren’t any children about. Finding that quite strange, he decides to walk closer.

There is a post off to the side of the wall detailing that newcomers and parents to be, are to walk right in and are very much welcomed.

Shrugging his shoulders, he thinks why not and steps in. As he’s already mentally willed himself, he does not need to take Riddle in today. Besides, he doesn’t even have a home ready yet, so he’d be doing himself and Riddle a disservice if he were to attempt it.

The quiet atmosphere outside the building changes once he steps inside, a sort of peculiar tension rising that puts Harry on edge.

From a distance above him, Harry can hear voices shouting in a strange like rhythm. While odd, it isn’t Harry’s place to judge so he instead takes the chance to have a look around, forcing himself to calm down. He doesn’t even know why his instincts are up in arms.

Once more, the place seems relatively empty which only amps the oddness of it all. The walls inside are equally worn down as they are outside, baren of any life and certainly no colour to be had. The floors are stained and still no children present, ready to be adopted.

To be fair, Harry has no idea how the process works regardless. Either way, this must be a sign that aligns with his plans which Harry gratefully accepts. He’ll come back when he has a home to house Riddle in. For now, he’s ready to leave.  

A child cries out, whether in fear or anger, Harry has no clue.

Without thought, he rushes around a corner that leads to a shabby staircase. While there had been no one outside or in the foyer, from where he stands, Harry can see children sitting immobile on the steps leading up to what looks like a hallway from where the voices seem to be coming from.

Every single one of the children is facing towards the sound where again, a child cries out, this time in pain which Harry is all too familiar with.

Frozen in place, more out of disbelief than anything, his frantic thoughts are interrupted.

“Can I help you?”

Jerking away from the voice, Harry whirls around to see a stern looking woman. Harry would place her as young, perhaps younger than him, but the dark circles under her eyes and the rigidness of her hair has him second guessing.

“Sir?”

“I-I came to see about a boy…” Harry looks up, the shouting getting a tad louder. One of the children, a young girl clutching a worn doll is looking straight at him. Harry doesn’t recognize any of the other children. He doesn’t see Riddle in any of them.

He looks back to the woman, who had also glanced up towards the noise. “Uh, what exactly is going on here?”

The woman sharply turns to him. “Just doing what any God faring Catholic woman should be doing, protecting the children.” Her voice sounds cold, unmoving in its belief. She then takes a moment to breathe, trying for a smile but Harry isn’t fooled. “Are you here to adopt? Just give me a moment and I’ll have the children ready in a bit.”

“I think not,” Harry manages to grit out. “I want to know what you’re doing to that child up there.”

Harry has a terrible, terrible feeling that the noise upstairs is related to Riddle.

“I do not think that is any of your business. You can come back another time if that pleases you more and you’re still interested in adopting.”

An unmistakable sound of flesh being hit rings the air, followed by a painful wail.

Having had enough, Harry ignores the shouts of the woman behind him as he rushes towards the stairs. He’s careful to not step or push any of the children lingering on the stairway nor hallway but he’s firm with his voice when they try to stop him in his tracks because of the woman downstairs.

A door to the left of him is partially open, the voices sounding stronger there as he gets closer. Not hesitating in the least, Harry yanks the door wide open and is horrified to witness what is then presented to him.

A small, dark-haired child, lays spread apart on a dirty mattress, bound by rope as two grown men stand above him in dark robes, holding a book each.

Harry knows without a doubt that this is Riddle.

Riddle is shivering, completely drenched in what Harry suspects to be perhaps Holy water. The boys’ eyes are puffy with a glaringly red handprint forming on his face and upon closer inspection, the bottom of his legs where older bruises can be found. Riddle looks defiant, but all the same, scared and tired and in pain, small form trembling in effort.

All three look to Harry, the men surprised while Riddle looks on with a burning intensity that Harry knows would literally burn anyone alive if he could just figure out how to use his magic to make it happen.

Past and present clashes with a sudden, all-consuming rage, swelling beneath his chest, startling Harry out of breath but rage guiding his movements all the same. He doesn’t think. He doesn’t rationalize. He doesn’t hesitate. He just does, what is needed of him.

Thrusting his hand out and flicking to the left sends both men flying, crashing into the wall. They lay there, unmoving as Harry rushes to Riddle’s side who gazes at him in wide eyed wonder. He’s untying the ropes with shaking fingers when the woman from below comes barreling in.

She gasps aloud at the sight of the men on the floor but does not react to the sight of the small child on the bed. Rage burns the back of his throat thickly, that he honestly believes he could choke on it. This fury too, scares that small part of him still present, watching, waiting.

“What do you think you are doing!? What have you done to those men? I’m ringing the police and—”

Riddle twists his wrists, removing the last of the rope.

His eyes have not left Harry’s face since he sent those men hurtling into the wall. When the word ‘police’ leaves the woman’s mouth, Harry finds himself suddenly with the Elder Wand in his hand and pointing at the woman’s face who had gone stark pale.

Without thinking, Harry casts the wand movement for stupefy which hits the woman with such force it sends her flying into the door. The door at least had the good sense to close upon impact before any of the other children witnessed Harry’s mess.

Should be easy enough, right?

Grimacing at his own foolish thought, Harry looks down at Riddle who sat up and is looking at Harry with such avarice, that really, Harry should have known better.

Blimey, Ron’s voice rings silently in his head.

Harry wants to nod in agreement. He refrains but just barely.

Well Harry, what now?

Chapter Text

He’s so small, is Harry’s first thought. The other that soon follows though is that this small being grows up to be someone feared, someone who at some point had mentally declined into a state of insanity and irrationality.

Not on Harry’s watch though. Not this time.

Right now, this is just a boy who’d been maltreated by adults who should have known better. Done better. Not this though. Regardless of how a child has acted, a sane person does not tie down a child then have him subdued and whatever else done to him by grown men under the prayers of God.

As far as witnessing exorcisms go, Harry only ever got so far as to catch a glimpse of the film, The Exorcist on Dudley’s television time before Aunt Marge caught them both, scolding Harry for influencing Dudders. Eurgh.

Either way, none of what he saw implied church men and/or women made daily habits to harm children under their care.    

It’s with this in mind that has Harry kneeling in place, his shaking hands reaching out but not touching.

“May I see your hands please?”

Riddle hesitates for just a second but decides to give Harry his small wrists.

As soon as he sees them, Harry wants to rage all over again but the biggest emotion trying to break free is the urge to cry. Clear rope burns mar the thin skin, dried mini splotches of blood in random areas where Tom must have struggled and speckles of bruising beginning to form. Done looking at the small hands and wrists, he decides to check Riddle’s legs and ankles, finding the same patterns there.

Pulling out his Holly wand this time, Harry murmurs an Episkey on each wrist, then the ankles. The blood splotches are still there but the bruising and rope burns fade away gently, leaving smooth skin in its place. Throat tight, for a moment, Harry stares emptily, his rationality escaping him as he fully processes what he’s just witnessed.

He remembers now, not from Hermione surprisingly, but Colin Creevy who had made just a small, innocuous statement. Something so small that had made no impact nor sense in Harry’s life then.

“God is fearful in the right set of hands.”

The Dursley’s had been church goers for public opinions and no actual moral values and as for Harry, he believed only in what he could do.

Harry and Colin had silently stood by, side by side, watching as a student from Hufflepuff and a student from Ravenclaw got into a screaming match on the subject.

Colin Creevy spoke truth. Harry isn’t familiar with this timeline, isn’t familiar with the landmines regarding religion, but he is acquainted with fear.

Taking a much-needed breath, Harry lets go of those memories.

He forces himself to look up at Tom who’s looking at his wrists, eyes wide and fingers tracing where the marks had been.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore.” Tom’s eyes snap back up to meet Harry’s, a question forming but he doesn’t get the chance to ask it as one of the bodies moans out in pain, shifting around.

Harry gets up and wordlessly levitates the bodies upright against the wall. Moving closer, he opens their eyes each and obliviates any memories regarding Tom Riddle being in their care. He then moves to the woman and does the same though he makes it seem that she had an argument with Harry with her choice of upraising the children in general. He erases the fact that she had attempted to exorcise any ‘demons’ from Tom. He’s not the best at memory charms but this should serve his purpose well enough. He hopes so at least.  

He should feel guilty for using memory charms. Ginny would have been understanding but horrified all the same. Had that not been one of their many arguments however? That he had not really felt guilt in a long time. No, his patience for people had waned and he thinks it started before Voldemort’s fall.

Facing Tom now, Harry jumps a little to see that Tom stood only a few inches away, those dark eyes latched onto him, unwavering in its intensity.

“Are you, my father?”

 “Er, no, sorry. I’m actually…” Harry trails off, the flash of disappointment on the boy’s face so bleak that guilt eats at him this time, making himself feel like a liar and a cheat. He supposes that he does still have the capacity to feel guilt since he’s been thrown in this time hasn’t he. Ginny would be right to be spitting mad if she could. “I am here to take you away though. If you want.”

Hope blooms on the smaller face before Tom tries masking it. He fails but Harry isn’t going to call him out for it. He also does not bother to mention that he had no intention of taking him in today but after this situation, he really doesn’t have a choice. The thought of leaving Tom behind after this ordeal leaves him nauseous.

“I know you probably have some, erm, plenty of questions for me but I can tell you everything you need to know if you decide to leave with me. I don’t want to pressure you, but we should probably leave soon before the Ministry arrives because of my use of magic against muggles.”

Harry sees Tom mouthing the word ‘Ministry,’ ‘magic,’ and ‘muggles,’ trying to make sense of it all before he runs to his cupboard nearest the men. He then looks to Harry to say, quite sourly actually, “I don’t have anything to put my stuff in.”

“Right! So yes then? I mean, of course, er, here, you can use this.” Taking his newly bought pouch, he hands it over to Tom who looks at it dubiously. “Oh! My bad, it’s an expandable pouch, anything and everything goes in. You know, because of magic. Oh, uh right, you don’t actually know do you. Well, congrats, you’re a Wizard Tom. We’re Wizards.”

Wide-eyed, Tom stands there in front of his cupboard, speechless.

Rubbing a hand against his face, Harry feels it heating up quite spectacularly.

He had no idea he’d be this bad, talking to children, let alone being the one responsible for telling them they’re a Wizard. Hagrid made it seem so easy. Tom looks between a mix of confounded and like he knew. Soon enough the avarice Harry notices comes back in full force.

“I knew it. I knew I was special.”

Oh shite.

He forgot about that little spiel Tom had had with Dumbledore. Too busy panicking internally, Tom gleefully stuffs his items into the pouch, joy palpable when each item successfully enters the pouch without bulging or tearing.

Harry really should tell Tom to leave the stolen trophies he collected behind, but the joy on his face proves to be too much for Harry to crush.

Of course, there will be boundaries he’ll be firm with Tom later when they get to talking, but at the moment, Harry wants nothing more than to take Tom far away from the orphanage and those men as he possibly can.

“Do I have time to change?” Tom then asks, pulling out an identical shirt he’s already wearing.

“Change?” Harry asks, baffled. He then moves his hand to smack his forehead but changes course to grab for his wand instead, startling Tom who steps back. “I apologise, you must be cold.”

A muttered spell and a swish of his wand, Tom is then dried off with warmth added. Harry also remembers to spell away the reddened handprint on Tom’s small face.

The smaller boy switches his gaze from Harry to the stick, his small hand not holding fabric, twitching.

Harry slowly pulls the wand behind himself, Tom seeming to snap out of his thoughts to finish packing.

“What are you planning to do with those men and Mrs. Cole?” Done with packing, Tom steps next to Harry, clutching the pouch tightly. Harry had planned on taking it back to hold but decides against it as he doubts Tom will give it back without a fight.

“You don’t need to worry. I took care of their memories.”

Tilting his head, fascinated, Tom looks at the motionless bodies. Harry rushes forward, not wanting to give the boy any ideas but somewhere in the back of his mind, sounding suspiciously like Ron, it whispers ‘too late mate.’ “If you’re ready, we’ll head out now then.”

Seeing Tom’s nod, Harry opens the door but then shuts it abruptly. Startled, Tom quickly steps back, the pouch clutched against his chest protectively.   

Holding a hand up, Harry apologises. “Sorry. Sorry, it’s just, I completely forgot about the children. They’re all lingering out there.”  What Harry does not say aloud is that the kids must have heard the shouting and most definitely, what sounded like a fight as Harry had thrown bodies against walls. Not exactly children approved.     

“Can’t you just do to them what you did to those guys?” Pointing to the bodies, Tom looks at Harry, his face clearly judging Harry, having already figured out what had not been said aloud.  

“No actually. They are far too young for any memory charms with my skill level. I would cause more damage if I tried.”  

“So?”

Frowning at how flippant Tom sounds, Harry quickly thinks up a solution. He can feel a headache forming. After only a few moments, Harry decides the best course of action would have to be a simple fix. It isn’t perfect nor would it save him if anyone were to come around asking questions but if the Auror’s haven’t even arrived yet, they might not at all.

“Stay right here please. I’ll be quick.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Uh, a sleep spell.”

“Sleep?” Tom made the word sleep sound repulsive, so offended his face reads.

“Yes, sleep. They’re children. Now stay here please, it’ll only be a minute.”

Not waiting for a response, he leaves out the door to see the children had gathered nearby, whispering together. No sooner had he closed the door behind him did he hear small running feet and a pained grunt a moment after from one of the men.

He does not go to check, already suspecting what he’d find.

“Hullo.” Awkwardly waving, he looks around to see if there are any more children lurking about.

“Where’s Mrs. Cole?” A brave child steps forward, chin thrusting out in defiance. “Did that freak do something?”

Withholding a frown, Harry asks, “Is this all of you?”

“Yeah.” The girl holding the worn doll answers.

“Amy! Be quiet!” The boy who stepped forward shouts.

That is all Harry needs. He casts the spell for Bewitched Sleep. A quick and temporary measure but perfect for this situation. Making sure none of the children are injured he levitates all of them in one room, gently. He then grabs random objects to transfigure them into toys in the hopes that it might appease some of them for when they wake.

The spell lasts only minutes, so he uses the rest of that time to grab Tom.

Tom, who is kneeling on the floor near Mrs. Cole, pinching her arm repetitively in one spot. A furtive glance tells Harry that Tom had made his rounds. He doesn’t scold him though. Not this time at least. Gesturing that the coast is clear, Tom rushes to Harry, not once letting go of the pouch.

“Where is the office?”

“What for?”

“I need to grab all of your documents before we leave.”

Tom thinks it over and agrees, leading Harry who grabs everything related to Tom and conjures a sheet of paper detailing that Riddle was no longer a resident here and had been adopted three months ago.

Satisfied and seeing no one else in the building Harry looks to Tom. “You’ll need to hold my hand so I can take us elsewhere. You’ll feel a bit squeezed but only for a moment so don’t feel too bad if you throw up the first time.”

Tom obviously only looks confused but fakes an understanding face. “Are you not going to tell me your name before holding my hand?”

“What? Did I not introduce myself? Of course, I didn’t. Merlin. You can call me Harry.”

“Nice to meet you, Harry. Take me away now. Please.” The plea is whispered softly.

Grabbing Harry’s hand, he receives a smile from the older Wizard before everything blackens and his entire being feels squished all at once. Just as quickly as it happens it disappears, and Tom is lurching away to retch over the side.

Mortified, he accusingly looks at Harry who crouches nearby, apologetic.

“Sorry, I tried to warn you.”

“You call that a warning?” Tom hisses: the words slurred a little to sound like parseltongue if you weren’t listening too closely. “Where are we?” Brushing off Harry’s concern, Tom looks around to see a drably looking pub. Unimpressed, he looks at the older Wizard wearily.

“This is the Leaky Cauldron, where I’m staying at for the moment. Let’s get you settled in for the night and talk and tomorrow we’ll go shopping for anything you need.”

“Why are you staying at a pub? Are you some sort of drunkard?”

“No! No, I just moved here recently and am in the process of getting a home. Hopefully, this week. Now come on, I swear that you won’t come to harm here. It’s a pretty friendly place for all, you’ll see.”

Displeased but not wanting to go back to the Orphanage, Tom follows Harry inside which in his opinion looks far worse inside than it did out. But all the same, he sticks close to Harry who walks up to a counter where a man stands, wiping the top. The place looks empty which surprises Harry for some reason even though it shouldn’t.

“Hello there lads! What can I do for ya’?” The man smiles down at Tom who frowns all the harder. This only has the man chuckling before turning his attention to Harry.

“Hello. We’d like our meals sent up please. Is there a menu or something for children?”

The man responds in the affirmative and turns around to get the rarely asked for menu. As he does so, Harry grunts, his foot suddenly stomped on. Wearily peering down, he sees Tom straining his neck to glare up at him.

“I don’t want a children’s menu. I’m not a child.”

Mouth turned down a bit, Harry responds. “You are a child though?”

“I don’t want a child’s menu,” Tom repeats, the words leaving his mouth bitingly.

The man from the counter hears this when he turns back around and chuckles some more. “Here ya’ go lad, included the adult’s menu as well.” Winking at Tom, the man looks at Harry again, good naturedly. “Just tap the items you want with your wand, and I’ll have someone bring them right up to you. Enjoy the rest of your day fellas.”

Refusing to roll his eyes at the pleased look on Tom’s face, he guides him up the stairs to the room they will be staying in.

Tom peers in, in interest and notices that there is only one bed. Sulking, he stares at Harry who catches on quickly this time.

Rubbing a hand at the back of his head, he sheepishly replies. “Sorry, forgot about that. Don’t worry though, you can have the bed and I’ll transfigure another later. For now, look at the menu and tell me what you want. Wait, can you read? Actually, I don’t even know your age.”

Snatching the menus out of the bigger man’s hand, Tom snobbishly bites out, “I’m not a baby. I can read. Taught myself ya’know. I’m already five.” Heading to the bed, still carrying the pouch, Tom climbs up with only minor difficulties, and proceeds to read the adult menu while ignoring the child’s one.

Silently mouthing, ‘five,’ Harry heads to the washroom to throw water on his face, feeling a bit overwhelmed after the day he’s had. He had no intention of taking Tom home today and is now wondering if he made the right choice. He doesn’t know child Tom, but he is familiar with teenage Riddle and Voldemort, the Dark Lord. So, he knows there will be a lot of questions. His problem for now is how he’ll be answering those questions.

One wrong move and any trust Tom chooses to give will be forgotten. The look in Tom’s eyes after seeing someone else capable of magic, at five-years-old already, tells Harry that he’ll need to be careful, open and accepting to a certain degree or he’ll be shut out forever and possibly seeing the tail end of a wand in his face in the nearest future.

Groaning in silent misery, he throws some more water onto his face, then leaves the room to check on Tom.

Tom looks up when he enters the room and gestures at the menu. “Is there a limit?”

“No, go ahead and tell me what you want.”

“Can I, do it?”

“Huh?”

“Order. The man downstairs said to use a wand. Can I do it?”

Tom’s face looks impassive as a child is able, but Harry knows that this is important for some reason to Tom.

“Sure, okay. You should know though that wand’s choose the Wizard, not the other way around. Therefore, not all wands will listen to someone they did not bond. I have a feeling though that my wand will suit you enough for now.”

Fascination sweeps Tom’s face, listening attentively. Normally Harry would feel a little awkward to be talking to a child like an adult that wasn’t Hermione’s and Ron’s daughter, Rose. However, Tom was always smart as far as anyone could tell. A child prodigy he’s been told.

Pulling out his Holly wand—he doubts he’ll ever allow Tom with the Elder Wand—he gives it to Tom who looks shell shocked that Harry agreed and excitedly holds out a hand. As soon as the wand touches his small hand, elation spreads through him.

“It’s alive,” Tom whispers reverently, his small fingers finding each grove and arches in the wood. Shaking his head, a little, Tom pulls the menu closer to him and starts pointing the wand at a few dishes.

“A shepherd’s pie for me,” Harry interjects. Tom obliges. With that done, he focuses his attention back on the wand. Harry does not interrupt, letting the boy have a moment.

Sighing softly, Tom hands it back but does not let his eyes go too far from the wand, eyes yearning.

“Don’t worry, when you’re old enough, you’ll be getting your very own wand.” Holstering the wand, he faces Tom who seems pleased enough.

“Alright then, ask me anything you want. Anything I am unsure of or cannot answer myself, we’ll get books together.” At the promise of books, Tom practically floats to Harry’s side. They sit on opposite sides of the table in the room.

Sitting with both hands on the table, Tom contemplates for a little bit then sits up straighter. “Who are you exactly? Why did you come for me? You said you just moved here so how did you know about me?”

Harry stares unblinkingly. Even though he knew how smart Tom was always described as, it’s still nonetheless shocking to witness. He isn’t even six yet!

“Erm, well—”

“I’ll know if you’re lying.”

“—okay so, erm, I was told you existed!” Harry blurts out, panicking now. The only alias progress he’s made so far was regarding himself. He hadn’t even had the chance to come up with how he was going to go forward with taking Tom from the Orphanage.

Swallowing dryly, he thinks he’s just going to have to do what he’s always done.

Wing it and hope for the best.

“Who?” Tom demands, suspicious. Harry doesn’t blame him for it as no one had bothered to visit Tom in all the time he’s been at Wool’s.

“By someone I once looked up to. He’s not important to the story though,” best to not have Tom hating Dumbledore at this age, or any age if he can help it. “What I can say is that this person was visited by your mother from the afterlife.”

He can use the resurrection stone in this little lie, can’t he? He can just make sure to grab it at some point and maybe talk to Merope herself and then she and Tom can talk, and his lie wouldn’t be a lie anymore…right?

“The afterlife?” Tom breathes out, his gaze focused.

Er, did Harry make another mistake already? For Merlin’s sake, he hasn’t even had the boy for twenty minutes.

“Er, anyway your mother talked to me about how she gave birth to you then asked that I look for you. So, that took some time, sorry, but I’m here now!”

Tom frowns, Harry avoiding the boys stare at the bridge of the boys’ nose. Is it cowardly of him to fear a five-year-old read his mind? Yes. Is that fear valid though? Also, yes.

“But why you? Who are you to my mo…to me?”

Harry picks up the thread of insecurity in the boy’s tone, understanding. His mind races for an answer, an acceptable one that isn’t the truth but not exactly a lie either.

A knock at the door interrupts the somber mood, Harry sighing out a small breath of relief. Getting up, he motions for Tom to stay there while he answers.

“Food for the sirs,” a surly older woman intones, wheeled cart steering itself into the room. “Enjoy,” and she leaves.

“Well, how about we fill our bellies before we continue this conversation?”

Tom looks as if he wants to protest but he can’t stop his gaze from flickering to the cart that wheels itself to their table on its own, piles of plated food steaming from top to bottom.

Grabbing his plate, Harry sets it down while the cart stays parked next to Tom. The cart has so many colours that for a moment, Harry briefly wonders if they had ordered elsewhere. Steaming Yorkshire pudding, baked beans, honey glazed carrots, tomatoes. On another, sausages, fruit of every kind Harry has ever seen at once, including from Hogwarts. Small cakes, large ones, more fruit. Had the boy ordered everything off of the menu?

Tom peers up at him, face questioning. It takes a moment for Harry to understand. Most likely, Tom fears Harry’s reaction at ordering so much and had been waiting to witness a tantrum of some sort.

“What would you like to eat first?” he asks, removing clear lids from all the available dishes to better see. That steam had looked to be building.

When Harry gives no indication that he is upset, Tom quickly peers into every dish, asking for the plate that had the most mash and meats plated with very little vegetables to be seen.

Harry grabs the plate carefully, setting it down in front of Tom.

Given time, Tom will learn that when it comes to food, he’ll never have to fear Harry making comments nor food used as a punishment. Not for any reason. To withhold meals from children should warrant a punishment.

Harry cannot stop himself from watching this small version of Voldemort, where he still retains his humanity. It’s a surreal moment for him, to realize right then, that if he had not known Riddle’s future, this moment might have meant something else in another time, for someone else who should have been here. Like Merope for one had she lived. For sitting there, delight on his face as he carefully eats his meal, is at this moment, nothing more than a hungry child.

Harry knew hunger. Was Tom familiar with it too?

They eat in silence, Harry finishing long before Tom.

As Tom tries a bit of everything from each plate, Harry writes a letter to Gringotts. Better to have Tom registered under his care as soon as possible. Done, he sets it to the side, watching Tom struggle to finish everything.

“I can save the food under a preserving charm for you to finish later if you want. Or just let me know when you’re hungry and we can place another order.”

“Preserving charm? What does that do?”

“It helps keep the food as fresh as you got it no matter how much time passes. Though the longer you keep it under the charm the more you’ll have to regularly check it and make sure to recast the spell as many times as you need.”

“Is there a spell for producing food?”

“No, unfortunately there isn’t. Magic can only do so much. From time to time a Wizard or Witch or anyone really, will push the boundaries. Good or bad but sometimes the results end the same. Food related being the latter. We can transfigure items into an apple for example but eating that apple has been found to be more harmful. It isn’t necessarily real unless you’re really powerful enough to sustain the change and keep it.”

Tom looks absolutely fascinated; his gaze engaged as he tries to eat another bite off his plate. He watches to see if the spoon will reach the boys’ mouth, but it hesitates and finally Tom grudgingly puts down the spoon.   

“Preserving charm on my food,” pausing as he points at each plate he’d like to keep, he adds as an afterthought, “please.”

As Harry is fitting things together to make it easier and more compact in the to go containers he transfigures from the extra napkins, he sees Tom rush to the bed to grab the expandable pouch and comes back with it.

Tom then watches carefully as Harry packs up the food, making sure nothing is left. Deeming it to his satisfaction, he then goes to grab the containers, intending to save them in the pouch. Apparently, Harry’s earlier explanation had been enough for Tom to trust the pouch process to protect his items and perishables to coexist together.

“Erm, Tom,” suspicious, Tom pauses in motion, waiting. When Harry’s hand reaches for the pouch, Tom actually takes several steps back, putting the fabric behind his back. “Actually, let me just grab a few of my things in the pouch before you dump the food there. That way you can keep a better eye on it, okay?”

He had every intention of just taking the pouch back as he had just bought it that day, but he had a feeling that he’d just wake up in the morning to the pouch being back in Tom’s hands with Harry’s things in it. For whatever reason, Tom is not going to part with it willingly. He’ll just have to buy himself another when he takes Tom shopping.

“I suppose you may.”

Harry almost responds aloud with a ‘gee, thanks’ but stops himself with every little patience he harbors. It isn’t much but it works just fine. He refuses to stoop to a five-year-old’s level, no matter if they’re the next Merlin incarnation or Dark Lord to be. He’s an adult.  

Reaching into the bag that Tom holds open for him, Harry pulls out his cloak from earlier, small eyes looking at his hands to make sure it isn’t anything Tom deems his.

Cloak and money come out, shrunken down to fit into his pockets for now.

Tom then hesitates.

“Will the food spill in here?”

“Hmm? Oh, not really. Picture a table at the bottom of that pouch, it’ll hold up pretty much anything and no matter how much you swing it, your items are safe and sound there. There’s spells and charms casted onto the outside to prevent things like that from happening.”

Well, he supposes Tom needs assurances after all.

Accepting the answer, satisfied with Harry’s explanation, the small boy goes back to making sure each item makes it into his new pouch. Because Tom already deemed it his, the moment it reached his small hands.

Moments later the cart is wheeled out the door for someone to pick up later.

“Go ahead and wash up if you’d like, just don’t leave this room please. I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

Pausing at the door with the Gringotts letter in his hand, Harry turns while he picks up the small thread of panic from the boy’s tone.

“I’ll be back, don’t worry. I’m just heading downstairs real quick to send this letter out. I’ll be back before you even finish your wash.”

“I’m not worried. Do what you want.” With that, Tom heads towards the only other door that is obviously the washroom.

Not calling him out on his lie, Harry rushes to get his letter sent out so he can come back. Tom may be five, but Harry doesn’t completely trust the boy to not test where his boundaries lay. All children do it, himself included at one time. Or had he even stopped?

Letter successfully on its way by a borrowed owl, Harry is soon back into the room. Breathing a sigh of relief when he hears water splashing behind the closed door, Harry gets to transfiguring a bed for himself for later use. It isn’t quite so late seeing as they had an early dinner and the sun had not quite set, but Harry figures after their ordeal of a day, they’d just restart tomorrow together.

He dresses down, ready for sleep and waits for Tom to finish washing up.

Forty minutes goes by, Harry starting to get worried, just about ready to get up and check on the boy when he hears a knock on the other side of the washroom door. “Harry?”

Getting up, he moves closer to the door. “Yes Tom?”

“I need my pouch; I forgot my night clothes.”

“Oh, okay, just a second.”

Moving to the bed, he searches for the pouch and eventually finds it stuffed into one of the pillowcases. He chuckles fondly but makes sure Tom doesn’t hear.

“What are you laughing at? What happened?”

Or not, how the bloody hell did he hear that? Eyeing the door suspiciously, he walks over, giving the wooden frame a light tap. “Here you go.”

The door opens a crack, small hand reaching out and snatching the offered pouch, door slamming close. Shrugging, he heads back to his makeshift bed and soon Tom comes out the door, steam escaping all at once and Tom looking freshly pink.

He wants to hurry up with his earlier explanations and Tom’s questions, but the boys face stops Harry in his tracks. For the first time that day, the smaller figure looks peaceful.

Harry had forgotten, feeling like a lifetime ago, what a hot shower and a full meal could accomplish for someone never having either. Not until he stepped onto Hogwarts grounds.

Tom settles in the bed, laying on his side while keeping Harry within sight.

Harry doesn’t think this is an accident, so he too lays on his side to make it easier on the kid. While he still feels it’s too early for bed, the both are already tuckered out from the day, so he turns the lights off wandlessly and settles in, making sure that one lone light remains nearest Tom just in case.

He made the right call when Tom sees it and relaxes further, watching Harry silently, pouch clutched to his chest, and eyes slowly falling shut. After five minutes with no changes from Tom, Harry finally closes his own eyes, ready to embrace his much-needed sleep as tomorrow is looking to be an even busier day for them.

As if reading his thoughts, a wand under his pillow buzzes in agreement.  

Fuck’n Elder Wand.

~ . * . ~

The sound of running feet is what finally pulls him from his sleep, the sound carrying too close by. Groaning as he stretches, eyes still closed, Harry hums, toes curling, and arms still raised above his head. He brings one down to rub his face, knocking his glasses aside and curses aloud. He forgot to take them off. He hated smudged glasses.

In his sleep, he had ended up on his back, so rolls over to check on Tom after memories of last night pop up. Tom is sitting up in bed, hair fluffed up but looking wide awake. He’s also wearing an expression he remembers seeing down in the Chamber of Secrets.

With another groan, he sits up. He’s not even that old but his body aches something fierce on random days. Today being one of them.

He looks to Tom whose expression hasn’t changed. Without saying a word, he wiggles his fingers, outreached towards the boy who is wearily eying them when his wand flies back towards him. Tom’s face is priceless, and he cannot resist a teasing grin, setting his wand back down where he had it last.

“Morning,” he says, getting up and stretching for a final time on his toes, joints settling.

Tom grunts out a noncommittal sound, mulishly looking at Harry’s wand.

“Next time,” he says, walking towards the table with the menu. “Just ask and I might let you use it, but Tom,” he looks to the hopeful boy, “you really need to ask because magic can be dangerous. At your age, an adult should be supervising any and all magical intent just in case.”

Tom looks ready to argue, most likely confident in his abilities but Harry reminds himself to be patient with him. He’s only just getting to discover this world. So, he gently tells him this. “Tom, you’ll get to know everything and anything your heart desires, but slowly and that’s fine. You have all the time in the world, we’re not going anywhere.”

Well, for the moment they’re not leaving Magical Britain any time soon, but he intends to change that later. He promises himself that he would see outside of Britain one day, so he supposes he might as well start here. He also really needs to get a move on now that he’s caring for a child. It’s imperative more than ever to him to secure them a home as Tom will need a stable environment if Harry wants to raise him proper.

“Alright then, with that out of the way, let’s eat and do some shopping.”

He skims the menu, hearing smaller footsteps coming closer, stopping by his side.

“Shopping?” There’s a fragile tremor in the child’s voice. Excitement, hope and fear most likely if Harry were to take a guess.

Gesturing for him to sit down which Tom does, Harry looks the boy in the eye. “Yes. Shopping. You’re going to need clothes and whatever else we dub as a necessity, then I need to check back with a realtor for a home.”

Tom tries to hide his excitement, but he cannot stop himself from grinning, the childish glee in his movements. Harry has to withhold his laughter at the sight as well as the messy hair.

After breakfast, they wash up, getting dressed, Tom glum with his choice.

Harry hesitates but ultimately decides to wear another Marbs ensemble, this one in black, green, and gold. As he clasps the gold chain to hold his shoulder cape, he catches Tom’s stare, his want palpable and knows that he’ll have to take Tom to Marbs as well instead of Malkin’s as he had previously thought. He hopes to encourage Tom to ask for things, not necessarily focusing on the materialistic aspect but that his needs are being cared for by an adult as they should have. And in time, he’s optimistic that he’ll open the doors for Tom to come to him for anything.

For a moment, he imagines Hermione, ‘you’re trying to buy his trust Harry!’ and he’d have been there, agreeing because how else is he to appeal to materialistic Tom. For crying out loud, Riddle had gone and stolen every founder’s artifact for his ego alone.

Ready, they walk down the steps of Leaky and once again, Harry can feel the stares clinging to his form, their gazes heavy and intrusive. He brushes the thought away, focusing on Tom’s reaction for everything. He’s both anxious and intrigued to see Tom’s first view of Diagon, to those dark eyes lighting up in surprise and joy.

And he does get to see all of that and more. He watches as Tom’s eyes latch onto a wizarding couple who every time they peck each other on the lips in a sort of shy form of affection, tiny hearts flow up between them. One of them must have charmed their lips.

Watches as Tom passes by a floating cart offering confectionary with no one in sight to control it, wizarding children running up to the thing to drop coins and taking their offered treats.

Colours bursting from both the buildings and the people, their robes swishing, the buildings breathing, the humble of life, and Tom takes all of it in, breathless.

What he does not expect to see however, is Tom suddenly glaring with all the force a five-year-old is able, his small hand snatching Harry’s sleeve, refusing to let go.

Alert, Harry looks around for the threat, trying to see what got Tom’s hackles raising.

It’s an older woman, her robes pristine and form fitting, traditional. Harry pins her as a pureblood, her heated gaze eyeing Harry from top to bottom several times. When she notices his return stare, she smiles slowly, her posture confident as she begins to take a step in his direction.

Tom backs into Harry, their pace slowing down so Harry doesn’t trip over the boy as he refuses to slacken his grip. Not that Harry blames him as the woman walked as if she’s hunting. For what exactly, he hasn’t a clue, so Harry reacts to Tom’s discomfort.

He grabs the boy, picking him up in a sudden rush, the small boy squeaks out in shock and outrage, clutching to Harry’s neck when he’s brought up so close. Small cheeks pinken.

Harry then stalks off in a rush, not wanting to know the woman’s purpose, only knowing that she had made Riddle uncomfortable.

“What are you doing?” breathes out Tom, scowling up at him.

“Sorry,” Harry murmurs. “I’ll put you back down if you want.” Harry goes to do just that but when he bends down to let Tom climb down, the boy clings tighter, staring ahead, quiet.

Confused, Harry stays like that, people having to avoid stumbling into him before he stands back up, continuing his walk to Deliciae Alley.

Harry gets to see Tom’s reaction to the sight of the less worn path but no less impressive.

Brows furrowed, Tom swivels his head back and forth to catch everything.

They stop at Attire & Garbs Dressed for all Occasions by Marbs.

Harry bends over to let Tom down who goes eagerly, his attention on the window display. He looks from there to Harry, back and forth to make sure that Harry did indeed get his clothing from there. Chuckling, Harry had gone to pat the boy’s head but met empty air.

Blinking, he finds Tom gone, the boy having practically flown into the shop. Hurrying, Harry steps inside to see that Tom is already browsing through the racks, his attention veering to the many patterns and the flying measuring tape with quill and parchment following.

“You’re back!”

 Startled, Harry sheepishly smiles at Marb, nodding.

“Hullo,” he greets.

Marb eyes his outfit appreciatively, hands outstretched as if to touch him, but she doesn’t.

“Oh, I knew they’d look absolutely wonderful on you but it’s good to reaffirm such beliefs in person, don’t you think?” She grins at him, not waiting for a response as she grabs the passing by measuring tape. “Is he yours?” Pointing to Tom who looks like he really wants to touch the fabrics on the wall but is refraining himself for some reason.

“Oh, erm yes, he’s uh…mine.” Harry tries to go for a convincing smile, knowing his response sounded too lackluster. Marb either doesn’t notice or chose to ignore it because she gives him another smile instead.

“And are we measuring him today?”

“Yes please,” he murmurs, relieved to have Marbs take charge.

“Lovely, let’s have him step on the platform then, shall we?”

With no hesitation, Tom does as told, having gotten to Harry’s side quickly. Unlike Harry, Tom gave out his colour preferences, his choice of fabrics by touch when presented with samples, and designs he wanted changed. From time to time, his eyes flicked to Harry, waiting to be stopped but Harry never did, though for a moment he worried Marbs would be angered or disappointed to not be in charge.

He'd been sorely wrong as Marbs leapt from place to place, bringing Tom everything he’s asked for, both bouncing ideas from each other.

Overwhelmed, Harry sits himself down on the sideline, wondering how someone Tom’s age knew what type of cuts he would like and the difference between seams. Is Harry being conned here? Did Voldemort travel back in time too?

For a brief moment, Tom stumbles for the first time since stepping into the shop, his face unsure as he glances at Harry before Marbs. He then whispers something lowly, almost shyly.

That alone is enough for Harry to put his suspicions away.

If Voldemort had gone back in time as well, would he have cursed himself for so freely showing his emotions publicly? Harry doesn’t know the answer to that, which is unfortunate.

The entire time they’ve been in the shop, Harry’s only input had been shoes, Tom not trusting anything Harry had to say on clothing matters after Harry had made an off-hand comment on a red dyed pattern, Marbs and Tom looking at him, disturbed.

Rolling his eyes, he mutters red, being the superior colour much to the dismay of Marbs.

An hour later, Harry and Tom are leaving the shop, his galleons lighter and Tom pink faced, sporting a grin he can’t seem to hide away, nor did he seem inclined to. Marbs had been kind enough to work right then and there to get one of Tom’s outfits made so that he could step out, similarly dressed as Harry in light greys and instead of trousers, Tom sported shorts with matching knee socks.

It was a look Harry had never seen but could say with absolute certainty that no child could pull off the look better than Tom. Marbs seems to agree as she begged Harry to come with Tom again as she’d been keen to make a matching parent and child ensemble for ages.

Surprisingly, it had been Tom to agree, so grudgingly, Harry complies.

As they were in the vicinity, Harry decides to make a stop at the Realtor, knowing they wouldn’t yet have anything but hoping for something all the same.

It had been a good thing as the owner had been in that day and informed Harry that he had just received the approval to view one of the homes in question in two days’ time. This seemed to please Tom, who relaxed further as the day worn on as Harry had not once yelled or showed any negative feelings otherwise to the boy.

As they walk away, Tom’s hand clutched into his own, it takes Harry a long moment to notice the boy’s expectant gaze before it shifts away to look around some more.

“We need to stop by somewhere to get you a toothbrush and whatnot,” Harry finally says, his mind racking for what else Tom is expecting but coming up empty.

“Alright,” Tom murmurs, his expression staying the same.

So, they go and do that, Harry still thinking about what Tom could be wanting. What is he missing? Still lost, they walk out of one of the shops with a bag of Tom’s hygiene, Tom favoring the softer scents, when a kid stumbles into their path.

Reflexively Harry catches the kid’s arm to help balance him so that the boy doesn’t fall onto his face though it’s a close call and because of how fast it happens, Harry fears he may have used too much force.

The pale haired boy looks up, pink faced and pointy.

Oh Merlin, Harry can pinpoint who this child belongs to a mile away.

Is it too late to just grab Tom and run?

Yea, just a bit he thinks as he sees two rushing adults coming his way. Just a bit.

Chapter Text

Swallowing dryly, Harry pulls back his hand, coincidentally the one harboring the Elder Wand in its holster as he’s reminded by its buzz. Whether it be from protesting, in excitement, or ready to battle, Harry hasn’t a clue. Just makes sure it’s in no one’s reach but his own, scowling as he’s forced to acknowledge that the wand did have a bit more of a sentience presence about it.

For why else, is the wand reacting other than it is somehow amused at Harry’s current predicament and never-ending awkward situations. Perhaps he should take a long look at the Potter luck to be sure it isn’t some kind of curse.

The obvious Malfoy child says nothing, just stares not at Harry, but at Tom, the boy’s chin tilting up curiously.

Tom straightens up, scowling at Malfoy, eyes narrowed as he steps closer to Harry, his hand still clutched protectively.

The Malfoy boy looks surprised at first, then glares right back, most likely not used to being confronted in such a manner. Not when he carries a pureblood, respected surname. He opens his mouth to speak but never gets the chance to.

“Abraxas! What have I said about running off from your mother like that,” a male voice raises. Not quite a shout but tone demanding, present, unmoving.

Harry’s green clashes with steel, a flash of recognition from the taller figure. The older Malfoy’s face is lightly dusted, his exertion noticed only by those nearest. Harry’s thoughts had been too focused on being embarrassed with his ‘30s’ slang thanks to Piers he hadn’t gotten a close look at Malfoy. Only noticed the obvious colouring and the similarities to Draco. Most importantly, by the small tell, that the older Malfoy knew how to duel.

This close, Harry is now able to tell that they may be similar in age, that the steel-coloured eyes have flecks of blue, that he is indeed much taller than Harry but so is everyone else, so fuck’n what.

“Sorry father,” the smaller, pale boy speaks clearly, his expression saying he isn’t sorry at all. “I hadn’t meant to run too far. Thankfully this man caught me before I fell.” Little Malfoy tosses a small, charming smile up at his father, small, milky white teeth briefly exposed.

Harry feels Tom’s hand clenching tightly, fleetingly before it relaxes once more.

“Yes, I’ve noticed,” Malfoy drawls, raising the little hairs from Harry’s neck. “I do thank you Mr.?” Eyes cold, hard, remembering their little row at the Ministry.

Merlin, Harry wants out of this fast. If he didn’t have Tom he’d have already done so, consequences be damned. The sight of Tom, who’s expression is now closed off, reigns him back from doing so. Had this Malfoy kid been in Riddle’s class? Eurgh, would Tom be bullied if Harry didn’t play nice? What did playing nice entail anyway? How far is nice?

Mentally sighing, resignedly, he answers, praying his cringe could not be obviously seen. “Hadrian Potter-Black and no thanks needed,” he says dully. “Just glad a child hadn’t been harmed.” Harry then gestures to his side. “And this is Tom,” Harry says, almost putting a question there. Does he introduce him as his son? His adopted son? What is he supposed to say?

Tom doesn’t seem bothered or confused.

Harry then has the privilege to witness up close and personal, a quiet, blinking Malfoy.

“Dear, I see you’ve found Abraxas. And who might this be?”

It’s Harry’s turn to blink for Malfoy’s wife is none other than the older, pureblood, traditional robe wearing woman from earlier.

“Harry, up.”

“Er, yes?” Harry blinks down, unseeing. Instinctively, he grabs Tom, pulling the much smaller boy compared to Abraxas up in his arms, Tom wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck and his legs draped over the older man’s hips. Tom then rests his head on Harry’s shoulder, all the while his dark eyes remain on Mrs. Malfoy.

The older woman smiles coolly, her gaze flicking from Riddle to Harry, remaining there.

“…I admit, call me surprised,” Malfoy smiles with all the gaiety and charm he intones. “A Potter-Black. Why, a dichotomy of a pairing if you don’t mind my saying so. How do you do? I am Enceladus Malfoy, and this is my wife, Eurydice Malfoy.”

Harry nods in greeting, silently praying he does not ever need to figure out how to pronounce either Malfoy name as he’s going to need more than a few tries.

“And of course,” Malfoy continues. “This here is our son, Abraxas who’ve you just saved from an embarrassment.”

Abraxas smiles, not at all embarrassed, though his gaze does narrow in Tom’s direction.

Mrs. Malfoy has not once looked away from Harry, her gaze contemplative. She’s definitely a beauty though looks a decade older than her husband Harry notes, as she nods in greeting as well. Compared to her husband, she fairs darker in colouring, both in complexion and hair. She also carries a sort of confidence about her that Harry is only familiar with Ginny and Fleur, which makes him nervous.

“I must admit another surprise in myself though reluctant I am to say so,” Malfoy speaks again, his eyes sharp and intelligent. “I was not aware that any of the Potters had married into the Black family or vice versa.”

Tom shifts, Harry worried for a moment that maybe he’s getting bored or something, but a glance reveals that Tom is alert, soaking in everything that leaves their mouths, not paying the least sort of attention to Abraxas who seems to be trying to gain it without interrupting.

“Yes, that is a bit of a surprise,” Mrs. Malfoy murmurs, coy. “Why, you might say it is sort of a Malfoy tradition to know each child born considering we’re, so few compared to France or the America’s.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Malfoy continues, pleased. “I dare say, with a name such as yours, I assume there are many opened doors surely. Only, as a collector such as myself, I just cannot seem to recall your name anywhere where they should be.”

“You jest husband. Your mind is sound as always. No. I believe that perchance a strong pairing has only been kept for important reasons. The Black family are, as always, quite conscious of their footings inside the courts and outside of them. As for the Potters, well, it’s been a decade since Henry Potter left his seat on the Wizengamot. Possibly, we’ve met the reason.” Mrs. Malfoy’s grin is sharp, eager.

Er, what? Squinting, Harry attempts to find what they’re asking without directly asking him. Bloody Slytherin’s and their mind games. He never knows what he’s going to get.   

For a moment, there’s a sort of pause in conversation, Harry still sort of lost as to how he got here, why Tom is in his arms, how he’s said few words compared to Malfoy but that isn’t exactly new is it?

Then, finally he gets it.

“Oh! You wish to know my parents.” Chuckling nervously, he flicks his gaze for an opening, some sort of exit as he really does have a lot of things to get done before he’s swamped. “Er, for future reference, it’s just easier to outright ask what you want to know.” Harry says, not paying the Malfoy’s any more attention. “Everything else sort of just…flies over. Anyway, yea Potter marrying into the Blacks or Blacks marrying into the Potters, anyway you much put it is fine really, I couldn’t tell you anyone’s preferences.”

It had not been an answer, but Malfoy’s hadn’t exactly asked did they.

Grinning, Harry makes sure his hold on Tom is secure, spotting his light to all of this.

“Well, it’s been…well, it’s certainly been a morning am I right?” He chuckles, Mr. Malfoy’s pleased little smile crashing right before Harry’s eyes. Mrs. Malfoy on the other hand, looks like she’s just received Christmas. He isn’t going to bother to uncover any of that at the moment. Malfoy secrets are no longer his specialty. He’s moved on. Really. “Enjoy the rest of your day, I know we will.” Harry chirps, moving right on around them.

He sees a man holding miniature flying brooms floating above his head, held with ropes, almost like the helium balloons at carnivals. As they get closer, Harry almost believes them to be made from the same material as the balloons, but turns out they’re made from paper, charmed to hold children without the dangers of an actual flying broom. The man looked excited as he told him it’d been his nine-year-old niece’s idea to craft one when Harry asked.

From the corner of his eye, he sees the Malfoy’s reluctantly leave. He’d been hoping to take advantage of one of their pureblood customs, Bill having explained to him once when he met Fleur’s family. Apparently, it is the highlight of rudeness to pursue conversation after one has made very clear they are not interested. Harry had done that by just simply, leaving. By continuing to engage, even in argument, you are opening the conversation to continue. Now, the Malfoy’s would have to wait until they bumped into each other next time.

He internally scoffs at the idea. One, he finds it strange that they’d adhere to their customs as it isn’t like anyone would know if they decided to pursue conversation. Two, which is most important, he has no intention of ever bumping into them again. Talk about awkward.

Harry then tries to get Tom excited to try out the paper broom, but Tom looked like he’d rather eat it than ever attempt to fly it.

Sadly, Harry lets it go but pays the man for his time anyway.

Instead, they stake out a place to eat for lunch, Tom’s clothing purchase having taken longer than he’d been expecting.

Tom points at a restaurant called The Silver Crose. Harry is a bit apprehensive as the place is on the border between Diagon and Knockturn, but Tom seems excited, his face too close for Harry to outright refuse. It seems he’s really going to need to be sterner with himself when dealing with Tom isn’t he?

The building is neither silver nor close to it. It’s brick red and tan, the logo of a grindylow and a ship. They stepped inside, Tom still held in Harry’s arms. They both blink in surprise. Harry now understands why it’s called silver.

Tables with silver tentacle center pieces holding small, red candlelit flames on each leg greets them, the tablecloths a shimmery white and the walls, dark, cooling away from the heated sun outside. The ceiling is carved into an upside-down massive ship, water cascading the sides to pour into potted greens against the walls without overfilling or spilling.

It’s a very nice place, more suited for a dinner setting than lunch. Harry is about to tell Tom they can come back later, but he does not get the chance when they’re approached by a waiter.

“Two please,” Tom says, smiling shyly up at the man.

“Of course, sirs,” the man says, smiling back. “Would you like an open seat or something more comfortable?”

Again, Tom answers. “Comfortable.”

“Excellent. Right this way if you will.”

Harry follows, not knowing if he should be happy Tom feels comfortable to verbalize his preferences or frowning, because Harry is the one paying. He really needs a job. He’s certain his money isn’t going to last at this rate surely.

They’re led to the back, seated families and other gazes following after them. There are stairs that lead down which the waiter takes, Harry cautiously following. Sconces light their way revealing a large open space divided into that same shimmering white cloth but as curtain dividers for tables. The water from upstairs apparently is connected to the green potted plants down here as the sound of trickling water reaches their ears.

While up there you could hear the conversation clearly enough, here the curtains had to be moved, providing sound barriers for the guests as proven when a waitress comes with a rolling cart of entrées to serve.

The floor gleams, which Harry only notices at that moment, Tom gasping in shock. Underneath them is glass, filled with water as a passing by grindylow lazily swims by amongst a school of fish.

“Right here gentlemen,” the waiter gestures to a table off to the side in the back, his hand holding the curtain to let them through.

Harry can see that the fabric looks slippery, wet, almost slipping through the mans fingers a few times. Harry seats Tom first, the boy transfixed below them. Sitting down himself, he sees it’s because there’s a mermaid throwing sand over her tail flippantly as she rolls over and over, her hair of kelp trailing up towards the glass.

Is there a nearby lake connected to the building he isn’t aware of? This restaurant business he knows isn’t in the future, Ginny and him having tried everything together on their date nights to make things new and exciting again.

They’re handed menus, Tom perusing immediately as Harry sits there in contemplation, distracted. This showed l;how many differences he’s picked up on now, his thoughts of an alternate universe coming back up. That couldn’t be it though, right?

There’s Riddle, still a child, still magical, found at the orphanage Dumbledore mentioned. Maybe, the two Wizarding wars really impacted a lot more than he thought.

The waiter comes back to ask for their order, once more, Tom placing an exuberant amount. Harry decides he’ll just try some of those, so orders a drink, feeling a headache come up. Out of his pockets, he pulls out parchment and a self-inking quill, not yet having replaced his pouch. He places them in front of Tom, who looks back at him, confused.

“Go ahead and write down all of your questions so we can stay on track.”

Excited at the prospect, Tom curiously picks up the quill, studying it before he tries it out for himself. He seems happy enough with something to do, so Harry pulls out his pamphlet of job prospects.

Pulling out his own quill, he opens the little booklet, immediately crossing out the first one as a Werewolf Culler. The bloody hell? How did that pass Ministry laws to be even remotely okay? While crossed out, he pulls out a separate paper to jot this down as a question. He isn’t a savior; he says over and over silently. But the need to investigate it all the same is too great.

The next job offer isn’t any better, asking for someone to go into the Forbidden Forest to deal with the Centaurs. Absolutely not.

Down the list he goes, crossing out most, marking a few with question marks, and circling only two as potential. One being a professor at Hogwarts as a Defense against the Dark Arts and the other, a flying Broom instructor/tester for children. That one is higher on his list of prospects but being back at Hogwarts sounds nice too.

“What are you doing?”

“Hm?” Harry looks up to see Tom peering over, his knees on the chair for added height. He looks back down. “Oh. I’m job searching.”

“…you don’t have a job?”

Pausing at his next mark, Harry wearily glances up. There is clearly judgement in that tone alone for a five-year-old to carry. That should be illegal.

“Yes?”

“Hmm,” Tom hums, sitting back down.

“Listen,” Harry starts, flustered for no reason. “This is all a bit unexpected.”

“I’m unexpected,” Tom supplies, scowling.

“No. No, I didn’t say that,” Harry flails a hand. “I’m just trying to get my ducks in a row is all. It’s fine. We’re fine. This is part of adulting. Jobs change and all of that.”

“What was your last job?” Tom demands, folding his parchment up.

“An Auror, sort of like a police officer,” he adds, knowing Tom would not know.

“Are you struggling with money?” Tom then asks.

“Er, no? We’re good for now, but I’ve yet to purchase a house.”

“Well, how much do you have?”

“I don’t think it’s appropriate for a child to worry about money. I’ll take care of everything, so you don’t need to worry Tom.”

Scowling, Tom taps his quill onto the table over and over, his gaze never leaving Harry’s.

“Stop that,” Harry says, swiping for the pen.

Tom pulls it away, still upset. “How am I supposed to belong here if you don’t tell me what I need to know. You said I can ask questions.”

“Well, yes, but you don’t even know the difference between a pound and a galleon yet and that’s fine. You’ll learn everything you need to in good time.”

“I do too, know,” Tom says snottily. “You left your papers out. The one’s that move. I read some of them when you were still sleeping. One of them talked about Wizarding stocks.”

“We have Wizarding stocks?” Harry asks aloud, surprised.

Tom’s small, rounded face looked a mixture of unsurprise and more judgement. Far too young to be going around, looking like that.

“Well, I doubt you know what stocks are,” Harry mutters, shuffling his papers.

Tom doesn’t answer, just turns his nose up as the waiter arrives with their many dishes.

“I at least know what a galleon is,” Tom mulishly mumbles.

“Yea?” Harry asks, distracted as another job offer catches his eye. Wood making is far from a specialty of his. In fact, the closest he got to doing anything with wood was his failure in fixing his wand until he used the Elder Wand to fix it. He might be able to do this though surely.

“Yes,” the smaller boy sniffs. “I know how much a galleon is and a knut—”

“—ka-nut is how it’s pronounced. I’m impressed though that you—"

“—that doesn’t even make sense,” Tom argues, distraught.

Upset that he got it wrong or that the choice of pronunciation left a lot to be desired as decided by the wizarding mass, Harry would never know.

Tom then went on a tiny rant about a book he picked up about the silent ‘k’s’ the ‘s’s’ and so on, Harry listening silently, amused. While the conversation seems well above the typical discussions for Tom’s age, it is still nice to see him act like a child. If only he can get Tom to act out even more in healthy, controlled situations that aren’t taking it out on others. Well. He can certainly start wishing.

Tom ends up pushing aside a lobster plate, not liking the texture so Harry takes it for himself as he runs through another checklist of the jobs before applying. He wanted to make sure he’d get it before…shite, did the Goblin’s package offer a graduation degree?

Bloody hell.

Sighing, he rubs the bridge of his nose in frustration, adding it to his list of things to check. He cannot even remember if there’d been a discussion about it. Damn his memory.

“Can I see?”

“See what?” Harry asks, writing down his question about packages lest he forget that too.

“How much money w-you have?”

Pausing, Harry faces Tom who is staring down at his plate with all the concentration a five-year-old is able. He tries to go for a kind smile, but he’s stressed, he knows it, and isn’t sure he’s doing a good job. Tom and he haven’t even had all the important discussions which they really should.

“Tom, the money I have is now yours too. It belongs to both of us. No matter what happens, you will never be going back to that orphanage.”

Tom is still looking down at his plate, his bottom lip caught between teeth.

Harry waits it out, remembering Molly’s patience when Harry was having one of his off days in the fallout of Ginny.

“…promise?”

The voice is soft, not quite a whisper. All the same, it hits Harry like a blazing stunner.

“Of course,” he croaks, not knowing what else to say other than the truth. Clearing his throat, Harry pulls out a separate sheet of paper, writing down what he remembers the vaults holding…well he estimates because he doesn’t actually recall the exact numbers. “Here, not that you need to worry. We have plenty to get a good home and such. Once I get a job, we’ll even be better off.”

Tom takes it quietly, not saying anything further as they finish their meals. Harry then makes a note to reach out to Len Abbott. He has no connections anywhere at the moment, but he remembers Hannah Abbott who dated and eventually married Neville. She’d been kind and spoke well of her family and for the brief time they’d been around, so did Len.

He’s hoping the other man might know of children around Tom’s age and tutors or schools for wizarding children because as much as he’d like for Tom to go to a muggle school to build his tolerance for others, he knows it’d be a major fight later. Instead, he’s thinking of having Tom befriend light oriented and half-blood children like them. It’s too bad none of the muggleborn’s knew of their world yet as it’d have benefited both sides.

“Harry.”

“Hmm?” He also writes down a list of books he’ll be needing to pick up that day.

“Harry.”

Pulling his eyes away from his paper, he faces Tom who is once again, looking at him with judgment.

Huffing, he thinks, ‘what did I do now?’ Out loud, he says, “what is it, Tom?”

Tom hands back the paper Harry gave him, Harry taking it back, perplexed. Glancing down, he notices marks all over the numbers. “Yes?” He says, confused.

“You’re rich. I can’t math it all because the number is too high,” Tom grits out, clearly upset at his own limits. “But it’s still a lot…like, owning two or three houses rich, I think. How do you have all this money without a job?”

Clearly, Tom has lost all the respect he might have had for Harry and is now eyeing him suspiciously all over again if a little impressed. Impressed for all the wrong reasons Harry thinks.  

“I didn’t steal it if that’s what you’re implying,” Harry says guiltily. Did it count as stealing if the Goblins helped? He did still commit fraud after all.

“I didn’t say you did,” Tom replies, haughtily. “You don’t even need a job,” Tom then says, his face now looking imploringly at Harry.

His confusion spikes, not knowing what Tom is after. He could not guess earlier after their shopping and he hasn’t a clue now, which is nothing new he supposes.

“Yes, well, that might be the case,” he says awkwardly, reshuffling his papers. “However, I think it’s important to have one nonetheless.”

“Or, you could stay home with me, to teach me magic. You haven’t even answered my questions,” Tom says petulantly.

“I can do both of those and get a job,” Harry says easily, back on familiar ground. If there’s one thing Harry can rely on that isn’t the press demanding his time, it’s his stubbornness. “Now, if you’re done, we can head on over to the bookstore then finish at Gringotts and I am free to answer all of your questions.”

Tom concedes, but by the look he gives back, Harry knows this isn’t the end of their conversation.

Harry pays the bill, eyes wide at the ridiculous price, but calms himself that he’ll be getting a job soon. Real soon…hopefully.

They stop at Flourish & Blotts, Harry frowning at the small selection that didn’t cater to unusual types of magics or celebrities. Very few shelves had anything he’d been hoping to find, namely maps detailing current structures nor one specific book for current spells. He’s afraid to use much magic when a lot of the spells he relies on aren’t discovered until much later and he didn’t want to claim them as his own when they weren’t. When he’d asked the shopkeeper, he’d been told very gruffly and rudely, that if he wanted nonsense, to find it at the library.

For a moment, Harry thought the man had been suggesting the Hogwarts Library, but the man snidely said there were actually several if you knew where to find them.

Harry had had to pay two bloody galleons to get a rough drawn map for one of them, Harry not bothering to thank the man.

Tom, on the other hand, is having the time of his life, kneeling on the floor next to an ever-growing stack.

Checking through them, Harry had to take away four of them as they were too advanced and bordered on dark.

When Tom had tried to argue, for the first time since they met, Harry put his foot down. Instead, Harry found a Hogwarts introduction for Tom to read through. The smaller boy hadn’t been happy but conceded, frowning all the while.

Five minutes later they fell into a barter arrangement, Tom listing all the reasons he needed that book or this one and Harry explaining he really didn’t, not until he got his first wand. At some point, Tom had stomped his foot, his face red as he yelled angrily, eyes welled with tears. Books from every direction ended up flying off the shelves to smack into Harry aggressively, Harry having to duck and the shopkeeper who came to investigate went running back to the counter, his stare accusing all the while.

It took a horrifically long time for Harry to understand what is actually happening. Though the books stopped lunging at him the shelves shook in strain, the shopkeeper up front yelling about damages. Harry internally scoffs. As if magic couldn’t just fix it all in minutes.

Hands out in surrender, he gets a good look at Tom whose face is still very much red, eyes now pink, and his lips trembling, panting for breath every few seconds.

Tom had been testing his boundaries since the moment Harry gave him the expanding pouch, hadn’t he? Looking back on it now, it’s clear as day that Tom had been waiting for the other shoe to drop so to speak, had been actively encouraging both clinginess and greedy like behaviors. Not that Tom isn’t greedy to begin with, but he’d put it all out on the table from the start, as if to let Harry know that this is exactly how things are going to be, and Harry had just turned a blind eye to all the signs.

This smart, frustratingly, lonely child wanted to know what he could and could not get away with from the start, so that there’d be no surprises later. Harry understood that. He understands it even now.

Clearing his now dry throat, his own eyes stinging embarrassingly enough, Harry keeps his hands out, murmuring softs ‘it’s okay,’ ‘it’s fine,’ anything to keep away that small thread of fear he can see building in those dark eyes.

Harry is awkwardly crab walking slowly towards Tom, his hands still out, not knowing what to do exactly but letting his gut reaction lead the charge.

When he’s right next to him, Tom clenches his eyes shut tightly, his breathing stuttering in small, wet little gasps of air. Slowly, checking for every reaction, Harry envelops the boy into his arms into a hug, his hold firm but not constraining.

Tom lets his head rest against Harry’s chest for a moment before his small form wracks into shudders, his sobs reaching the older man’s ears. Swooping him up, Harry moves to the back of the shop where there’s more privacy, still murmuring softly, patting the small back in his hold. His heart clenches painfully at the sight, mad at himself for not catching on but also thinking that maybe Tom needed a good cry. To let everything out as he’d never been able to before. Not while in the presence of all those judging, condemning eyes.

They stay like that for a long while, Harry glaring at the shopkeeper down when he’d attempted to rush them. Thirty minutes later, small hands clenched into his shirt, Tom falls asleep, secure, and tired, most likely dehydrated now.

Carefully, Harry holds him with one hand, using his other to pull out his wand to encase Tom in filtered silence, allowing only small bursts of wind to permeate. A flick of his wrist, reshelves the books from earlier, then levitates the abandoned stack to the checkout. He still did not get the books that Tom really wanted, but he did add a few of the ones he’d been on the fence about.

The shopkeeper kept silent, Harry not bothering to apologize when there is nothing to say sorry for. Tom is a child and, at that moment, had been acting as a child. They throw tantrums, parents deal with it, they move on.

Perhaps that’s a bit of an entitled mindset but Harry doesn’t really care. Not when this entire day had they been making such progress. It hasn’t even been a full 24 hours since he picked up the boy, it certainly felt weeklong.

Purchase made, Harry leaves to Gringotts. As much as he’d love to head back to the Leaky and call it a day after this ordeal, he does not want to prolong his list of to do’s. He’ll just make sure Tom stays rested.

Kids normally took naps anyway, didn’t they? Mind going back to the Weasley’s, Harry cannot remember if the children did. Surely Mione and Ron mentioned it once. The struggles, the tantrums, and the, er, well, whatever it is children did.

Harry doesn’t actually know, only familiar with Dudley’s habits and Harry’s never-ending list of chores. Even during school hours, he never got a break, and he doesn’t remember any naps taken there.

Sighing, he shrugs. Maybe that library will have some parenting books as he didn’t see any at Flourish. How the hell did that place stay in business for so long while only having Hogwarts list of books in stock? Didn’t people have other needs besides autobiographies and romance novels?

Grumbling under his breath, Harry enters Gringotts doors, receiving several looks thrown at him and a peacefully, sleeping Tom as he tells the teller his name and who he’s there for.

One particular woman coos aloud at the sight which Harry hasn’t a problem with, but when she gets too close, her hands reaching as if to touch Tom, Harry pulls back carefully to not jostle the boy.

“Don’t touch,” Harry snaps, the woman pulling back sharply in surprise, her mouth agape. “It’s rude to touch people’s children without their permission.”

Annoyed, Harry turns to see HawkIron gesturing towards him across the room, so he walks away, not letting anyone else come close or say anything.

HawkIron doesn’t react at the sight of Tom, only gets right down to business as soon as they’re seated thankfully. Merlin, he loved Goblin’s and their practicality. Well, when they weren’t imprisoning Dragons anyway. Also, when they weren’t charging him an arm and a leg for breaking into their bank for that matter, deserved or not. Well-deserved he sighs silently.

“I received your letter; all you will need to do is sign these forms and include your adoption papers to legitimize that this boy is in your care for the foreseeable future. Hogwarts will receive a copy to update their books if he isn’t already written down for entry and then a copy will be sent to the Ministry records.”

“Great,” Harry sighs, thankful but tired of paperwork already. Harry writes down his signature, but then sheepishly looks up at HawkIron when he realizes he’d signed as Harry James Potter instead of the name he’d been given.

Grumbling, HawkIron had to pull out a new form as signatures weren’t allowed to be removed magically in the event of an Imperio or polyjuiced case which would then need to be investigated. Thoroughly.

Shuddering at his own memories when the Goblins had found out what he, Ron, and Hermione had done, he stays silent, not wanting to go through that ever again. Ever.

His arm twinges in pain, Harry quickly casting a numbing spell to the area. While Tom is quite light, Harry’s never had to hold a child this long. Rose and Hugo much preferred Harry on his fours to play thestral, those deceivingly morbid children.

This time, he pays attention to his signature, signing it under the watchful eyes of HawkIron. Then he signs the section referring to Tom, Harry not wanting to wake the child up yet for his opinion but decides they can always change it later. So, he writes, Tom Marvolo Riddle Potter-Black, mentally shirking at the sight. What use were long names and why did purebloods care so much? Did their backs not ache carrying ridiculously long pretentious names?

He silently mouths an apology to Tom, not knowing how the boy would react but finds this necessary to give him the best outcome possible in school without bullying. He hopes there is no embarrassment when he’s called before the stool of hat. Maybe Harry would be so lucky to have raised Tom into a nice, Hufflepuff boy?

Then he remembers the hunger in those dark eyes and knows it’d been a long shot anyway.

Finishing, Harry is about to get up when he remembers his question.

“Right, did we discuss any particulars regarding education for me? I will be applying for a job and don’t know if it will be brought up in interviews or anything.”

HawkIron does his own magic again, a folder zipping through the room to land on the desk. He shuffles through them to pull out a single sheet, handing it over.

Harry reads, dismayed at the results. Not because the information provided is a lie or an over exaggeration of the truth. In all fairness, the paper showed fair grades, but Harry is reminded once again that he’s elsewhere.

Down at the bottom from the list of subjects, is the name, Kenmare’s Tutoring House of Witches & Wizards & Wizardly Folks, included with a signature of some person. It’d already been submitted along with his other forms, and he just hadn’t noticed.

As HawkIron explains that there is a much smaller branch of Goblin network there which is a cover under the name, Harry is silently reeling that here, in this time, he really is no longer Harry James Potter anymore.

For some reason, even though it painfully makes sense why HawkIron chose Kenmare, he’d harbored the thought that he’d still be able to keep something of his past, namely a Gryffindor graduate of Hogwarts. That, however, isn’t exactly possible, not with his current name and having slipped by the masses of networking students and remain unnoticed.

He’d have been unable to explain to many why they did not remember him.

In the end, he’s now had to let go of a very important part of himself once again.

Quietly giving his thanks, mind numb, Harry leaves the bank, tired.

There are still many hours left of the day but for now, he thinks he’s earned himself a nap before heading to the Ministry before dinner time. Hopefully Len is there as he didn’t want to wait for a letter.

Peering down, Tom’s mouth is open in that sort of in between deep sleep and nap kids fall into, looking peaceful and waking up disoriented but well rested. Tom really is the cutest child he’s ever seen.

He sends a silent, apology to Rose and Hugo, feeling as if there should be guilt in it but finds none.

Reaching the Leaky, the young woman from his first night greets him happily at the door which is quickly erased at the sight of Tom.

“Is that your nephew?” She asks, her eyes wide.

“Er,” what is Tom? He supposes it’s official now because of the papers. “He’s my son,” he says aloud, testing it. Though weird, he isn’t as opposed to the idea as he had been yesterday.

For some reason, the young woman—did he ever catch her name? —looks absolutely devastated at the news, her eyes even sadder when Tom chose that moment to snuffle into Harry’s shirt further.

Startled, Harry finds the action bloody adorable.

The young woman blankly tells him to have a good day when he turns to leave, Harry mumbling it back as he climbs the steps.

He attempts to set Tom on the larger bed but the boy refuses to loosen his grip on Harry’s shirt, so he decides they’ll just nap for another hour together. Not that he had put much effort into separating Tom really.

Settling into bed, Harry releases a deep, withheld sigh, wondering what he is doing? Things have been moving too fast for him lately even though he’s been here for many days now. It’d be nice if he had someone letting him know he isn’t fuckin’ things up as much as he thinks.

For now, he’ll take a nap, and in an hour, he’ll go look for Len.

Not a bad start at all really. Tom sighs out deeply, as if agreeing. Well, that’s that then he supposes.   

Chapter Text

It’s hot, the heat stifling and irritating. His sock covered feet feel sweaty and so does his face, but for some reason he’s reluctant to move. The heat is too much though, bordering unbearable as he huffs in discomfort, settling back down drowsily.

Wakefulness drags him up from the edges of his sleep grudgingly, forcing him to blink up blearily to see a dark-coloured ceiling with wooden beams. A bead of sweat drips down the side of his face to collect beneath his neck, disgusting and maddening.

Why is it so hot? Why is he sweating so much? He can feel his hair clinging to his forehead, unmoving when he shifts to sit up fully though it’s a struggle as he feels weighted.

He sees why a moment later when he’s on his knees, puffing in exhaustion to see a sleeping Harry, a matching flush rising on his face and his glasses crooked, smudged.

Blinking, Tom stares longer at the scene, the time ticking slowly as he finally processes that yes, it had been Harry’s arm that kept him from moving. That the heat had been because he had been cradled into Harry’s side.

He’s then reminded in a moment of clarity; of the reason he had been in Harry’s arms to begin with and now his face flushes for something entirely different.

Humiliation tries to claw its way up his throat, but he forcefully pushes it down lest he actually shout or worse, bite Harry’s exposed neck in retaliation for seeing something rarely displayed. He cannot recall the last time anyone saw his tears nor does a memory pop up to compare to his most recent tantrum. He’s normally in much more control of his mind and body but he supposes that because he’s been a bit overwhelmed with recent events, it’s to be expected.

So, as embarrassed as he is, he will not make a sound as this time he can finally observe his new guardian undisturbed. While he could have that morning, he’d been a bit preoccupied with trying to use Harry’s wand. A shame that Harry had woken soon after.

When he had first caught a glimpse of the wizard as he laid, tied to his bed and surrounded by those disgusting men, he had at first thought that Mrs. Cole had sent him up. Those eyes, however, flared momentarily in a rage so felt that Tom had expected to see actual flames of some sort. He had not however, expected to see men go flying across the room.

It’d certainly been a sight to behold.

Such power, such fury, all aimed at the ones who dared to touch and spew hatred at Tom for being different, for being better.

Euphoria, like none other, exploded and pooled in his stomach, only intensifying when Mrs. Cole also received punishment. He’d have preferred actual blood spilt but he’d take what he could get if it meant Harry taking him away from that awful place. Which Harry had.

Out of all those children, Harry had chosen him. Never mind that he’d been told of Tom’s existence. Never mind that Harry seems to be some sort of scatterbrain with only half a mind working at best. None of those mattered any more when ultimately, Harry belonged to Tom.

Tom, who had seen the possibilities with his own eyes. Tom, who only had to ask, look, or point and Harry readied himself to spend his money.

Flying books whiz by in his most recent memory, causing him to scowl. Well. Mostly ready to spend his money on whatever Tom wanted. Within reason, he sneers in his head. That could be worked on though, so he doesn’t expect that to be much of a challenge.

After all, Harry only seemed to be so eager to spoil Tom even though they’d just met.

Tom has no intention of sharing Harry. So, far, it seemed to be just the two and he’d like it to stay that way.

Of all the guardians to be saddled with, it had to be the most oblivious one who cannot seem to realize he’s the catch of the Ball so to speak. One with power and money. And if the white-haired man from earlier is to be believed, Harry also had a revered name of some sort.

He has a lot of catching up to do to understand the complexities of this new world it seems, but he’s not entirely upset about it. Well. Perhaps a little resentful that he hadn’t been found sooner but through no fault of Harry surely.  

As if in denial, Harry groans pitifully in his sleep, rolling over onto his back, his knee smacking into Tom who flops over to the side, wide eyed and angry.

Chuffing in irritation, Tom squirms back up, his new clothing now feeling restrictive and too much. Why couldn’t wizards wear bloody plain clothing? Nonetheless, he would acclimatize himself to their customs because this is where he clearly belongs. The clothing looking like draped finery surely helped to stay on such a path.

He gets new books, new clothes that match his guardian, all the food he could possibly eat, Harry’s money, and soon, he’d have a house. Hopefully, a spectacular one that he could later show off to his peers once he made a name for himself.

A shame really that Harry had to whisk him away so soon from the orphanage before he could rub his new life into those ghastly slums of misfit faces that Martha and Mrs. Cole oh so adored better than Tom.

Gleeful pride shapes his mouth as he brings up the memory of him making his pinchily rounds on those clergymen and Mrs. Cole when Harry had left him alone. He’d also made sure to kick what he could reach, hoping Harry wouldn’t catch him in the act, then leave him there.

The memory then reminds him of his most recently acquired prized possession.

Fumbling with his clothes, he sighs in relief when he finds his pouch. Harry called it an…expandable pouch?

Opening it up once he gave Harry his back, submerging his hand in to check that Harry hadn’t taken anything from it while he’d been asleep. Not that the bag had been moved from where he last put it, but it never hurts to make sure.

Nodding in satisfaction, Tom then puts it away.

He’s glad he didn’t have to steal it from Harry as he doubts, he’d have been able to resist. Rightfully, Harry had done the most obvious and right thing from the start and given it to Tom as some sort of offering. He’s pleased that his guardian can be reasoned with.

What pleases him more is that Harry is not only rich but has no job. Meaning, he can surely spend all of his time with Tom and teach him everything he needs to know and more. Especially before Hogwarts.

Excitement thrums through his spine at the thought. A magical school for magical children. He already knew he was special. That he didn’t belong in the slums of society. It’s nice though to have it all validated and now he doesn’t want to waste any more time waiting.

Also, Harry really needs to answer his many questions.

A knock at the door interrupts his silent musings, Tom wearily eyeing the space from where he sat and where the sound came from. Harry remains unmoving so Tom decides he’s old enough to check for himself, curious who could be on the other side. They hadn’t ordered food, had they?

With more effort than he’d like, he makes it off the bed unscathed but for his pride and makes his way to the door, opening it slowly while positioning his body to cover himself as much as possible just in case this was some sort of ambush.

It’s the woman who brought their food yesterday. In her hand though is an envelope and several bags with Marb’s logo.

“Delivery for the sirs,” the woman mutters, expression stale. She hands them over to Tom who eagerly grabs them as well as the envelope and then promptly closes the door on the woman’s now glaring face.

Honestly, he cannot wait to be out of this place. He’s going to need to make sure Harry picks the right sort of place or he might just die out of embarrassment.

Harry still hasn’t moved by the time he puts the envelope on the table or when he starts to go through the bags.

Inside is everything he picked along with a set for Harry to match one of Tom’s more fancier ensembles with a note, thanking them and hoping they’ll keep her shop in mind for the future. Apparently, because of his smaller size, she’d been able to finish everything far faster than even she’d anticipated.

While Tom is unsure of how he feels about Marb, he is pleased that she seems well mannered and cultured and her designs are far better looking than what he caught a glimpse of from the people earlier. So many eyes had lingered on Harry’s frame when they were browsing around so he assumes that maybe Marb’s happens to be a new shop that Harry discovered first.

It would not hurt to keep friendly with her for his future’s sake.

Hopefully he will have an occasion to wear the cream and emerald ensemble sometime soon. He imagines a lot of fancy looking places to show off at with Harry. Maybe even better places than the one from today. He had tried not to show how excited he felt when they had stopped by that restaurant with the mer, but he might have failed since Harry had seemed much too amused for Tom’s comfort.

Carefully, everything is removed from the bags to be hung in the wardrobe when he eyes the envelope. Temptation grows too strong, so he makes a grab for it. It’s addressed to Harry but there is no name for the sender. Turning it around reveals a wax seal in navy with the words, Ministry of Magic.

Curious, he tries to remove the seal when the envelope flies out of his grip to turn back around. Blinking, he watches as Harry’s name disappears to be replaced with the words, ‘not recipient, please give to Mr. Hadrian Potter-Black. The Ministry thanks you.’

Scowling, Tom tosses the envelope back onto the table. While fascinated with how things seem to operate in the Wizarding world versus the one, he’d been found in, he did not appreciate being told no.

He wants to see what’s inside the envelope, but Harry is still asleep. Didn’t they have other things to take care of?

With that thought, Tom makes his way back to the bed, hopping several times. He will demand a foot stool or a smaller bed with the new house. He makes his way to Harry who looks less flushed, most likely from Tom not adding to the heat.

“Harry,” he says, shaking the older man a bit.

Said man merely swats Tom’s hand away, mumbling in his sleep.

Frowning, Tom shakes Harry harder.

Still, Harry remains asleep.

Grunting, Tom climbs onto Harry’s chest, glaring down at the peaceful looking face, ignoring Tom’s existence. Bringing his small hand to Harry’s left side of his face, he lets it rest there, surprisingly feeling no stubble. He thought that all adult men carried facial hair. For a moment, he sits there, willing his stare to waken the man.

Nothing changes. So, he pulls his hand back a bit to bring it back with a bit of force, his palm only slightly stinging.

~ . * . ~

Wincing, Harry grumbles into his sleep, his cheek twitching in discomfort. Settling down, he’s just about to sink back into a deep, comforting sleep, his chest feeling a bit heavy when a sharp, quick stinging sensation hits the same cheek, making him flinch entirely.

Muttering a curse, he wearily opens his eyes, blinking them tiredly. A pair of dark eyes blink down at him, putting a name to the weight on his chest.

Tom moodily stares down at him and when he notices that he now has Harry’s attention, he slips off, still staring.

Blearily, Harry looks around as he fixes his glasses with a grimace, yawning seconds after. “What’s wrong Tom?” he asks, trying to get his brain to work faster.

One would think that working in the industry known as the Ministry, he’d be better at that but then they’d be wrong. So, it takes him a few moments to fully wake.

If Aunt Petunia couldn’t beat it out of him with swinging frying pans, a five-year-old Dark Lord to be, stood no chance.

Tom continues to stare, and Harry continues to wait, staring back, knowing his hair has once again defied gravity as Tom’s eyes shift up, judging.

“I’m hungry and you’ve got a letter.”

“A letter?” Harry yawns out, blinking tears away. He still feels a bit groggy but is now aware of where and when he is this time, as he taps his wand with a nonverbal tempus to his wrist, Tom eyeing the process with interest. It isn’t too late to stop by the Ministry, but he also hadn’t anticipated his nap lasting four hours.

“It’s on the table,” Tom murmurs as he moves closer. “Did that tell time?” Tom asks, keeping his gaze locked on Harry’s wrist.

Instead of answering, Harry taps Tom’s small wrist with his own tempus, who stares captivatingly down as Harry leaves the bed to the table.

Grabbing the envelope, he turns it around, breaking the seal, the envelope opening the rest of the way on its own. Scanning it, Harry reads on, rolling his eyes as a frustrated sigh escapes when he reaches the bottom.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He mutters, irritated.

               Dear Mr. Hadrian Montonius Potter-Black

   It has come to my attention that you’ve recently come back to the lovely magical Britain as noted by receptionist Caldway. As Minister of Magic, I would like to personally greet you when next available.

   We, the Ministry, are so very glad to hear that Mr. Corvus Reginald Black and Mr. Montonius Henry Potter has decided to continue the Black and Potter legacy. You might ask yourself why the Ministry finds this news joyous. I will of course, happily tell you.

   We, the Ministry and its Ministry’s esteemed Auror forces have been working around the clock for two decades for any bit of news to report to our important community members of Wizardry. As you might very well imagine, the families of the Blacks and Potter’s has been most concerned for the whereabouts of Corvus Black and Montonius Potter. We are so pleased in fact that we kindly ask that you arrive with the current patriarch of the Black and Potter family so that we may file the appropriate forms for the department of missing persons and put finally this case to rest.

   If you feel that the Ministry has greatly helped and improved relations, donations are accepted and well received by assistant and receptionist, Caldway.

   All donations are of course anonymous and used for the betterment of Wizards and Witches like yourself. Any donations that exceed over two thousand galleons are exempted from subsidies you may require of the Ministry of Magic.

   I’m sure you understand Mr. Hadrian Montonius Potter-Black, the importance of name and long-standing traditions that are carried under said name. Reputation after all, is the pillars of our magical community and we hope that the current youth will carry on this tradition for years to come.

   If you’ve any questions or concerns, please do reach out to Caldway who will happily provide assistance.

               We, the Ministry, thank you for your time and generous patronage in advance.

               Sincerely,

                        Minister of Magic, Hector Fawley

“Bloody arseholes the lot of them,” Harry mutters. “They’re going to backhander, badger me.” He tosses the letter back onto the table, grumbling to himself.

“What does backhander mean?” Tom asks, having moved from the bed unnoticed by Harry.

“A bribe is what they’re asking from me,” Harry mutters tiredly. “Fat chance it’ll do them any good asking though. Anyway, you still hungry?”

Tom gives him a look, as if to say nothing’s changed since he brought it up a few minutes ago you daft bloke. Which, fair enough. He does wonder though what Tom is going to do with all the leftovers he’s collected so far.

Harry gives the menu left from last night over to Tom along with his wand after he orders just toast for himself. Tom, of course, happily accepts both as Harry makes his way to the bathroom to throw water at his face. He tries to fix his hair some but really, should have known better. Sometimes, perseverance does not reward you.

Done with that, Harry walks out to see Tom angrily swishing Harry’s wand around, things shifting from their place but not doing much anything else. He freezes when he catches sight of Harry, scowling as he reluctantly gives the wand back without much fuss.

Pleased, Harry fondly ruffles Tom’s hair who scuttles away, a flush rising on his face.

“Right, so you fell asleep,” here Tom’s face flushes deeper, “and therefore didn’t get to see the books you picked.” Harry pulls a bag from his pocket, using his wand to spell it back to its original size. He then hands it over to Tom who wastes no time in unbagging his lot.

He then grins when he sees that Harry had included two books that Harry hadn’t been too happy with from the start. They’re not necessarily dark in magic, but Harry hadn’t wanted Tom with books that dealt heavily in the grey areas either. He’ll just make sure that Tom only learned the theories but not have him try them out until maybe his fourth or fifth year of Hogwarts.

“While we wait for our dinner why don’t you pull out your list of questions you worked on.”

Tom shuts one book close grudgingly. Harry can see that Tom really wants to read the rest of the day away, but he also had many questions he wanted answers too so that part of him ultimately wins. Either way, his curiosity gets sated in some form.

From his own pocket, Tom pulls out his paper as Harry sits down at the table, Tom moving to take the other chair.

“Who was my mother?” Tom asks without any hesitation.

Harry knew that this had been coming so he felt more mentally prepared to answer.

“Merope Gaunt,” Harry says, leaving out many aspects of the Gaunt’s. It would not do to have Tom so entrenched into the idea of houses and sacred twenty-eights that only benefited the purebloods. He has no intention of lying or never telling Tom anything about his ancestry, but he’d already decided that it would come in increments or until Tom asked himself. He needed to build a base for Tom first.

“Was she a witch?” Tom then asked, making notes next to his question.

Harry then finds himself nervous, suddenly feeling like he’s been roped into an interview and would be found lacking if his answers didn’t measure up.

Ridiculous, he silently thinks. Tom’s only five, not yet six and Harry is a grown arse adult. This isn’t Snape or Hogwarts or even the Ministry.

“Yes, a pu—a witch indeed,” Harry replies instantly, silently cursing himself for almost saying ‘pureblood.’ Nope, not going to make that mistake.

Tom frowns, having caught the slip but because he’s still unaware of how Wizarding Britain functions as a society, he does not yet have the information to make his questions more specific. Something Harry thinks Tom knows, so the small boy moves onto his next question.

“Is she really dead? You mentioned the afterlife, what did you mean?”

“She is,” Harry says, trying for a sad look. He hadn’t much sympathy for a person who would willingly use amortentia to get what she wanted though he is sad that she had to pass the way she did. “As for the afterlife, ghosts can exist in the space of Wizarding Worlds. It’s not the only way to contact those from the afterlife, however. In your mother’s case, she’d been contacted accidentally by the stone of resurrection that’s been in the Gaunt family for generations now,” he lies, eyes shifting to Tom’s forehead.

He's really going to need to get that stone now, isn’t he?

“Where is it? I want to see for myself,” Tom then says.

Yea, he saw that coming, Harry sighs unhappily. Though he understands if it had been anyone else asking. In Tom’s case, he doubts that the boy is asking for any sentimental reasons.

“It’s currently back with the Gaunt’s.” Please don’t ask how he got it then, Harry wishes silently.

“Then how di—wait, there’s still Gaunt’s around?” Tom sits up fully, expectant.

Shite.

Harry nods, wanting to deny Morfin’s existence but if Tom really wanted that ring as is his right, then he hasn’t a choice in the matter. He’s thankful though that Marvolo is dead. Right? Actually, did he even remember when Marvolo was supposed to die? Double shite.

“Did they know about me?” Tom demands.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Harry reluctantly answers.

“Why not?”

“Well…I mean, your mother, she…hmm how should I put this…Merope chose a man that that Gaunt’s did not approve of.”

“Why?”

“Erm, well, I can’t say for sure.” Did Harry choose the cowardly way of answering? He certainly did. Why? Because he did not want to be the one to tell Tom about half-bloods and cloud his mind with that rubbish. It won’t stay hidden but now isn’t the time.

Tom did not seem happy with Harry’s answer and isn’t sure if he can call him out on it either. Tom relies too much on being able to tell lies from truths because of his practice and experience with Legilimency, but Harry’s experience with that sort of magic outweighs Tom’s. Therefore, Tom cannot tell if Harry is lying without Harry making direct eye contact.

“Who is my father then? Is he alive? Why didn’t he come get me?”

“Your father’s name is Tom Riddle Snr. He’s alive but he couldn’t come get you himself because, well, he doesn’t know you exist? Before you ask, no he isn’t a wizard.”

“Not a wizard?” Tom snaps. “He’s what then? One of them?”

“Who?” Harry tries. “People?”

“I’m a half-breed?” Tom sneers in disgust.

“Where did you learn that word? I shan’t have it under my roof,” Harry snaps back. Where in the world did Tom learn this already? It’s barely been 24hrs finally he’s been with Harry!

“People talk,” is all Tom says on the matter. He decides to ignore Harry’s false claim of owning said roof. It clearly belonged to someone else. “Why doesn’t he know of me? Why doesn’t anyone know of me? What did she do? She obviously has something to do with this.”

To be honest or to lie, to deflect or to be blunt. While wholly smart for his age, Tom is still very much a child and not one he particularly wants to discuss sexual assault with. Since, that is what Merope committed. Harry may not be a fan of Tom Riddle Snr’s snobbish attitude, but no one deserved to be assaulted, aware of it, and unable to do shite about it.

“What do you know,” Tom hisses.

“Listen Tom, this isn’t exactly something to be discussed casually or appropriate for someone your age.”

“I’m not a child! Stop treating me like one!”

Not moving from his spot, Harry remains calm, staring Tom in the eye as he says as seriously as he is able. “You are a child Tom and there’s nothing wrong with that. There’s nothing wrong with taking your time to grow in fact. I’m not saying I will never tell you what your mother did, but this isn’t something you need to know about just yet. Regardless of what she’s done, whether your father or uncle want nothing or something to do with you, you will always have me by your side.” At least until Tom can function as a normal being and not mass murdering anyway. “I am not trying to withhold anything; I just want you to enjoy your childhood as much as you’re able. I don’t think less of you, nor do I think you aren’t able to handle this discussion. I just want you to remain burdenless, stress-free and all that until you’re ready to know.”

Tom sits there, frowning, his little face scrunched up, and though he’s clearly still upset, he isn’t shouting anymore. Harry thinks he’s even contemplating what Harry is telling him, so he decides to push a little more to get his point across.

“You’ve just got acquainted with the Wizarding World. I understand that parentage is something any orphan dreams of having. Believe me,” Tom looks up sharply at that, eyeing Harry consideringly. “I absolutely understand wanting to know and I will tell you. Your father won’t be happy to see you because it’s you but everything to do with what your mother did. Your uncle from the Gaunt side will pretty much react the same way. I don’t say that to make you feel guilty or burdened but to let you know that these adults are anything but mature or willing to listen to reason. You have all the time in the world to meet them and make your own judgement. They’re not going anywhere.”

“So, it’s not so much my age but my experience?” Tom questions, his face scrunching up more at the thought. “You’re…protecting me from them?”

Erm, yes and no, Harry almost says aloud, biting his tongue before he can. If this is what makes it easier for Tom to cope with not knowing yet, then so be it. So, he nods, Tom settling down some as he that tiny sized smart brain starts to think.

“I’d still like to know…but I will allow time to pass first,” Tom concedes imperiously.

Amused, Harry nods in jokingly gratitude, making sure to hide his smile as he thanks the small boy aloud. He’s just ultimately relieved. He knows Tom will bring it up again sooner than he’d like, and that Tom is most likely just humoring him but he’s still thankful either way.

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask?”

“Not at the moment,” Tom replies right after they hear a knock at their door.

“That must be our dinner. Let’s eat as we still have one more place I’d like to stop by at,” Harry says as he stands up, heading to the door.

They eat quietly, Harry going over his conversation and Tom most likely doing the same. Again, Tom makes sure to keep his leftovers, waiting for Harry to do his preserving spells as he silently watches, memorizing.

Then they’re heading out once more, the air cooler as Tom inspects more of the available space behind the Leaky. This time there aren’t as many people milling about.

They pass a woman hunched over with an overly large snail looking creature on her back as she walks, Tom’s face scrunching up in disgust and curiosity. The snail’s eyes swivel over and both Tom and Harry shudder in silent horror when they see that its eyes are entirely human. In fact, Harry is starting to suspect that those eyes might belong to the woman who hobbles on by.

“Look away Tom,” Harry murmurs softly, willing away the chills wracking his frame.

Tom nods, reaching a hand out to Harry’s sleeve to clutch.

“Where are we going?” Tom decides to finally ask as they pick up the pace a bit away from the snail and woman.

“The Ministry. I’d like to speak to someone instead of waiting for a letter.”

They make it in time, Tom observing the process of Harry having to give his wand to a man at a desk for a check then receiving it back.

Harry then asks the man about finding a Len Abbott, the Archivist where he’s then told to head to the pulleys to head up to Basement level 2 and 2/3^rd’s. He’ll find the button if he slides the number 2 to the side of the pulley.

Tom listens closely but fails to understand what anything means and makes a silent vow to read everything he can get his hands on.

Harry seems to understand though, so they walk away, someone else quickly taking their place to check in.

“Harry,” Tom tugs the older man’s sleeve.

“Hmm?” Harry looks down for a second then looks back up to head where they needed.

“If we’re looking for basement 2, what level are we on?”

“Oh, right, I forgot to explain. Let’s see, this here is considered Basement level 8, otherwise known as the Atrium. Anyone who needs access to the Ministry starts off here as this is the primary location for all folks. Unless you have access to the Floo Networks which are found on Basement level 6 also known as the Department of Magical Transportation. It can be a bit confusing at first, only really made easier for those who work full time at the Ministry but once you get the hang of it, it all comes together rather easily.”

“What’s a floo network?” Tom then asks.

Harry explains as they find the hallway of pulley’s, Tom listening carefully as he also watches witches and wizards stepping in silently opened doors made of cages that closes and moves up or down depending on the person.

It’s fast and noisy, surprising Tom.

“Have you worked here before? You seem quite familiar with this place.”

Harry shifts his gaze to the side, not looking at Tom as they step inside one of the pulleys. “…no, not really.” He then quickly slides the number 2 button to the side to reveal 3 tiny separate buttons and chooses the 2/3^rd’s option. He then settles Tom in front of him to hold his shoulders down with a bit of pressure, Tom looking up at him curiously before he’s gasping aloud in surprise when the pulley wastes no time in pulling them up rapidly.

Tom almost loses his balance several times, only remaining on his feet because of Harry’s hold.

He has to hide his laughter in his shoulder, knowing the smaller boy wouldn’t appreciate it. Who knew that before Voldemort lost all sense of his humanity—ignoring those who argue the Dark Lord never had any to begin with—would be so entertaining as a child.

When the pulley stops, Harry has to grab under Tom’s armpits a bit as the pulley jostles roughly into place. When the door opens, Tom practically throws himself out, eyeing around him suspiciously and looking a bit frazzled.

“Alright there Tom?” Harry asks, his voice wobbly sounding.

“Are you laughing at me?” Tom hisses, fixing his hair and clothing.

“Not at all,” Harry rasps, turning away, shoulders hunched.

“I’ll kill you,” Tom murmurs lowly behind him.

“No talks of murder before bedtime,” Harry quips back, looking for the right door.

It’s not as quiet as he imagined it to be. Slow, calming music drifts in the halls, setting an atmosphere of welcome and leisure. It’s quite different to the busier and sometimes chaotic Atrium. He finds the door that reads Archive Repository with several names written down below, in a much smaller font. One of them being Len Abbott.

He knocks, a loud, muffled ‘come in,’ sounding seconds after. Carefully opening the door in case anyone is nearby, he does a quick sweep of the place to see a head of blonde hair behind a massive desk amongst the many, many shelves that reach the ceiling.

Tom looks enthralled when he catches his first glimpse of the place.

The head of hair makes an ‘ah ha!’ where Len Abbott pops up into a stand at full height with a grin. In his hands is a wiggling folder wrapped in a sort of leather belt looking strap to hold the bulging papers in place.

“Stubborn bunch this one is. Trying to hide its secrets and maps from I, the true wielder of papers and information!” Len shouts in glee. He freezes in a sort of triumphant pose when he sees Harry and Tom but instead of being embarrassed, his smile widens, pleased. “Harry! Welcome, welcome! Did you get that apparition license sorted?” He asks, putting down the folder, his wand making an appearance to spell it in mid motion.

“I did, thank you,” Harry grins back, the smile of the other infectious. “I couldn’t help but notice that the test didn’t take place in Basement level 6. Nor was the test anywhere near your archivist post.”

“You caught that did you? Yea, an unfortunate accident took place three days prior which they’re sorting out still. Terrible, terrible thing.” Len indeed looked saddened by the news.

Wincing, Harry doesn’t ask for any details, knowing all too well what could happen. Too many aurors had once been called to the test room for accidents and casualties far too many times to make specific count at the top of your head.

“Should be sorted by tomorrow I suspect. Anyway, what brings you over? Didn’t think I’d see you so soon. It’s a nice surprise though.”

Len looks to Harry then shifts his gaze to Tom who’s currently distracted with browsing the shelves but not touching anything. Using this as his chance, Harry moves closer, shifting his voice only a tad lower to not raise Tom’s suspicions.

“I don’t mean to be a bother as we’ve only just met but I was hoping you might know of some people who tutor young children. Or maybe a school of some sort? Tom’s a bit…precocious and needs to be stimulated regularly or he might just seek entertainment elsewhere, stressing me out.”

“Ah,” is all Len says, eyeing Tom with interest. “He yours?”

“He is,” Harry says, only just remembering he hadn’t yet told Tom of the adoption.

“Cute,” Len guffaws, shuffling other loose papers around into a pile. “Hmm, tutors or school huh? Can’t say about the school part. Would’a been nice to have when I was that age.”

Disappointed, Harry couldn’t say he’s surprised by the news. He’s had to hear every variation of what an atrocity it had been to have no sort of program in place for children under the age of 11 before Hogwarts, many times by Hermione and surprisingly, Ginny.

Before he found himself here, he recalls Hermione mentioning starting one herself. It’s unfortunate he’d been too wallowed with himself and Ginny to recall if Hermione had gotten far with her program or not.

“As for tutors,” Len continues, “there’s quite a few. I’d suggest my own, though she’s retired. Getting on with age. I can reach out for you if you’d like if you tell me what sort of tutor you’re looking for.”

Sighing in relief, Harry nods though he asks a question first.

“Say, do the people here ever send their kids to muggle schools?” Harry furtively checks Tom who’s moved beyond the shelves, crouched down to peer into a box full of mishappen books.

“Woah,” breathes Len. “I mean, I’ve already figured you weren’t raised a Black but damn if the mind isn’t blown to hear ‘muggle’ out of one’s mouth carrying that sort of blood around. Amazing!” Beams Len. “Never been to one myself. I know a few folks who’ve taken their own children, but I figure it’s because they live further out, away from the bustle as they say. I wouldn’t recommend though.”

Surprised, Harry blinks, asking, “why not?”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Len rushes to say, still smiling. “I’d be for it but under these circumstances…,” here Len hesitates, leaning forward conspiratorially, Harry mimicking the action. “There’s been talks going around. Something to do with Germany and the muggles.”

Harry frowns, wracking his brain for any information relevant. All he can think of is World War 2 but that isn’t for a little while yet, so he isn’t sure what Len is referencing.

“Is there anything else?” Harry asks, still thinking.

Shaking his head, Len fixes his posture, his smile gone. “None. Just whispers for now from the Auror department and a commotion that got out of hand in Basement level 5.”

“Department of International Magical Co-operation?” disbelief colours his tone, but Harry can’t help it, he’s surprised and a bit unsettled. The last time that department got involved, he found himself competing for the Triwizard Cup.

“Amazing, did you already memorize all the departments? I’d been under the impression you hadn’t been here a long while or something.”

Len is back to smiling as he waits for a response, not a suspicious glare to be seen. That could either mean that Len is a very easy-going man or he’s a lot better at hiding his expressions.

Wincing internally, Harry scolds himself.

“I’m looking for a job actually,” Harry thinks fast. “Thought I might find one here or working with wood, you know?”

Laughing, Len grabs a few more folders from behind the desk, settling them near the frozen one. “Experience with wood then?”

“None,” Harry quips, flashing an embarrassed smile. “Unless you meant flying then sure. Anyway, thanks for the heads up. I suppose I’ll hold off on muggle schools for now though I’m a bit sad Tom won’t be able to make any friends yet.”

“Flying! You do look to have the build for it. We’re coming back to that later. Friends, friends, yea kids do need those right? Listen, I have a few nephews and a niece, maybe we can work something out. My sister has this group she sometimes get’s together with for the kids, I’ll put in a good word for you.”

Harry can’t help but grab Len’s hands tightly, smiling gratefully. “Thanks’ a lot Len, you’re my savior.”

Flushing but smiling just as wide, Len chuckles out, “never heard that one before. I’ll take it! So, about those tutor qualities you’re looking for?”

“Right. Just the basics for now, Tom isn’t as familiar with being around magic yet, so I’d like it if the person is kind about that.”

Harry and Len spend a few minutes going over what Harry is looking for in a tutor, setting a time for next week and calling it a day. He wishes the smiling man a good evening then has to physically grab Tom away from a discarded box of strange knickknacks he somehow found. Len is laughing all the while before he yelps in surprise when his bulging folder unfreezes in mid grab, papers flying everywhere much to the man’s dismay.

While Len is distracted, Harry quickly checks Tom’s pocket and sure enough, finds a few items that hadn’t been there before, frowning at the now scowling boy, unrepentant. Sighing, Harry chooses his battles and just puts it all back, picking Tom up and making for the door.

Soon enough, they’re back at the Leaky, Harry fighting himself to scold Tom but unsure of what to say other than, ‘no, bad,’ as if Tom doesn’t already know that for himself.

He resigns himself to having that talk tomorrow, so instead, he gets them settled for bed. Just two more days and they’ll hopefully have a place of their own, he sighs. Tomorrow, he imagines to be a slow day of reading or something, maybe even finding that library the shopkeeper from earlier mentioned. The man had drawn him a map after all, so it’d be best to not let it go to waste.

It'd have been a perfect day too as he’d be able to show Tom that he didn’t have to steal anything. There are plenty of books on thievery, he’s sure.

Only, visiting the library is the furthest thing from his mind when he wakes up the next day to a stinging-like pain to his face, a small clinking sound hitting the floor nearby.

Thinking it’d been Tom pinching his cheek or something, Harry grumbles to himself of wakefulness, blinking owlishly to the side where Tom should be. Processing the image, Harry looks away in confusion. Tom is still very much asleep and the perpetrator that hit his face is nowhere to be seen.

Grabbing his wand and his glasses which he shoves on, he takes another look around, trepidation growing.

Did someone sneak in?

Is Tom pretending to be asleep?

What hit him?

Getting to his feet, Harry takes a step towards the door to check if it’d been tampered with, but he only makes it a few steps before he’s suddenly wincing in pain, hopping and clutching his foot as he steps on something sharp. Not enough to pierce his skin but enough to wake him fully.

Glancing down, Harry stops hopping, hoping his small yelp hadn’t woken Tom. Glancing back, he sees that Tom hasn’t moved so he sighs in relief then peers down at the ground.

Squinting, Harry isn’t sure what he’s looking at for a few moments.

Then all of the colour drains from his face for the third time in as many days as a familiar ring glints back up at him.

“No,” Harry whisper shouts aloud in horror. This couldn’t be happening. As if the Elder Wand hadn’t been the worse case scenario to happen to him, he now has to deal with this!? What the absolute fuck is going on?

 As if to answer, the ring trembles for only a second, faint like whisps surrounding the dark stone before it settles.

Clutching the back of his neck, Harry can feel a sudden headache forming, wondering if any more surprises are lurking around the corner. He’s fucked. He’ll be even more fucked if he finds his father’s invisibility cloak in his possession too. Groaning, Harry ignores the ring to make his way back to bed. Give him a few more hours and he’ll deal with it all. He will.

Chapter Text

Mrs. Cole doesn’t understand, she doesn’t understand how this could be happening to her! She’s innocent, she’s done no wrong, she’s an upstanding community member, how dare they—

“I’ll not be asking a second time ma’am now answer the question before you’re hauled to the books and be quick about it, yea?”

“I have no idea what you’re even asking for sir,” Mrs. Cole replies succinctly to the officer. “Those men are lying, and I haven’t a clue as to how they gotten in. Think of the children!”

“Liar!” A man shouts from across the room, another officer beside him with a notepad and a bored expression. “She’s down right kidnapped us. We’ve woken assaulted with her standing before us and now we want her arrested.”

“I’ve done no such thing! You deceiving, thieving cad! Officer, officer these men were here to hurt the children! They must’ve been! A stout woman I may be, but not so strong as to arm two grown men into a building without notice let alone meself! And for what purpose? No. These men who dare call themselves men of church arrived on their own feet with no good intention. Why, I found meself out cold amongst them! May me reputation as a good, God fairing woman still hold for—”

“Enough already!” Shouts officer one, wincing in irritation. “Officer Boldweck, keep an eye on ‘er while I talk to the children.”

The officer leaves after getting an affirmative response, ignoring the angered shrieks of the matron and the cursing of officer Boldweck.

Huddled in the kitchen with the only other adult who’d arrived an hour before the police, sat the children who looked a mixture between upset, intrigued, and scared. Not entirely a surprise but he hopes he’ll get good enough answers to fill out the paperwork later. He hated paperwork.  

“Good evening children, my name is Officer Yorik. I’ve just a few questions if that’s alright.” The woman who calls herself Martha shifts uncomfortably in her seat. She remains silent though, which he can appreciate.

“Sure, why not,” the oldest looking of the children offers, shrugging his thin shoulders.

Pulling out his notepad, Officer tries for a smile but he’s too damn tired that he knows it falls flat. “Thank you. Let’s start with yer name then lad.”

“Dennis Bishop, sir.”

“Alright Dennis, can you tell me what happened an hour ago before our arrival?”

Scratching his reddened nose that seemed to be there permanently, Dennis nods as he begins to talk readily.

“Well, we were all just mindin’ our business when those men from church came in shout’n about money and damages or somethin’. I reckon it might’ve been about the thing from two days ago seein’ as they’d left in a hurry before then.”

Jotting everything down, Officer Yorik pauses in mid write, frowning. “Two days ago? No one mentioned anything regarding previous conflict.”

“She’s not been right since then sir,” the small girl next to Dennis speaks up, clutching a pink stuffed bunny that looks to be brand new. “She always seems…”

“Confused,” Dennis finishes, nodding in agreement. “There was shout’n then too.”

Thinking fast, Yorik decides to put away his notepad, his instincts telling him that he isn’t about to like where this is going. This usually meant it would involve a lot more paperwork than he’d like.

“Let’s see if I understand this correctly. Before that, I just want to let you all know that none of you are in trouble here. We’re just here to help and get answers. That sounds right to you all?”

The children all nod though he isn’t surprised to see some leftover confusion still lingering. They’re far too young to be involved in the law after all so he completely understands. Martha’s small frown though deepens but he cannot tell her to leave as he isn’t allowed to talk to any of them without an adult present. While not illegal, his specific department is quite adamant to set a precedent.

“The matron of this orphanage calls herself Mrs. Cole, is that correct?” When he gets a nod, including from Martha, he continues. “As of an hour ago, two men from the Church comes barreling in, shouting about payment to damages, is this also, correct?” Again, he receives a nod of confirmation. “They are demanding payment because they woke up, bruised and hurting to see Mrs. Cole standing over them, as of today, is this too, correct?”

This time he gets a mixed reaction. Martha is vehemently shaking her head, but the children seem to be lost as some nod and others shake their heads.

“What part of my statement exactly is not true and what is truth?”

This time a different boy answers, a little younger than Dennis looking but also older than the girl and other boy.

“They-they did wake sir, bu-bu-but they-they did that two day-days ago sir.” Gasping little puffs of breath, the boy continues, his little face scrunched up as he recollects his memory. “They shouted a li-litt-little but then they-they left. Only two-two-two though, not three.”

“What Eric means,” Dennis jumps in, patting Eric on the back who smiles shakily in return. “Is that there was another man though he didn’t look like he belonged to the church.”

Sitting up, Yorik’s instincts blare, telling him that this would be the part he would not quite like. He gestures for Dennis to continue but is interrupted by Martha, who huffs out snappily.

“Not this again. Officer, the children seem to be confused. They must’ve been imagining things because there’s no such thing as magic. Their little imaginations had gotten the best of them and now they’re bent on this story even though Mrs. Cole has told them over and over that the only man who came by was the man who adopted little Tom.”

Shite. He knew it, he fuck’n knew he would not like this. Groaning in dismay mentally, Yorik just smiles outwardly, playing up the, ‘I’m everyone’s friend here,’ though Boldweck might have succeeded better at it.

“Well, let’s say magic does exist,” Yorik grins down at the sulking faces of the children. “What would you tell me about it?”   He ignores Martha’s irritated huffs, her foot tapping irritatingly against the floor.

“He gave us new toys!” The little girl beams, holding up her pink rabbit so he can get a better view. She then brings it back down in a hurry, clutching it tightly against her chest. “It’s not fair that Tom gets to keep him. He should have adopted me instead. I’m a lot nicer!”

“And what’s your name?”

“I’m Amy! And this is Billy.” She gestures to the other boy who has thus far remained silent. “The man had really pretty eyes and he could have taken me away from here, but Dennis made him mad. Next thing we knew we woken up with these!” She shakes her rabbit, scowling at the older boy all the while who glares right back.

“Why would he want to adopt a girl? Obviously, I would have been the better choice if Mrs. Cole hadn’t told those church men to hurt that freak.”

“He could have adopted me and my rabbit,” Billy sighs mournfully. “I liked my frog though, ‘s nice.”

“He too would have adopted me!” Amy shrieks, standing up, shaking her rabbit angrily at Dennis. “He put us to sleep because of you! I want to be adopted! I want to be gone, not Tom! Tom is mean! Dennis is mean too!”

“Alright, alright now, let’s calm down,” Yorik sighs aloud but inwardly he’s panicking. “Let’s clear this up.” He gets Amy to sit back down, though she does it quite angrily, her glare heated. “Now, who is this, Tom?” He directs the question to Martha.

The woman scowls, her face sneering into one of disgust that she attempts to hide poorly. “Tom Riddle, a four-year-old boy who has been nothing but trouble and testing everyone’s patience. Mrs. Cole says he finally got adopted two days ago though she can’t recall the exact details. I suspect she’d been in too much of a hurry to get him out of here. It’s not the first time he’s been adopted you know but it is the first time he’s been gone this long. They usually bring him right back because of his…well, strangeness I suppose.” She shrugs.

“So, the man you saw two days ago, came specifically for this Tom?” He turns to the children again.

“Not sure really,” Dennis muses. “He came for something but once he heard that freak cry out, he ran upstairs then must have left with him. He’ll be back though. They always do.”

“You keep calling this boy a freak, why? It isn’t a nice word mind you.”

Dennis merely scowls but answers, a smirk taunting his small mouth. “’Cause that’s what he is. There’s always something odd about him. He hisses sometimes when no one’s looking. Mrs. Cole says it’s the work of the devil, but I think it’s because he’s trying to be like the snakes, he keeps trying to sneak in.”

“Tom made Billy try to drown himself!” Amy shouts, Billy in question trembling as he recalls the memory. “He even stole my bow! He’s a thief, a thief!”

“A four-year-old tried to drown you?” Yorik asks, skeptically.

Martha answers this time, her frown still present. “Not quite. He suggested Billy give himself a bath…in the local duck pond a few months ago.”

“But did not take Billy there himself,” Yorik murmurs in answer.

“Well, no, but…” Martha trails off, finally realizing how strange this all sounded.

After a few more minutes with the children, Yorik gets as much of the story as he is able from the now distracted children before he leaves. A young man with bright green eyes stepped inside most likely to adopt but ended up saving a little boy from an exorcism as ordered by Mrs. Cole. Martha had no choice but to agree to this statement as she’d been aware of it but hadn’t been inside the building at the time, so she’d had no further details to give, only what she’d been told by the matron.

This young man then pulled out a stick and the next thing the children knew, they’d woken beside each other, comfortable, with new toys though had no idea where the man could have gotten them. The man did not have a bag with him or anything that they could see, his hands empty.

They had woken before anyone else, seeing the man and the boy named Tom, missing. Then the matron awoke first, screaming and angry, standing over the bodies of the two men who woken soon after who were then yelling back before leaving in a hurry.

Instead of going back to Boldweck, Yorik takes the steps leading upstairs, checking every room. He’s surprised that it merely takes the third door from the left to find what he’s looking for. No one had bothered, not even tried to clean up the evidence. Why would they exactly? It isn’t illegal to hire men of the Church to perform an exorcism though there were still a few guidelines that must be followed when an orphanage is funded by the Ministry.

Discarded rope lays limply on the dirty floor near the iron framed bed against the wall. There are no bed covers, no pillow, not a piece of fabric to suggest someone had once occupied the space. What he does find instead are specks of blood on the filthy mattress. Rummaging through the cupboard carefully, he finds only a pair of torn socks discarded in the corner, and a pair of shorts with a big enough hole to have the cloth be useless at any attempts to wear it.

Leaving the room behind, his heart heavier, Yorik then brings himself to the Matron’s office, looking for a specific piece of paper. He finds it after rummaging around for a while. A list of names written down of those who’d been adopted but he does not find the name, ‘Tom’ anywhere on it. Not that he would when he knew damn well what must have happened.

A wizard looking to adopt or knew that a magical child must have been here had taken him away, rightfully. He only hopes that the child would be happy in his new home after the treatment and hateful eyes that must have followed him when he lived here. He still has a few contacts left in the wizarding world he could use to check around and make sure. The perks of growing up as a squib in a light-oriented family, he’s sure.

That instinct he relied on so heavily earlier had been, of course, right to warn him. It isn’t everyday he’s reminded of the existence of magic anymore. Not since he left at 14 and changed his name. He’s just glad he’d somewhat convinced the children that the man with the green eyes had not used magic to put them to sleep but that the excitement of the day had tired them out. That the man must have ran to the shop in apology and gifted them their new toys. That told Yorik that the man is kind to muggles therefore, the boy, Tom should be in good hands.  

A look in the drawers and he doesn’t find anything related to a Tom Riddle which he already suspected. Though he’s saddened for the boy, he can only hope he’s in a much better situation. No, what he’s really concerned about is the attitude and nonchalant way the matron and Martha had about ‘strange’ children, so readily available to hire from the church to discipline and invoke fear.

A glance at the list showed three names of children who were adopted with no contact information next to them to say who adopted them or when. Looking for their files, he finds them, the folders far too thin. He’s proven right when the information inside tells him that they’d been no older than 3-7 when arriving at the orphanage, then adopted several years later.

One of them, in fact, is horrifyingly familiar as his body had been recovered just a year ago in an abandoned field. Heart in his throat, Yorik closes his eyes, silently thanking the man with green eyes and little Tom. This is the lead the police had been hoping for to give justice back to the unnamed boy they could find no name for. Just a lonely profile sketch of what could be. Clearing his throat, he closes the drawer, taking with him the paper with names and folders.

When he makes it back to the foyer it’s to see Boldweck frowning, arms crossed and sitting down atop one of the struggling men, the other gaping pale faced.

“Tell me,” Yorik says to the man not under Boldweck. “Do you have a license for performing exorcists?”

The man snaps his mouth closed, remaining wide eyed and silent.

Nodding to himself, he then turns to the matron. “And do you ma’am, have the right papers that allows you to hire men of the church with the Ministry’s approval?”

Shaking her head as if in denial, Yorik just nods once again as he already suspected.

“Officer Boldweck?”

“Yes Officer Yorik?” Boldweck drawls, remaining seated.

“Arrest all three on the grounds of unlawful practices and the event of a missing child of four-year-old, Tom Riddle.”

If he’s surprised at the outcome, he doesn’t show it. Boldweck merely grabs his handcuffs to the now still man underneath him, verbalizing the man’s rights before he moves on to the rest of the room, all silent in shell shock.

Yorik doubts this will lead to the discovery of the man who took young Tom if he’s covered his bases well and has gone to the Wizarding World, but he does hope that this is the break they’ve needed, that this will open an investigation and its doors to answers long hidden.

He leaves Boldweck to it while he heads back to the children and Martha to let them know what will be happening for the time being. He very much doubts they’ll get anything from the church other than a demand for the men to be released. The consequence of those in power as it is universally known that the churches are backed by the shadows of wealth.

Sighing, he also bemoans that fact all of this will require a lot of paperwork from him.

To hell with it all.

~ . * . ~

“What are you doing Monty?” Eleven-year-old Charlus Potter asks his flustered, floundering older cousin.

“What does it look like?” Fleamont Potter grunts, face exerted as he scowls back.

“It looks like you’re fighting your trunk…and losing quite terribly might I add.”

“Really,” Fleamont grumbles, wincing when his struggling luggage bounces particularly high, its corner digging into his arm. He’s sprawled on top of it, attempting to hold it down when he failed to make it stop with his wand. “I hadn’t noticed. You’ve exceptional observational skills Charlus. It’ll get you far, I’m sure.”

“Thank you,” Charlus deadpans. “I’ll be sure to add it to my future job prospects. Do you have something alive in there? I’m sure Headmaster Dippet would allow you to keep it if it isn’t too dangerous.”

“No,” puffs Fleamont, the breath almost knocked out of him when the trunk then decides to slide, almost as if someone were at the other end, tugging the blasted thing. “It’s the Invisibility cloak. It’s gone mad!”

Alarmed, Charlus rushes to his older cousin’s side, glad that they were the only two in the tower at the moment. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

The breath does in fact get knocked out of him at long last by the efforts of his smaller cousin who decides the best course of action to help is to land atop Fleamont. His efforts are rewarded when the trunk stops but now, he has to decide if it’s worth the effort to breathe or keep his family heirloom intact.

“I’m not sure,” he gasps out, struggling for breath. “I woke from my nap to the Invisibility cloak trying to escape. If I hadn’t had it under my pillow, I wouldn’t even have known it could move on its own! The damn thing even tried to strangle me!”

“Oh no!” Charlus groans, fraught with dismay at the thought. “I came to ask to borrow the thing. Now what am I going to do?”

“I thank you for your concern you berk,” Fleamont breathes out. “Now off, I think it’s stopped for now.”

Charlus moves cautiously, Fleamont following. Together they wearily eye the still trunk, waiting to see if anything will happen. So far, all is quiet.

“Are you going to write to Uncle Henry?”

“Nah, should be—”

With a loud bang, the trunk slams open, a floating cloak menacingly with purpose flying out only to smack into two struggling boys, both screaming in fear and disbelief.

“It’s possessed!” Charlus shouts, grasping one end, being dragged along as the cloak tugs itself towards the door. He’s almost lifted off the floor for his efforts.

Fleamont is desperately grasping the other end, fairing better than Charlus but no less jostled by the cloak’s strength and its own felt desperation. “Agreed!” He shouts.

They have a moment of clarity, both cousins looking at each other as they’re dragged down the tower. In unison, they shout aloud in anger, knowing they’ll have their retribution.

“PEEVES!”

~ . * . ~

“Hey!” Harry mutters, affronted. “You lied to me,” he accusingly looks over to the boy reading on the bed.

Tom pays him no mind as he casually flips a page of Hogwarts: The knows and the don’ts. The small boy hadn’t wasted any time opening his books when he found out they’d be staying indoors for the day, a collection of notes piling off to the side with questions and thoughts.

Harry had been dismayed to discover that even at his age, his penmanship is far superior to Harry’s own. Speaking of age, he scowls. “You told me you were five.”

Tom finally looks over, his little face scrunched up, disgruntled.

Harry waves a piece of paper in the air from where he sits.

“Your birthday is December 31^st, 1926. You’re not even five yet. You also said you were going to be six soon.”

Sitting up, Tom scowls back at him. “What’s one more year? I might as well be five and six. I’m the smartest.”

“And humble,” Harry mutters under his breath.

Glaring from his seat, Harry reckons he’s been heard.

“Why are you even looking at that?” Tom demands, pushing his books behind himself all the while. When he catches Harry’s gaze, he picks up the pace, not a book to be seen after.

Eyebrow raised; he realizes that Tom must think Harry will now take away the books because of the age thing. Fortunately for Tom and unfortunately for Harry, he will not be doing that as he’d already promised Tom could have them. He tries to rarely break promises if he can help it.

“I wanted to know your birthday.”

Suspicious, Tom stays quiet, and Harry doesn’t offer anything more than that. Let it be a surprise. When nothing else is said, Tom goes back to his books, but he makes sure to keep a tight grip, the others practically being sat on.

While he’d forgotten the year of Voldemort’s birth, he remembered December 31^st because he had felt a little sympathy for Merope Gaunt. Speaking of the deceased woman, he turns his gaze to the tabletop, where a lone ring sits.

Sighing, Harry wonders what sort of trouble he’ll be facing this time around.

While not exactly a believer, Harry is aware of the tale regarding the Deathly Hallows. Sweet, lovely Luna had been quite adamant that Harry knew two months after Voldemort’s death.

Breakup number three saw Harry in Luna’s bed, a passionate and comforting night spent but an even more awkward morning when he found that Luna still lived with her father. Either way, she had dreamt of shadows and whispers, of artifacts that held far more sentience than sense and had then proceeded to tell him everything. Harry had hoped she’d have done so after he’d been properly dressed while her father stared him down, though he supposes one couldn’t be too choosy about those things when done spontaneously.

 He's aware that Grindelwald had been obsessed with gathering everything related to Death and the Hallows and Luna’s speculation that the Potter’s Invisibility cloak could very well be one of them along with Gaunt’s ring. The Elder wand made the third discovery because of Dumbledore and then Luna’s mother’s diary filled in certain gaps not because she’d had any interest but because where the Hallows were found so too would a whispmallow. Whatever those things were, Harry hadn’t a clue.

Luna had made him promise to collect all three, but Harry had declined. He didn’t believe and he saw no reason to disturb Dumbledore’s tomb where he’d buried the late headmaster’s wand. The public had been too interested in discovering who the next holder of it would be because of its legacy in Grindelwald’s hand.

Now, however, he doesn’t exactly have a choice.

As far as believing goes, there isn’t much of a choice there either. The damn bloody things had gone and thrown themselves at him. In fact, he still doesn’t know how the ring made it inside when there isn’t a crack to be seen. Even the space under the door wouldn’t allow the ring to pass. He’d tried. It’s like the ring had just thrown itself through walls to get to Harry.

When he’d woken up that morning for the second time, he’d hoped that it had been a crazy dream but that’d been dashed when he found the ring on his finger. Poor Tom had woken in a panic when Harry had cursed, hitting his head against Tom’s bed.

It’s late afternoon now and Harry hasn’t told Tom about the ring. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember telling Tom he’s adopted either, has he.

“Right. Tom? I’ve officially adopted you.”

Slamming his book closed, Tom turns to face him, eyes wide, accusing.

“Stop doing that!” Hitting the cover of his book in frustration, Tom points a finger at him. “You keep doing that, stop it!”

“Doing what?” Harry gapes. “Adopting?”

“No! Telling me important things! Where is it? I want to see for myself. You’re hopeless. I’m going to be doing all the work when I grow taller, I just know it.”

Insulted, Harry does as Tom alleges, he hopelessly gives Tom the adoption papers. Tom glares at him as he snatches the paper from his hand, ignoring Harry’s small, ‘hey!’ as he quickly scans the text.

“…why is my name so long? I don’t have to write that at Hogwarts…do I?”

Scratching his cheek as he looks away, Harry shrugs. “I’m sure some of the Professors won’t mind you shortening it a bit.”

“Hmph,” is all Tom says. He’s still reading.

“Anyway, it’s not that I didn’t want to tell you. I just forgot seeing as you’d been asleep.”

Flushing at the reminder, Tom mutters under his breath that Harry doesn’t quite catch.

“I’d wanted to see the bank,” Tom stares imploringly, having put the paper down now.

“Erm, well we can go after our appointment tomorrow. I need to set some funds for you anyway for when you’re at school.”

“I get to have my own money?” Tom whispers, his gaze piercing.

“Of course, Tom. It will be yours to spend how you wish. Like an allowance.”

Wait, should he put restrictions? Like not using those funds for dark artifacts. Or not using them for bribes and gambling. Well. He has time to enforce that later. Tom isn’t going to Hogwarts anytime soon.

All of a sudden, his arms are full, Tom having thrown himself. A moment too soon, Tom removes himself, heading back to the bed towards his books. Harry then grasps that Tom had just given him a hug. A hug!

This parenting business doesn’t seem too bad.

As Tom goes back to his reading, Harry meanwhile contemplates what he wants to do with the ring. He had not anticipated he’d get it so soon or at all, but this does solve the Merope issue some. He says some because at the end of the day, he still doesn’t want Tom anywhere near the talks of assault. He doubts Merope would think of it that way.

For now, he supposes he’ll just have to hide it away until he can convince Merope on how to talk to Tom appropriately.

“How about a trip to the library?” Harry decides at the last second. He feels like everything is starting to settle down some, the excitement of the last few days mentally draining.

He’d gone from being a drunkard time traveling wizard, to gaining a new name along with some wealth, and a son. To having a sentient wand and ring stalk him. A bit of light reading and job applying sounds like a world of comfort away from all of that, he thinks.

Tom is already at the cupboard, pulling out one of his outfits to change into.

He leaves him to it as he gathers his notes and job pamphlets as well as pocketing the ring. Making a mental note to pick up his own expandable bag, Harry decides to grab a robe even though he’d prefer to be without. He needed the overly large fabric to hide the second wand however as he doesn’t have a permit for it, nor does he trust to leave it alone here.

Tom comes running out, his own little robe swishing behind him as he goes to stand in front of the floor length mirror. It’s only when he remembers that he hadn’t silenced the damn thing that morning that Harry opens his mouth in a hurry.

He hasn’t a chance to warn him before Tom’s reflection is speaking, voice tilted higher and more smug sounding than he’s ever heard.

“My, don’t we look smart and posh. A little shine of gold and nothing will stand in our way of sophistication world domination!” Reflection Tom winks out at them, striking a pose with its hands resting on its hips, grinning.

It sort of reminded Harry of Lockhart, unfortunately. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he can hear Ron laughing.

Tom slowly turns to face, his stare heavy, posture stiffened. “What’s this?” He asks, relaxing inch by inch until any sort of stiffness leaves without evidence of having been there.

“It’s a mirror,” Harry quips. He then rushes to add, “it’s charmed to compliment or make suggestions every so often. It doesn’t always talk.”

“Is that why I hadn’t noticed it?” Tom is still relaxed.

Weary, Harry confesses. “Well, no. I’ve been silencing it every so often.”

“I see. To the library then?”

“Sure,” Harry says, eyeing the four-year-old suspiciously. What is he planning? Tom had clearly been caught off guard.

Leaving the room cautiously, Harry eyes Tom every few seconds as they make their way out. This time they bump into no one, Tom’s distaste for the place still there.

Sighing, he pulls out his rough drawn map, glances down at it and begins to walk, Tom following along as he peers at the sights. He’s clutching his pouch which reminds Harry to stop at a nearby shop to pick one up for himself.

Grabbing one at random, he pays for it quickly, making sure Tom hasn’t gone anywhere and then they leave, back to the path he thinks leads to the library. As they walk, he charms the bag and then loads everything into it, including both wand and ring who both flare angrily at him in response. He smirks down at them, knowing they couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Ten minutes into their walk though and Harry is frowning at their map, Tom looking up at him in a silent question. He bites the inside of his cheek as he looks up and then looks down repeatedly, worried.

Of course, he angrily thinks when Knockturn Alley comes into their view.

“What a berk,” Harry hisses in frustration. He’ll remember that bloke’s face at the bookshop and take his business elsewhere. “Why is there even a library in Knockturn?” He complains aloud, stopping before the boundary.

He tugs on Tom’s robe, pulling him back to himself when it looked like Tom would continue on. Not a chance, he thinks silently.

“What’s wrong?” Tom asks, baffled.

“Just a moment,” Harry sighs out. “Come on, let’s go over here real quick.”

Tugging Tom alongside by the robe, Harry walks towards a group of young women and men who seemed to be in a deep discussion. He hates to interrupt but he needed to make sure he’s heading in the right direction more.

“Excuse me,” Harry says, attempting to get one of their attentions. He’s ignored so Harry tries again, clearing his throat in case his voice is just too soft for them to hear. “Excuse me.”

One of the men glances over, before going right back to his conversation, completely disregarding him.

Stunned, Harry can’t help but stand there a moment in disbelief.

Sighing, Harry looks around himself but sees no one else to approach as everyone else seems to be in a hurry and some place to be. This is the only group loitering about. “Excuse me, I’ve just a question to ask,” he tries again, withholding his temper.

Absolutely felt like Hogwarts all over again and dealing with Malfoy and his little posse.

This time he receives multiple glances and still they choose to utterly ignore him again!

He isn’t able to withhold his outburst, his magic erupting around the group in an intense wave of heat and sparks, their clothing fluttering warningly. As one they pause, their eyes wide and swiveling towards him.

“I said,” he grits, trying to reign in his magic. He can feel the Elder Wand vibrating which shouldn’t be possible from the expandable pouch. “I have a question. Just answer a yes or no and I’ll be out of your way. Is there a library in Knockturn?”

Glaring them down, a different man nods his head, his eyes agog.

“Thank you,” he replies tersely.

Spinning around, Harry bends down in one fell swoop, picking up Tom as he speeds up.

“Honestly Tom, don’t grow up to be like them. It’s rude to ignore someone when they’re trying to ask for help. Would have only taken seconds if they’d bother.”

Grumbling under his breath in irritation, Harry jostles Tom in his arms, wondering why he’s so quiet. He stops at the boundary line once more, looking to the small boy to check on him. He hadn’t even made a noise when he’d been picked up so suddenly.

Rosy cheeked, Tom stares back, his dark eyes overwhelming in its intensity.

“Can everyone use their magic like that?” He curls his small arms around Harry’s neck, bringing his face closer as if he could read the answer from his mind.

Actually. He really could, couldn’t he? Is that not what started the ring mess in the first place? Bollocks.

He couldn’t even feign confusion as he knows what he’s being asked. His damn magic has always been a point of contention between him and Ginny, starting the moment they got back together after Voldemort’s fall.

Unstable.

Dangerous.

Too much.

All of that and more had been thrown at him when they raged at each other, both tempers high and wanting to hurt instead of dealing with their actual problems. Letting them fester until their next fight and breakup. Same tune, same dance. Too much magic, not enough empathy.

“No,” is what he settles on. “Perhaps a few can. I can think of one other, but who knows. The magical world doesn’t start nor end here so my knowledge is narrow.”

Voldemort’s magic had been one that could be willed into whatever form he had wanted, even in his madness. Harry can even freely admit if only to himself that if Voldemort had been any saner, their wands different, Harry wouldn’t have stood a chance at beating him.

  “Anyway, I’m not sure heading to the library is a good idea. Not if it’s through there.”

Tom stays quiet a moment longer, his gaze unwavering. “Why?” He finally asks.

“Hmm, Knockturn Alley caters to the strange and dangerous side of folks. That’s all I’ll say on the matter for now. I won’t be having you walking on your own through here unfortunately. A hag just might try to snatch you up.”

Gasping, Tom grabs a handful of hair in one hand and pinches the flesh of Harry’s neck in the other, clutching tightly as he presses into him closer.

Grunting in pain, Harry clocks that he probably shouldn’t have said that aloud.

He has to sort of do a wiggle dance to get his wand while still holding Tom until he eventually accomplishes both. With a deep breath, he crosses the imaginary line, keeping a weary lookout as the potential for danger arose.

There are far too many people here than he’s comfortable with. He cannot recall there ever being this many folks in his own time or in Riddle’s teens.

They catch a few curious glances here and there, some soft murmurs, and one who got bold enough to move nearby to sniff them. Brandishing his wand in the man’s face, the man pulls away in a hurry, his boldness melting in favor of perseverance.

Harry is unable to pull up the map to double check he’s even heading in the right direction as Tom peers around cautiously, his grip unrelenting. So, Harry has no choice but to choose random turns and pathways, avoiding the alleys and reading the available signs to make sure he’s somewhat able to get a good enough view of their surroundings.

This Knockturn is throwing him off though.

The one he remembers had been dingy, harsh whispers that followed you, but you could not pinpoint from where. The paved pathway had been beaten down that one had best pick up their feet before they found themselves vulnerable, fallen. He recalls smeared windows, broken shop markers, doors that shuddered not from a stiff breeze but from merely walking by.

And there had been many, empty shops where hiding wizards and witches squatted, where Hags haggled, vampires seducing you into dark corners for a bit of a drink. Shattered frames and broken bottles littering the sides.

This Knockturn you could see through the windows, the dust present but newly arrived instead of set deep. The path smooth and the cobblestones gleaming. Still whispers but not as angry, not so harsh. The usual types of folks you’d find lingering about are still there, but they now walked with purpose instead of long collected fatigue and resentment.

The biggest surprise for him though has to be the many, many open shops available.

He passes by one of them, promising great deals for home décor in the macabre. The shop next to it in comparison advertises the best bushel of floral with excellent potion usage for those seeking adoration.

The more he passes the more he sees. A collection of bones, cages for ‘mind and heart not your pet,’ leather wares that looked questionable, glass that could scope, and so much more.

Speechless, Harry carries on, Tom’s eyes fleeting around as much if not more so than he.

At the end of his current path, he spots the biggest building of all, almost mistaking it for deeper shadows of clustered trees. Within the branches, the structure gleams under peeking sunlight, Harry blinking when he thinks it might be obsidian itself. Towered sloping roofs, absorbing heat and peeking above the vegetation completes his observation.  

Hesitating only for a moment, Harry walks closer, Tom moving from his spot to get a better view. He knows this has to be the library because atop the roof sat animal statues, claws and paws holding up a book each.

When he steps in the way of the branches, they move to the side on their own, similar to the Whomping Willow but without the violence.

Below the massive doors is embedded a sign that reads Libidians Library.

Tom shrugs away, Harry picking up the silent hint to set him down. He does so, mindful of the branches and steps leading up to the doors where they carefully walk up.

Tugging one of the handles, he stumbles back, clutching Tom to himself when the door opens on its own. Out walks a cat who meows at them mulishly as it casually strolls away, tail swishing side to side.

The doors are now fully open where they can get a clear view.

It’s massive. Far more impressive in fact if comparing it to Hogwart’s library. Where the school’s space offers comfort and casual, this one seemed far more serious and dramatic. Plush velvet drapes in dark blues and burgundy cascade over banisters, floating lit lamps that seem to sway softly to an unheard tune. Gilded glossed desks with busy hunched figures taking up the space and Harry thinks he should have fought for the other library’s location. Especially he sees from where he stands, a man who is clearly a vampire holding up a book with a silent screaming man on the cover. With blood. In fact, the vampire even pulls out a hidden flask and takes a sip, lips dotted in red before it’s licked away, and the flask is stashed.

Tom looks impressed but Harry feels uncomfortable and queasy.

“Well come on in already,” a voice pipes up suddenly.

Startled, Harry meets the gaze of a stern looking bearded man from a portrait right by the door. He gestures towards the two to come on in, Harry opening his mouth to decline.

Tom—of course—doesn’t give him the chance as he hurriedly steps in, as if knowing Harry had been about to turn away. He doesn’t even look back, just walks right up to the portrait for a closer view. In doing so, he catches the attention of the vampire who glances at Tom, curiously, a fang peeking out then tucked away just as fast.

Protective instincts catching, he follows, palming his wand carefully.

“You talk,” Tom says, actively searching the portrait for something.

“Of course I do,” the elderly man intones, chuckling, earlier grimness softening briefly. “I’d once been alive you know. Built this library with my own wand. I’m told I died viciously by my own—”

“—okay, nice meeting you.” Harry interjects hastily. Grabbing Tom, they step further in, Harry making sure to keep the vampire within his sights though he shouldn’t have bothered trying so hard as the other had gone right back to his book.

Sighing, knowing a lost cause, Harry looks for the front desk.

Dragging a protesting Tom, complaining he had wanted to hear the rest of the story, Harry spots a tall woman with a sign above, reading Libidians Library Librarian.

Walking up, he softly requests a form for membership, the woman helpfully giving him one along with a parchment detailing their hours and activities they hold bimonthly. Signing the simple form, he gives it back then looks for an empty table.

Spotting one across the room, together they head in that direction, Tom quickly getting over his annoyance to browse the shelves.

Harry leaves him to it, doing his own browsing as he’s here for one thing. He hopes at least the library will have it. Back when he lived with the Dursley’s, he’d spent a lot of time in libraries when he could get away with it. Though, he hadn’t really done much reading there so to speak. His interest had been to find a hiding spot away from Dudley. He does recall nevertheless that libraries archived a lot of useful events and history as well as providing helpful services to the public. If they could store phonebooks, then surely, they would have other practical and convenient guides like knowing who is currently working at Hogwart’s.

His goal today?

Filling out job applications and doing a bit of reconnaissance for potential competitors. He’s also hoping to find the ones most likely and willing to help him if he ever needs it.

Making sure Tom is staying within the more appropriate shelves, Harry begins his search.

~ . * . ~

An hour later and he’s made little to no progress, which is unfortunate. So far, he found no such books on Hogwarts specifically, but he did find a section open to the public for recent and past news clippings. These ones catered to important events. He’s sure the more mundane ones are stored elsewhere.

Sighing, he turns to head back to the table. Unlike Harry, Tom has had much more success and is practically having the time of his life. And overly ambitious.

Narrowing his eyes, Harry makes a silent vow to dissuade Tom from taking home any of them when he still has the others to read.

Piles of books surround the smaller boy. Countless started, more abandoned for something else until three distinct piles could be seen forming. The unwanted, the hopeful, and the unknown.

Grumbling, he decides to do one more sweep around.

A few minutes later he’s rewarded with a book which had been stashed towards the Librarians desk, where he had rushed past. Wanting to smack his forehead in irritation, he grabs the damn thing, taking it to his seat. It’s weighty and burdensome.

The book is titled, ‘Wizarding’s Occupations Occupants: Undoubtedly updated.’

 Tom gives him a strange look when he sits down, having picked up that Harry isn’t much of a reader. They’d been there an hour and all he’s done so far is walk up and down the shelves, looking.

Shrugging his shoulder, Harry pulls open the book, searching for an index of some sort.

He finds one after an overly long and unnecessary introductions page, mood souring.

He disliked having to read large books as much as he disliked paperwork. It feels like that’s all he’s done here since he put down the alcohol.

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, where are you Hogwarts?” He mutters under his breath. The index is a mess, not a sight of organizing attempts to be seen. Second to the last page of thirty, he finds Hogwarts at long last. Noting down the number, he flips the heavy book over to start from the back so there’d be less page flipping this time.

Reaching the noted pages, he impatiently begins reading.

Apollyon Pringle, caretaker of Hogwarts.

Cuthbert Binns, History Professor. No surprise there.  

Herbert Beery, Herbology.

Galatea Merrythought, Defense Against the Dark Arts: seeking an assistant. Grinning, Harry tosses the idea in his head. It’s not entirely a bad idea as long as he can make sure to not expose any spells that should not yet exist. Mentally noting it down, he continues to read on.

Armando Dippet, Headmaster of Hogwarts.

Minerva McGonagall, Transfiguration’s Professor.

Silvanus Kettleburn, Care of Magical Cre—

Hold on a second. What?

Rereading over and over the list, Harry freezes in shock.

There is no Professor Dumbledore. No mention of one Albus Dumbledore who should have been the current Transfiguration Professor.

What the fuck?

No matter how many pages he turns, reads, letter by letter, his former professor is nowhere to be found within the yellowed pages.

Slowly, Harry pulls back from the book, flicking a distracted glance in Tom’s direction. Trepidation builds fast, his back straightening up as his magic coils tightly in preparation.

Breathing in sharply, he carefully makes his way out of his seat, looking away from Tom who is still immersed in his own world. Making his way to the Librarian’s desk, he murmurs a soft question.

“Is there perhaps a book or something that keeps track of current residency within Magical Britain?”

If she finds the question strange, he isn’t able to tell as she immediately gives him her back. She’s pulling out her wand to direct it towards the embedded tubes in the walls at waist height, a soft yellow light zapping out to touch the glass. She then turns to face him to ask, “is there anyone specific you’re looking for? The book in question is not yet completed and to be fair, I doubt it ever will be.”

“Erm, Albus Dumbledore,” he replies tensely. His voice is wonky but there is currently nothing he can do about it. Not when all of his energy is pushing back the well of emotions continuously rising.

The Librarian turns around and murmurs the name. Only seconds later does a rolling tube come swishing out, landing into her experienced hands.

“Anything related to the name should be found there.”

Hands shaking, Harry grabs the tube, walking away in a hurry. He can’t remember if he’s thanked her. As soon as he’s seated, he tugs out rolled parchment, unwrapping them and begins searching. For what exactly? He isn’t sure. Here though, his proof of his past mentor’s existence and so, he reads and reads.

It’s just a few mentions of past addresses, residency occupants, a copy of death certificates for Percival and Kendra Dumbledore, an order of Percival’s arrest and verdict for Azkaban and more. Everything Harry already knew.

There’s Aberforth Dumbledore and ultimately, listed right next to him as elder brother, is Albus Dumbledore. A sigh of relief escapes. He reads on, wondering if somehow, he’s just misunderstood everything, but then right there, a small enough statement that which might mean nothing to most but everything to Harry.

Ariana Dumbledore, currently residing with Aberforth Dumbledore, last known residency, Godric’s Hallow, respectively, 46 and 48 years old. Note by Aberforth Dumbledore mentions moving to the America’s but no accommodations detailed.

Picking up the paper in a daze, a much smaller one falls onto his lap from behind. Picking it up, he chokes, the wall of emotions pounding to be released. His breathing picks up, his tight hold of his magic slipping.

He can feel Tom’s stare, his frown, but he isn’t able to respond this time. Isn’t able to reassure the kid that everything is fine because he couldn’t. Nothing is fine. Not now.

Glaring at him from the newspaper clipping is 18-year-old Albus Dumbledore and right behind him, smirking smugly, hand clutched tightly onto his shoulder, stood 17-year-old Gellert Grindelwald. Below them the paper reads, ‘Two promising wizards, misguided but dangerous. Avoid and report any and all suspicious activity to the Aurors.’

Ariana Dumbledore is alive, and his past mentor isn’t at Hogwarts because he’d joined Grindelwald. Apparently. The hints all in the paper really so what other conclusion is he to draw from?

“Harry?” A small hand touches his wrist, worried.

Willing himself to look away, he faces Tom who had at some point gotten up from his seat. “What’s so funny?”

Gasping in short puffs of air, eyes wild, he thinks he can hear the laughter mentioned. Though it didn’t feel like he’d been the one laughing. There’s nothing funny about what he’s just read.

His hold is unraveling, and fast but he doesn’t know what to do. What does he do? He might hurt Tom. Tom who is innocent. Tom who is not nor would have been, Lord Voldemort because Harry isn’t in the past. He’s just taken in a kid whose future is now tied to Harry because he had fucked up and thought he’d woken to the past. An alternate version just didn’t seem possible. He laughs and laughs.  

Chapter Text

“Harry?”

A small voice trembles nearby, but Harry is unable to pull himself out of his own thoughts, screaming every which way. Everything is a blur. His hearing picks up odd notes but it’s distant except for the small voice that sounds so clear but just as fragile.

He’s shaking, he knows he is, but he cannot stop it. He doesn’t know how. How? How?

How?

How could this have happened? Why did this happen?

Why him? Had he not given enough? Had everyone not already taken everything from him? Left him to pick up the pieces.

 Left him behind.

Wallowing. Self-disgust and loathing for himself that had been buried for so long threatens to rise once more, his frail faux peace falling apart with nary a nudge.

“Harry!”

The young voice sounds closer, panicked sounding. He turns but sees only forest. It’s damp, cold, getting dark. A glimpse of his parents’ peek behind moving shadows.

‘Harry Potter—'

No. His breath trembles. Somewhere in the distance he thinks he hears his mother’s scream as he once did all those years ago.

‘—the Boy who Lived…’

Stop it. Make it stop. Please. Sirius’s smile as he falls back.

‘Come to—’

A sharp slap makes his head turn only slightly for such force. Blinking down in shock, Harry stares down at a crying Tom who is now clutching at his wrist painfully, sobbing into his chest. For a heart stopping moment he thought he had been looking into the face of 16-year-old Riddle. It’s then he notices that his own face is wet when he goes to touch his stinging cheek.

Shuddering, he pulls Tom in, picking him up as he stands shakily. He feels disoriented, as he stumbles his way out of the library. He avoids the vampire and the Librarian, heat rising up onto his face. His magic is still swirling around him dangerously, precariously ready to sweep around everything and anything around him, including innocent Tom.

He’s still trying to gather his thoughts into some form of coherency when Tom sobs out, “No! No!” As soon as they’re out, Harry puts Tom down who clutches tighter, but Harry needs to see his face. When he does, he knows his face resembles something foul as he runs his fingers in a poor attempt at comfort over small, rounded cheeks. Wiping away as much of the tears as he’s able. He makes sure to change the direction of his magic, using every ounce of his willpower to make sure it isn’t going to be a danger. It’s shaky at best, unfortunately.

“What’s wrong Tom? Tell me what’s the matter.” He winces at the sound of his own voice. It sounds like he’d been screaming for hours.

Shaking his head, Tom tries to bury his head in his chest, but Harry holds firm. Needing to fix this. He feels like all he’s done since he woke up in this…in this world is made nothing but mistakes. His earlier thoughts attempt to force themselves in, reminding him that this Tom is now permanently entangled in his mess.

“Tom. Answer please. I can’t help or fix what you don’t say.”

“You’re going to abandon me!” Tom cries out, his face blotchy with tears and a fierce frown when he finally allows Harry a thorough look. “It’s all my fault and now you’re going to throw me away like everyone else!”

“No, no of course not Tom. That’s not what this is,” Harry consoles.

He knows it misses the mark though when Tom’s little face just crumples into itself, looking away. What little warmth Tom gave him is now slipping away. Trust, crumbling down one piece at a time.

“I just…I-” he starts, swallowing painfully. What does he say though? How does he explain when he can’t even put his thoughts into order. When he still feels wrong footed and like someone wrung him like a soggy rag before they tossed it aside. He can’t think. So, he does what his body tells him. What he wished someone had done for him years ago.

Picking the small boy up once more, Tom goes willingly even as he avoids Harry’s face, hugging him tightly. Patting him on the back slowly, softly, his magic whirling out almost lazily now as it wraps around Tom’s frame, pulsating in a soothing rhythm of warmth, the danger thankfully passing for the moment. He’d never forgive himself if he had hurt him.

He will fix this, he will. He messed up but that does not mean this is unsalvageable.

For the next half hour, he keeps quiet, just making sure to keep his magic wrapped around Tom as much as possible, giving as much reassurance as he is able.

Occasionally someone would idly pass by a glance in their direction before moving on.

Slowly, Tom peeks up, his face ruddy with tears, pink splotches of distress still there, face scowling comfortably once more. Tension bleeds from Harry slowly, relieved. Everything is going to be just fine. He’ll make sure of it. There is nothing to do but move forward. Later, later he will deal with his breakdown, alone, away from Tom. Making Tom hysterical will never happen again, he will make sure of that too.

“Alright there?” he asks softly, waiting.

Tom stares back at him, still. After a long moment, he nods, whispering, “don’t do that again…please.”

Tenderly, Harry wraps his hand around the small neck, cradling Tom back into a hug. “Promise,” he says. And he means it. He will make sure any of his lapses will happen away from Tom as he owes him that much.  

With a great amount of effort, he pushes his thoughts into a box, knowing he will have to confront it tonight. For now, however, he can focus on Tom. Tom who now seems all the brighter to him. A calling he cannot ignore, nor does he think he wants to. In that moment, he has no idea who is really comforting who.

Tom asks to be let down where Harry then spells away the mess from the smaller face. Breathing in gently, they walk back into the library, holding hands as they make their way back to the table. The vampire from earlier glances up from his book, smirking as he raises an eyebrow in silent question.

Rankled at the sight, Harry makes no attempt to stop himself from flipping off the dead man, who simply laughs, turning the next page of his book, completely unbothered.

“That’s a bad gesture,” Tom remarks, tone judging, though there’s a small bit of interest there as well.

“Don’t mimic that,” Harry quickly replies. “You’re right, it’s bad so don’t do it until you’re much older.”

“Hmph,” Tom sulks, though that interest still lingers.

Gathering up everything, Harry walks up to the Librarian, her face still the same which Harry appreciates. If she’s judging him from crying out of nowhere, at least he cannot tell. He silently asks her for copies of everything which she gives him. He also asks for forms for the jobs he’d like to apply for. Then he tells Tom to pick out the books he’d like to borrow as they’d be leaving.

Surprisingly, Tom only picks one.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary about it, Harry makes sure to have the Librarian sign it out then they leave, the vampire’s eyes all the while burning his back. Grumbling, he picks out a small little café in soft blues and yellows, Tom scrunching his little nose at the sight though his interest in the boxed pastries speaks a different tale.

Seated, Harry places the small box of assorted goods, advertised as not too sweet, while he pulls out his collection of copied papers. Among them are papers for job applications he did not get to fill out. Just because he had a complete meltdown did not mean he had the luxury of just idling by and not adulting. He now had an extra mouth to feed. And going by how Tom seems to be enjoying the pastries as well as his penchant for ordering large quantities of food, he doubly wants to make sure they’re completely financially secure, newfound wealth or not.  

The first thing he applies for is the broom instructor position, making sure to emphasize that he has plenty of experience. He’ll have to remind himself to not teach anyone about the Wonski feint anytime soon. After that, he settles for filling out the form for a desk job—he resents this position, but one shouldn’t be picky when they needed to earn money—at a small office that provides broom insurance. He didn’t even know that was a thing. It made a lot of sense, however. He wonders who thought of the idea first. Another desk job at the Ministry is written next halfheartedly, and lastly, hesitantly, he does apply for the defense assistant job.

His brain starts to get fuzzy, but he quickly focuses on Tom who is people watching as he picks at his desserts. Leftover buttercream is scraped off of some of the pastries, Tom most likely deigning them as too sweet.

“What would you like to do for the rest of the day Tom?” He smiles at the smaller boy who looks up at him questioningly. Any earlier interest in doing reconnaissance for competitors is long gone, his emotional barriers weak.

“I can pick?”

“You have full control,” Harry agrees.

Perking up at the thought, Tom eyes the current buildings around. They were no longer in Knockturn Alley but in Diagon, Harry needing space away from the place he broke down. He can fully admit that he’s currently embarrassed. Nothing to do about it now unfortunately.

“I want to go there,” Tom points at a purple building behind them, earlier fear gone.

Blinking, Harry finds himself wrong footed once more. When he focuses back on Tom, he expects the small child to say, ‘just joking,’ but when that doesn’t happen, he slowly nods, standing from his seat. “Alright, yea, sure. Sounds good. You ready?”

Nodding, Tom follows expectantly, clutching Harry’s sleeve as they make their way over. The closer they get the brighter the building seems until eventually they reach the doors. The colours are obnoxious but lighthearted to the advertised…children who are running in and out the doors with equally bright bags swinging from their little arms, large words emboldened across, reading Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop.

If someone had told him that Tom Riddle, future Dark Lord to be had once wanted to step inside the joke shop willingly, he’d have laughed in their faces before tossing their arses aside. Clearly, he’d been the one to miss out on the joke.

Clearing his throat, he finds himself intrigued at what Tom could find so interesting to want to step inside. He follows silently as Tom eagerly steps in, his little face swiveling left and right, up and down, making sure he got a good view of everything.

Flying little hand sized brooms zoom across the ceiling with equally small sized dolls atop, small little ‘whoops’ of cheer adding to the ambience. Colourful caldrons bubbling with fluorescent questionable liquids set off to the side, carpet that giggled and shrieked for every step taken, wild printed boxes happily flapping open on shelves, bidding you to have a look. Stands of enticing lollies and chocolates, promising a fun time if you only had a taste or two, stuffed magical creatures dancing around the shop, begging you to take one home, and in the far right, stood a large banner, guiding you to have a look at pranks you can pull on the average magical person to the most experienced wand wielding individual if you chose just right.

Harry cannot help but gape in surprise, wondering at where all of this creativity had gone to in the future. His mood shifts when he remembers his earlier discovery. Shifting awkwardly, he looks for Tom as he’s no longer by his side, having disappeared at some point.

Alarmed, he scans the room, having to fight his way through as there were many adults with their children browsing about. After a while and a mini panic attack later amongst a group of squabbling children over the last stuffed hippogriff, he finds Tom standing before a shelf with a mini potions kit and next to it boxes of colourful toy wands.

Ah.

That made a lot more sense actually. Picking up a purple wand box, Harry reads the back of it. Made of recycled magical trees, the wand allowed up to 5 spells at a time to get your child started on their educational journey. It would need to be reset after a few days but for the most part, if carefully used, could last a week of use.

Impressed, Harry finds himself pleased with this find. He could set the terms of what Tom could be allowed to learn at a reasonable pace without the fear of Tom going outside of the guidelines, and it would add the benefit of appeasing Tom’s rising jealousy for not having his own wand yet. Also, most importantly, it is a lot safer than having him use Harry’s.

Not so surprisingly, Tom picks out the boring colour of the lot, a dark brown. Harry does not have to search his brain for answers as the most likely answer is pride. He sets the purple box down, looking around for a hand cart or something. He has a feeling they’ll be walking out with a large bag of their own. This is one shop he feels he does not have to be too careful about when giving in to Tom’s whims.  

Eventually he finds an obnoxiously bright pink cauldron in spotted yellow to hold their things as he obligingly follows the child around. Harry is just really relieved that Tom seems to be having fun and isn’t ruminating over Harry’s earlier antics.

They finish up there where Harry then takes them to Gringotts as promised. Tom, while interested in the Goblins, did not seem too pleased to find that he had been no taller. He was, however, quite satisfied with his newly acquired vault of galleons where HawkIron explained how to access it when he entered Hogwarts and the key system.

That done, Harry then decided to browse more of the shops around that caught Tom’s eye to pass the rest of the day. Anything was fine as long as he could prolong the inevitable.

Slow going but no other mishaps see the day finishing with Harry and Tom at a small, cozy place for dinner. Again, Tom secrets away any leftovers where they then head back to the Leaky with Harry promising to add the spells on Tom’s new ‘wand’ tomorrow morning. Tom had wanted it that very second, but Harry needed to learn how to say ‘no’ sometimes when it came to Tom as he had no idea, he’d be this swayed by this specific little face.

He does recall a memory of Dumbledore’s judging expression when they were going over pensieve memories of Voldemort and his rising fascination with Tom Riddle who graduated from Hogwarts. That was neither here nor there though in this instance. Either way, he needed to learn the word, no.

With Tom tucked in for the night, Harry quietly pulls out his wand to silently spell a deeper, undisturbed sleep for the smaller figure. Monitoring charms latched onto the door leading out he finally locks himself in the restroom, spelled silent as he finally lets go of his barriers in one fearful breath.

It comes crashing down with such force the mirror above the sink vibrates and cracks while the walls seem to shake, showering bottles tumbling down into the tub, loud bang after bang.

He’s gasping for air as sweat begins to bead, memories upon memories flashing before his eyes. He’s scared, angry, lost, but mostly betrayed. It’s unreasonable, but he cannot help it. This Dumbledore doesn’t know him. Has no clue as to who he is. Owes him nothing and yet, he cannot help the feeling of duplicity anyway. How dare he? How dare this Dumbledore turn his back on humanity for the lure of Grindelwald, the bearer of dread and demise, the loss of many to come. For what exactly? For a measly wand who happens to be a little bit stronger? For an unclaimed title that none before them has held with no answers to what that could mean?

Glory?

Teeth gritting, grinding as he holds himself against the door, still gasping occasionally, he clenches his eyes shut as if in pain.

Why? Why was he brought here and at this time? He didn’t want this. He doesn’t want this. If he was to be cast aside to another universe, could it not have been somewhere with warmer weather? Somewhere else where there were no Dark Lords or power-hungry individuals? He bangs his head against the door once, twice, a third time when his eyes snap open, still angry.

He didn’t ask for this but like hell is he going to allow two Dark Lords to roam about as they please, destroying lives along the way.

“Bugger,” he breathes out harshly, getting his breathing under control. He still doesn’t have any plans to be a hero, doesn’t want another moniker to go with the ones he grew up under. And he bloody hopes that Dumbledore is far more reasonable, hopes like you cannot believe that this is all just some misunderstanding and there is a plan in place, or that this world has no actual Dark Lords. Something. Anything else, really at this point.  

It just doesn’t make sense. While he recalls a memory in one of their long night discussions about morality, about how angry Dumbledore used to be to care for his sister, his younger brother, how his ego used to rival Grindelwald’s, he still cannot believe there could be an existence where the older man isn’t a mentor to the idealist, isn’t someone without kindness. He is not without his many, many faults, but never once, even in anguish, in anger, has Harry ever thought Dumbledore capable of evil. He still doesn’t.

Sighing mournfully, sweat pooling under his collarbones, his sight obstructed by his glasses fogging, he slips to the floor slowly, a mess. His lips feel chapped and raw as he bites and chews on them as he thinks and thinks, his breathing sounding too loud in the otherwise small space.  

He cannot be the hero the people might need. He’s now responsible for a child. For Tom. For what it’s worth, he just cannot bring himself to let go and he refuses to make the same mistake his parents made. While important to stand up for what you believe in, at the cost of your own life who is accountable for another life, is not the answer he seeks. Therefore, he is going to have to play this safer.

The mirror shakes in warning, the curtain for the clawfoot bathtub rustling similar to leaves as a plan starts to form. Firstly, he’s going to need an in where all the important information gathers.

Bloody hell, why hadn’t he paid attention like Hermione harped on about. For the life of him, he cannot recall the dates of when Grindelwald attacked and where. Anything that hadn’t been Voldemort related or his parents, he had quickly discarded as unimportant. After all, the man had been dead by the time he’d been made aware of his existence. By Voldemort no less.

Shaking, he knocks his glasses off, the view now blurry. Not that he registered anything to begin with. His hair flops into a sweaty state when he brushes it to the side, his shirt clinging as his magic heats the small space up by several more degrees.

Why had he not appreciated his friends more? The Weasley’s?

Half brained it was, he still jokingly thought that while he could not time-travel, he could perhaps wait out the timeline to meet with his friends and family again as some old man playing at a grandfather or something. Now there was no point. These people were not his.

No one is. No one will remember him as if he’s never existed. Somewhere, his Hermione, his Ron would go about their lives, unbothered, happy, joyful smiles lighting up rooms along with their children as Harry lost himself somewhere else. Lost himself here. There would be no more visits to Teddy, his silent promises to be there broken. No more comfortable conversations with Luna. No trips to the joke shop to help George out on those days needed most without Fred.

Lashing out in a rage fuel scream, the mirror above shatters, shards flying everywhere. One embeds itself into his shoulder to which he spiritlessly pulls out, the sharp object clanging to the floor in a broken, bloody heap.

Sluggishly, he thinks to himself that he might be in need of a new therapist. Or a pint.

So, gathering information. Only the Aurors and the international confederation Wizards were privy to the misuse of magic and Dark Lords to be. What does that mean for him though? He’s sure if he were on his own, he could just travel as he pleased to find what he’s looking for but not without some pointed lumos’s at his back.

Tom does still have six years before his Hogwarts letter.

Grimacing, he sighs dejectedly as his magic swirls agitatedly, making another ruckus.

That leaves him with very little options.

He’s going to have to work in the Ministry again, isn’t he? If there are indeed two Dark Lords, not even he is capable of taking down both by himself. There’s going to be a need for more manpower, for a Minister that isn’t Fudge. Most prominently, he’s going to need the focus to be on the whole rather than an individual.

Bloody hell, he’s going to have to be an Auror again.

~ . * . ~

When one needs a good cry, a shower is the solution. That is exactly what he does after he heals himself as best as he can and fixes the mirror. His magic though is still displeased as that little tantrum in the restroom left a lot to be desired in terms of expending oneself.

Unfortunately, there just aren’t a lot of options left for him to use his magic like that without armed Aurors running at him as a threat.

Having slept poorly, he rose before Tom, dressing for the day as he decides which spells to give to Tom to use. While he does not mind Tom going to Hogwarts far more advanced in knowledge than his peers, it would not bode well for anyone to have him bored either.

A bored Tom would only spell disaster surely.

Ultimately, he ends up inputting Lumos, Nox, Aguamenti, Scourgify, and lastly Wingardium Leviosa. His reasoning? One should know how to clean, get clean water, and…float? Eyebrow raised; he shakes the thought away. No one will be floating. Just feathers.

Tom wakes, confused to see Harry up before him which, fair. He prompts the kid to dress for the day as he reflects on his thoughts from last night. It hadn’t been a total disaster as he’d feared but he’s going to need to find an outlet soon.

Obviously, alcohol is out of the picture with a child involved and similarly so is sex. He refuses to have any strangers around Tom and ultimately, isn’t interested anyway at the moment when his thoughts and feelings aren’t on the same page. Huffing, he gets their things ready as he tries and fails to come up with solutions.

When Tom steps out of the restroom, dressed similarly to Harry once more, he smiles fondly as he hands over the requested pouch and wand.

Lighting up, Tom swishes it casually in his hand as he asks, “which spells do I get?”

When he tells him, he watches amused as that beaming smile cracks though he silently applauds the quick comeback when Tom just nods his head, instead of arguing.

“When you’ve got those down enough, we can have you try new ones. No hurry though as you have plenty of time to learn before your first school year.” And of course, before he can set up Tom’s first play date.

They head down, hand in hand as they look for a place to have breakfast, both tired already of the Leaky.

They try a place that promised amazing crepes and while he isn’t a fan, he does enjoy Tom’s expressions when he eats his first one. Tom seemed to favor the fruits on the side more.

That done, Harry solemnly looks down at Tom who frowns back up at him.

“What?”

“I should have thought this through a bit more but sorry Tom, I’ve got to apparate us to the Ministry.”

Seconds pass by with Tom lost before he can recall what the word, ‘apparate’ means. His little face pales before he sucks in a breath, his chin tilted out. “If you must,” he intones dramatically.

Nodding somberly, Harry grabs Tom’s limp hand, grimacing as he apparates as quickly as possible. When they pop near the bottom of the steps leading in, he beams down proudly at Tom who does not in fact, throw up this time though still faired a bit of queasiness, nonetheless.

Tom is silent as he follows Harry, his hand still held. Harry though, barely notices as he makes his way to where he needs, confidently. While he isn’t happy with where he needs to work, while he doesn’t owe any of these people anything, he’s already made up his mind. Once made, it’s hard pressed to change it and therefore, he will not quail at the thought of having to work with these strangers. Once he’s done with what he needs to do, he can always quit and apply to where he actually wants. Away from all of the violence.

Heading to the pulley’s after checking in, he goes ahead to level 2 where the Auror headquarters should be. Stepping inside as he waits, he contemplates his next set of actions. He needs to make sure not to stand out, to find out where information on misuse of magic is held outside of its’ office which just so happens to be on the same floor. He remembers that not all important information regarding dark wizards were not always kept with the Aurors or in the Misuse of Magic office because for security breach reasons. His goal? To get a position in the Enforcement Patrol where he can easily blend in. The faster he deals with Dumbledore and Grindelwald, the faster he can leave the Ministry behind.

When they step off the pulley, they see many witches and wizards milling about in one giant blend of dark colours. Occasionally the sight of scarlet and navy robes appeared before quickly whisking away with purpose.

The office he’s ultimately looking for isn’t found in its original place from what he’s used to, but a lot of things aren’t anymore, are they? And he’s just going to have to adapt to that.

Taking in a silent, deep breath, his hand tightening only the slightest around Tom’s, he steps inside the Auror’s head quarters where cubicle after cubicle is seen with Aurors frantically going through paperwork, tired faces sipping on coffee, haggard uniforms hanging by only a thread of what little patience is had, and pictures of captured or targeted criminals pinned to the walls. A sorry sight for most but the little bit of familiarity in this otherwise strange, and unknown world of new, brings some comfort to Harry.

Off to the side is a desk masquerading as a paper wall of information and little booklets. He only knows about this desk from an off-hand comment from Sirius who had enjoyed adding little drawings on occasion when he passed by, James of course, encouraging the behaviour if not already adding to the mess himself Remus had at once added.  

It’s a desk notorious by those only in the known, namely, already recognized Aurors. A desk that will, with only a little reading of your wand once placed amongst the mess, gives you an advantage in the job of your choosing so long as it resides on Basement level 2. And of course, the individual must be currently jobless. A massive disadvantage, however, for those who had no connections to the Ministry itself to let them know, which he’s sure was the point as those who wouldn’t were mostly muggleborns.  

No one pays him any mind, used to random people coming and going as they pleased. One of security measure? He thinks not. He pulls out his wand to set down, curious as to what will happen. Sirius never did get the chance to tell him. Only when he goes to do so, his pouch hanging from his belt, whistles from within, loudly, startling a sleeping witch who grumbles darkly after banging her knee into her cubicle.

Murmuring a hurried apology and letting go of Tom, Harry wrestles his pouch open to discover that of course it had been the Elder Wand’s doing. Shrilling sparks erupt from the tip, angry and demanding.

Once his hand touches it, it of course settles into silence, as if it’s done no wrong. The witch from earlier literally hisses at the sight of him as she drags away a dirty and empty coffee mug, her robes tattered and singed. When she passes by, she doesn’t hesitate to smack the back of a man’s head who had also been sleeping.

Harry decides it is none of his business, so he pulls out the Elder Wand, eyebrow raising in question. When he glances at the desk, the wand pulsates once as if in answer.

“No,” he mutters darkly. “Absolutely not, you’ve caused me enough trouble.”

“…are you talking…to the wand?” Tom asks, dubious, arms crossed.

“No,” Harry quips, trying but failing to stuff the wand back into the pouch.

“You’re not a very good liar,” Tom mutters under his breath, tapping his foot.

“I’m an excellent liar actually,” Harry lies, sighing in defeat as he gives up putting away the blasted wand.

“What have you lied to me about?” Tom hisses, stomping his foot.

“Erm, nothing?”

Ashamedly looking away as all he felt is a bit of amusement at the sight, Harry resignedly places the Elder Wand on the desk, covertly making sure no one is still looking. The desk at once vibrates, rattling and creaking as papers go flying either away to somewhere else or onto the floor. A hue forms around both wand and desk, Harry and Tom stepping away as the rattling escalates before it then settles down.

Tom frowns, disappointed, and Harry imagines his own face isn’t far off. He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but an old wooden, creaking desk doesn’t even come close. They both stand there, awkwardly, waiting to see if anything else will happen.

Tilting his head to the side, Harry is about to ask, ‘what now?’ when the lone drawer of the desk slams open with enough force to displace it, crashing into the ground as it slides, loudly at his feet. Tom had already ran behind Harry’s back, safe.

Inside the drawer, is a stack of papers, addressed to his alias. Bending down to grab them, he stuffs them inside his pouch as he grabs the Elder Wand and places the drawer back into place, having to hit it a few times as it refused to slide right in. He supposes that’s it then. A bit anticlimactic but in this case, he won’t complain.

“Congratulations,” a haggard man mumbles, eyes bloodshot as he watches Harry and Tom leave for the door.

Harry quirks an eyebrow, confused, but thanks the man, nonetheless, because manners.

“What’s he congratulating you for?” Tom demands when the door closes behind them.

“I haven’t a clue,” Harry shrugs.

“Then what are we doing here?”

“Getting me a job.”

Huffing, Tom stomps his foot again. “You don’t even need one.”

“Of course, I do,” Harry dismisses. “Now, let’s go see if that house of ours is ready.”

Perking up, Tom eagerly makes a grab for his hand, downright demanding he get a good room with a large bed and a foot stool and everything else he will need for his room obviously. His fear of abandonment from yesterday clearly already forgotten as his list of demands grows.  

Harry half listens as he thinks about the stack of papers he’s just acquired, wondering what he’ll find in them. All he knows is that it is supposed to be a major help so long as you qualify if you did not do too well in your academics. How so though? He wishes he knew.

HawkIron has been more than helpful than what is actually required of him, and the ‘official’ documents of his school track records are not really the best. From what he remembers, the qualifications to be an Auror are ridiculously hard and they’re notorious for turning many away. That had been in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, he has no idea if anything is the same during this time period or even harder. He just knows that he does not have the time to go back to school to get those Outstanding and Exceeds Expectations grades. Not and raise a child anyway.

Sighing, what he actually wishes for is a more noncaring attitude so that he can live his life in peace. What’s that feeling like? He snorts at the thought. One day, he silently promises himself.

Tom does not stop talking all the way to the apparating point and even then, he continues to the realtor’s office. It was less talk and more demands, but Harry doesn’t mind, not when he still feels a bit out of it from yesterday and dealing with the mental fortitude to go back to the Aurors. Patrols only, he chants in his head. Only patrolling, nothing too strenuous and nothing too flashy. A perfect undercover away from prying eyes and to which helps build his alias. Nothing could possibly go wrong. In fact, he wills that nothing will go wrong.

~ . * . ~

“Is it still moving?”

“I don’t think so…though maybe we should add another.”

“You add another, and it’ll topple over you in your sleep, then what will I tell uncle?”

“That I made a valiant effort to preserve our family heirloom.”

“Does that mean I get to keep it for myself?”

“Do you even want it?”

“…as it stands now? No. I don’t reckon that I do.”

Both Charlus and Fleamont stare despondently at the stacked luggage atop a still box, holding the blasted and possessed invisibility cloak.

“I don’t think it’s Peeves this time,” Charlus adds after a long moment.

“No, I got that when it tried to strangle the poltergeist. I’ve never seen him so scared.”

“Too bad no one else saw it,” Charlus sighs. “Well, what now?”

“Now? I suppose I should mention it to dad, but…”

“He’s going to take it away,” groans Charlus. “Then I won’t be able to borrow it.”

“As it stands, you certainly can’t borrow it now.”

“What about a stasis charm?”

“Spells just slip off the bloody thing.”

“Right,” nods Charlus. “What if it just wants to go out and that’s why it’s acting like that? Sometimes I just go a bit insane if I stay indoors too long.”

“You a dog or something? Need potty training?” Fleamont grins, standing up from where he sat on the ground.

“That’s right, I can bark too, want to hear?”

“No. Why don’t you go moon over Dorea instead, reckon she’s lost interest in you already.”

“You take that back!” Charlus stands in a huff. “If you wanted to be alone, should have just said, you berk.”

As Charlus leaves, Fleamont frowns down at the hidden invisibility cloak. He and Charlus had had to fight it into a box before the rest of his year mates came back into the room, not wanting to explain as he couldn’t guess as to why this was even happening in the first place. He has had the worst sleep of his life as the bloody well thing tried to escape last night out the window!

He'd almost woken the entire tower with his shriek of surprise. Instead, he’d made Charlus sleep on the luggage, surprising and scaring half the boys. He didn’t need this kind of stress! It’s his last year of Hogwarts and he’s already stressed about his exams as well as Euphemia setting her sights on some Hufflepuff boy! He’s bloody well more attractive than that bloke in house yellow.

Cursing, he face plants onto his bed, wondering if he should just send it back to his da—

“I’ve got it!” Charlus screams, door slamming into the wall as he rushes in, scaring Fleamont’s heart back into another world of existence. “Someone’s clearly calling it! They must have found out how precious it is and want it for themselves. This is intent! This is greed, this is—er well anyway, someone is trying to steal it!”

Charlus is huffing in excitement, eyes wide as he stares imploringly at Fleamont who is still trying to get his heart back into order. He knows he’s just lost a few years’ worth of his life he won’t be getting back anytime soon.

“So, what then?” Fleamont quirks a brow, getting back up.

“So! We follow it!”

“Absolutely not!” Fleamont snaps, fully standing, glaring down at his much younger cousin. “That’s just asking to be murdered!”

“You know,” Charlus teases, his grin double-dealing for an 11-year-old. “Euphemia’s beau would do it in a heartbeat.”

“She doesn’t have a beau!” He bites hotly, taking out his wand. With a murmur and a swish, he moves away the stacked luggage. “Let’s go then, everyone’s busy with lunch.”

“Wait, right now?” Charlus pales. “I mean, sure, yea, let’s go!”

Grumbling under his breath, Fleamont opens the box, the two boys staring down at the unmoving cloak, expectantly but it remains still.

Hesitantly, Charlus also pulls out his wand, eyes focused. What little tension he held is fled away when nothing happens and stays that way for the next minute. “I don’t think anyone is calling it now,” he says, looking to Fleamont.

“Yea, s’pose so.” Rolling his eyes, he crosses his arms. “So? What’d you see?”

Tone judging, Charlus replies, flatly, “nothing. As you just well saw.”

Rolling his eyes again, this time more exaggerated, Fleamont groans, “no! Was Euphemia with that bloke?”

Grinning obnoxiously, Charlus sings, “oh? Is Monty worried his girlfriend is no longer interested? Hurts, doesn’t it.”

“You cheeky bloody ber—”

Fleamont goes flying across the room, standing too close to the box where the cloak suddenly with renewed strength comes bursting out, entangling the 16-year-old.

“Monty!” Charlus shrieks, his wand hanging uselessly at his side.

Fleamont gets himself free, his wand thrust out and pointed to the now fleeing cloak as he shouts out, “incarceous fropello!”

Threads of rope spring from the wand to rapidly wrap around the cloak, holding on tight as the fabric of possession flutters agitatedly in place. Fleamont struggles for breath in a rush of adrenaline, as he holds his wand in place, holding the rope in charge of the cloak.

“Good one Monty!” Charlus cheers. “Should we follow it now?”

“Absolutely. Let’s get this over with so I can get a good night’s sleep.”

“And so Euphemia doesn’t leave you of course,” Charlus quips, overjoyed at the news of an adventure though also a bit scared though he’d never admit it aloud.

“This has nothing to do with her,” Fleamont mutters darkly.

“Or, just maybe, it does.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Well, I think you’ve been poisoned one too many times. You know, from the potion fumes. You’re infected.”

“Please,” Fleamont moans. “Shut up.”

“And you’re rude.”

The boys quietly make their way down the tower stairs, Fleamont holding onto his wand with both hands just in case. While the cloak seemed determined to leave, it must have realized that they were letting it go freely, so it didn’t seem to struggle too much right then. Coast clear, they leave Gryffindor dormitory entirely, Fleamont whispering as they made sure no professors were within sight.

Fleamont did have to drag the cloak away when Professor Beery came around a corner with a Slytherin student. Charlus is bouncing on the balls of his feet, the thrill and excitement building up within him.

When Professor Beery and the student leave, the cloak dives right back out from their hiding spot, almost as if in understanding, using the shadows and less known pathways to get around. This of course makes Fleamont uncomfortable.

“Hey, do you think it’s another student?”

For a moment, Fleamont doesn’t respond, his trepidation growing as he realizes how reckless he’s being.

“I’m not sure,” he says instead of putting a stop to this. The more curious part of himself wins, wanting answers as to why the invisibility cloak is acting out in the first place. His father has never given him any reason to think that this is somehow normal.

They’re going up to the fourth floor, where luckily, they have not yet encountered anyone else but that could soon change as lunch isn’t too long.

The cloak stops in front of a large mirror hidden in an alcove, just fluttering in place, waiting.

“What’s it doing?” Fleamont murmurs aloud, confused.

“I think it’s admiring itself,” Charlus answers, expression mirroring Fleamont’s.

“I doubt that’s the case.”

Charlus just huffs, cautiously moving around the cloak to peer into the mirror, even standing on the tip of his toes for a better look.

“Well, I’m not seeing anything else, are you?”

Shrugging, Fleamont concentrates on the mirror. “Let me see your wand.”

“Why?” Charlus steps back, clutching his wand to his chest protectively.

“Well, I can’t exactly use mine at the moment,” the older teen gestures to said wand where the rope holding the cloak is still attached.

“Right,” Charlus sheepishly answers, handing his wand over.

Swishing it around in a specific shape, the teen murmurs softly, “revelio.”

The mirror lights up, revealing a large gaping space behind it. Eyebrows quirking up, he levitates the mirror away, uncovering a very large passageway.

“Woah! How did it know it was there!? Where do you reckon it leads?”

At this point, Fleamont really should have just turned around and called it a day. Should have just said, he was going to write to his father about the cloak and live a life, free of responsibility so he could concentrate on Euphemia and his potions. Instead, he grins, looking down at Charlus as he says, “only one way to find out.” Anticipation drumming his veins in song for an adventure.

“Well, if you say so.”

“You do remember this had been your idea, right?” Fleamont complains as he carefully puts the mirror back in place behind them, then continues to follow the cloak once it begins to move again. He has to use Charlus’s wand to lumos their way as it got dark relatively fast. The tunnel itself was large enough to hold quite a bit of people at once and still be comfortable.

“Since when did you start listening to 11-year-olds?”

“Today in fact,” Fleamont grins.

“I’ve sad news for Uncle Henry,” sighs Charlus, shaking his head.

For a long, long while, they follow the tunnel, the cloak seemingly gathering speed 40 minutes in to their travel.

“Really, who needs an invisibility cloak this badly?” Charlus whines, miffed and out of breath as they pick up the pace.

“Someone desperate I presume,” Fleamont sasses, ready to leave the tunnel already.

“Maybe we should head back?”

“Oh, I think there’s light just ahead,” Fleamont shouts, excited, not hearing Charlus. In the process, he wills away lumos, relieved.

Where the light gathered, stood crates and barrels, not quite blocking the path but not exactly leaving enough space to leave the tunnel without moving said objects.

Both boys move a few away where they cautiously head out, taking a look around.

“It’s just more dirt and tunnels,” Charlus complains.

“Hold on a second,” Fleamont pauses mid-step. “I think I hear voices.”

“You mean the ones in your head?” Charlus laughs nervously.

Fleamont ignores him as he moves towards the sound, the cloak following eagerly if you could call it that. After a few turns, the noise of people grows louder and ahead are steps leading up to two large doors belonging to a basement.

“What in the world,” Fleamont blurts.

Carefully, they step up, Charlus being the one to open the doors. “We’re in Hogsmeade!”

Sure enough, Dervish and Banges stood in front of them, meaning they’d just come out of the basement of Hog’s Head Inn.

They close the doors, people passing by paying them no mind, used to seeing students out and about all the time. If they thought it strange to see them when classes should be in session, no one bothers to call out to them.

Feeling a tug, Fleamont looks back to the cloak, feeling weird. “Why in the bloody hell is the Hogs Inn connected to Hogwarts? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Charlus looks back at him strangely. “I don’t find it odd at all.”

“You’re 11, of course you don’t find it strange.”

“Hey!”

“Let’s go, the cloak wants to move some still.”

Catching up, Charlus whispers, sticking close by, “that must mean I was right, and the person is here somewhere.”

“Perhaps.”

Instead, the cloak stops in front of a sign.

“The Knight Bus? The cloak wants to go for a ride?”

“Honestly Charlus, why did I even bring you?”

“’Cause it was my idea!”

Cursing under his breath, Fleamont thinks he really should turn away before his parents find out he went and skipped out on school, seeking out an adventure he hasn’t any clue about. Though, his next class happens to be with Mr. Binns and there’s only so much history on the Goblin’s wars you could learn about. Decision made, he points Charlus’s wand towards the sky, a screech down a bit of ways, heard clearly, startling a few.  

  The Knight Bus skids to s top before them, a young man stepping off to give them a strange look. “Aren’t you boys supposed to be in school?” He looks pointedly down at their uniform they still had on. He then quirks one eyebrow at the sight of the cloak captured in rope.

“Do you actually care?” Charlus sasses back.

“No, not particularly. None of my business really. Step on in then,” he gestures after asking for payment.

Charlus dives right for the bed, as Fleamont takes a seat on one of the benches, curious.

“Mum hasn’t let me on one of these yet,” Charlus grins.

“Me either,” Fleamont shrugs. “Can’t be all that bad.”

They grin at each other, pleased.

“Where to?” The man asks, stepping back in.

Both boys look to the cloak, the man following their sight, bewildered. The cloak however remains in place because of course it could not speak.

“Until it moves, I suppose.” Fleamont shrugs, uncaring at this point. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to take History at that very moment.

“Whatever,” the man mutters. “Might be extra payment if it’s too long.”

“Not a problem,” Charlus chirps.

Soon, the bus takes off, the boys’ smiles falling fast as they desperately cling to their seats in terror. All the boys could think is that they found out why their mothers hadn’t wanted them to use this form of transportation and should have minded their business. Charlus is screaming, his bed slamming against the back wall as he almost flips over entirely. Fleamont fares no better, his legs lifting from his seat as if the bus is bouncing in place. He only just barely clings to his wand though Charlus’s goes flying from his hand. The cloak floats in place, unaffected as the man with the tab grins at them, standing comfortably.  

“Stop!” Charlus cries, the bus thankfully listening.

The boys hurriedly throw themselves out, Fleamont moving like a drunkard man of the night as he accio’s the missing wand.

“I se-see why mum said no,” Charlus croaks.

“Definitely not for the feint,” Fleamont agrees, clearing his throat, seeing double.

“Oh, we’re in Diagon,” Charlus whispers, hiding behind Fleamont from a nosy wizard.

Fleamont doesn’t get to reply as he’s tugged harshly in place, the cloak throwing itself against the ropes in a sudden hurry.

Diagon is busy and people have no qualms at shouting at them when they shove and push to follow the cloak, running to keep up or else the wand might very well escape from Fleamont’s grasp.

“Merlin, make it stop, I need to breathe,” Charlus gasps.

“Breathe later!” Fleamont yells.

A second later the cloak comes to an unexpected stop and as it does, Fleamont’s concentration splits, spell breaking in the process and thus freeing the cloak. Without hesitation and reflexes honed by years of Quidditch, Fleamont tackles the fabric to the ground, Charlus following soon after as people run away nearby, angrily.

Gulping for air, they lay there, unmoving as they wait for feeling to come back to their legs and for their heart rate to come back down.

“I think I’ve dropped a lung back there,” Charlus rasps, next to him.

“Hmm,” the older teen grunts.

It takes them five minutes to get back up, the cloak hanging limply from their grasp.

“You’re fooling no one,” Fleamont growls out.

“Hey, who is that?”

It’s the tone that piques the older teens’ interest. He looks though at Charlus first and what he sees gives him pause, his gut clenching in fear. Charlus is pale, eyes widened in betrayal as his finger points ahead.

Slowly, tentatively, he tracks the location his little cousin is locked in on, his heart racing for an entirely different reason.

He doesn’t notice it at first as there are so many people out who block his view several times but when he does, he cannot look away. His heart stops completely, his own eyes widened in disbelief and hurt.

Across the way, in front of the Leaky Cauldron, stood a young man who is clearly a Potter. A Potter who faced their way, holding a child’s hand, mirrored in image after Fleamont and his own father. A Potter who didn’t look that much older than Fleamont himself.

A noise next to him quells him back to the present, his thoughts racing in uncomfortable turns. When he focuses on Charlus once more, it’s to see the younger boy crying, no longer holding onto the still cloak.

“Are-are you crying?” Fleamont squawks, upset for some reason.

Charlus just cries harder in answer, his hands covering his eyes. Fleamont envied that Charlus had so far been the only member of the family not in need of spectacles.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because!” Charlus sniffles, face completely covered now.

Fleamont looks down at the cloak, wondering why it isn’t moving anymore, but honestly, he’s just avoiding the sight of the man down the main pathway.

“Uncle Henry cheated!” Charlus finally cries out aloud, his foot stomping on the ground. A witch tuts softly as she passes by in faux sympathy.

“No he didn’t!” Fleamont cracks, heated. “Father would never!” His voice breaks.

“Why Uncle Henry, why? Oh, poor Monty!”

“You!” Fleamont shouts, but Charlus is just getting started, now pointing at the sixteen-year-old.

“Even from here I can see he looks just like you! Ergo, Uncle Henry! The cloak brought us here, and you know why!” 

Fleamont shakes his head in denial, backing away as he clutches the cloak to himself all the tighter.

“The cloak is handed down to the eldest heir of the Potter line. It’s clearly trying to tell us who it rightfully belongs to!”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Charlus stands there, continuing to cry as Fleamont shakes his head, rejecting the idea that his father could ever cheat on his mother. That he could turn his back on his own family. Instead of confronting his own fears, he flees, dragging both cloak and a sobbing cousin back to the school. He will get to the bottom of this. There is no way his father cheated.

~ . * . ~

A commotion draws Harry’s and Tom’s attention but all he glimpses is two fleeing boys, their robes flapping behind them in a hurry as people rush to move out of their way.

He sighs aloud fondly, remembering the days he had snuck out of Hogwarts. He then looks down at Tom, smiling tiredly. “Did you get everything?”

Tom smugly shows his pouch before looking at him expectantly, excited. Harry had brought them back to the Leaky to gather their things as they’d already seen the house they’d be staying at, Harry buying it right then and there as he hadn’t wanted to wait for another.  

Of course, Tom had been pleased at the sight of their new home though Harry had been of the opposite mind. He had been hoping for something a bit cozier, something smaller with just enough space for two people to live comfortably.

What he got instead resembled nothing short of a mini manor with an overly large garden he hasn’t the hopes of upkeeping anytime soon what with his determination to get a job at the Ministry.

He’s doomed to spend all of his money before he can make any at this point. It’s only been days since he even got access to it all.

Making sure he’s holding the much smaller hand securely enough, he apparates, Tom seemingly pleased that he’s getting accustomed to this form of travel.

Greenery greets them first, tall and short trees clustered into a mini forest of its own over acres of land with offensively large iron gates fencing in the property. The realtor had been quite ecstatic with this find as the manor had been up for sale for a really long time but no takers because of the location. The problem?

An acromantula’s nest resides just a few acres away from the home and on the other side of that, there can be found a very large cave that is rumored to be the home of a runespoor, both beasts protected because of their value. The acromantula’s themselves just so happened to have a rare mutated genetic that gave their webs a natural fine faux gold shimmer in high demand in the fashion circles and particularly, the current Minister of Magic.

Buyers were not thrilled to learn that they could potentially stumble upon two very dangerous type of beasts as they weren’t to be moved nor hunted, well protected they were. The realtor himself had not been too happy to disclose this but his hand had been forced by the Minister himself who got involved anytime an interested buyer was presented.

So, one could only imagine the gratitude and exuberance the man showed to finally be rid of the property for good.

The only thing that interested Harry had been that the manor had its own warding system built in from the grounds and the trees, and all he would need to do was to add his and Tom’s magical signatures to them for recognition. He will of course be adding his own measures to the mix once he can get a good look as one shouldn’t casually add layers not meant to mix together but he’s quite sure it should be fine.

Letting go of his hand, Tom impatiently makes his way to the gates to start his walk up the very long pathway to the manor. Grumbling, Harry follows, promising himself to get a broom or set up an apparation point. Or Floo, whichever came first.

A long while later they make it to the door where Tom wastes no time in bounding up the dark wooden stairs in search of the room he boldly declared as his earlier.

Harry leaves him to it as he takes another look around to make a mental note of what they’ll need which is unfortunately, quite a bit. He can already feel his pockets being lighter.

He takes a longer look at the place, his heart feeling heavy and burdened as he finally, fully, accepts that there will be no going back home. He recalls HawkIron’s offer of the Goblin’s library for time travelers, but he isn’t sure how helpful that will prove to be once he’s done what needs to be done here.

In the end, he supposes he’s getting exactly what he’s always wanted just not how he had envisioned it, which is building his own family. Making new memories that were not tied to the Dursley’s, were not tied to his parents being martyr’s, Dumbledore’s need for good, Snape’s guilt, Sirius’s lapse of memories, all of it.

Hermione and Ron would do just fine without him as well as the Weasley’s, the children, Teddy who still has Andromeda.

Last night will not be the last time he will have a cry about his situation, but he isn’t going to mope around when there is a lot to be done for the peace and family he wants.

No one here is his, not even Tom, but they could be.

The potential is already set.

Now, he just needs to work for it, fight as he hadn’t for Ginny.

A very, very small part of him, missing since that night in the forest, awakens, feeling alive and present as it hadn’t been before. Grimacing, Harry touches the scar on his forehead, knowing that there is no longer anything behind it, but that doesn’t stop the thrill and adrenaline from surging right along with his magic, waiting.

His new future begins now, his decisions going forward important to raising Tom and finding out what’s happened to Dumbledore.

He can only hope that no one has to die in the process.

That very small part of him, however, disagrees, recalling those days he had been terribly bored a year after Voldemort’s passing.

Those achingly long days without the wizard made of nightmares as Ginny shouted at him in the background that he needed help, that the horcrux once removed, had done something.

Uncomfortable with his thoughts, he clears his throat, moving away.

He’s fine, he only needs an outlet, that’s all.

Didn’t the realtor mention a dueling room somewhere? With that, he makes his way towards the basement, in search of said outlet. Everything is just fine, no problems at all.