Chapter 1: Grapevine
Chapter Text
It began, as trouble was wont to do, with too many Firewhiskey shots in the Gryffindor common room. Ignatius Prewett maintained a healthy supply in the seventh-year boys’ dormitory, despite the fact that most Gryffindors were complete lightweights. With Albus Dumbledore too distracted by the ongoing war in Europe to discipline his house, weekend parties had become a common occurrence.
Tom never bothered attending, preoccupied as he was with more productive pursuits like Horcrux research and secret chamber hunting. However, Abraxas enjoyed flexing his popularity with the other houses, and few things delighted him more than a flirtatious glance from a pretty pure-blood witch. Honestly, Tom sometimes questioned Abraxas’ membership in the Knights of Walpurgis, but always reminded himself that wealthy and well-connected pure-bloods were assets, no matter how vapid they might be.
Today was an exception: Abraxas would attend the party on a mission. A new transfer student had shown up last Sunday and been Sorted privately into Gryffindor. Much enigma surrounded the true identity of Harry Evans. Transfer students were already a rarity at Hogwarts; the last documented one came from Beauxbatons during the eighteenth century to escape the French Revolution. Transfer students who showed up at the beginning of May, with fewer than two months remaining in the school term, were illogical.
Of course, Tom had some theories of his own. The frontrunner was that Evans, given his dark hair and facial structure, was a newly legitimized Potter bastard child. Then again, that didn’t explain why he didn’t adopt the Potter surname, or why the Potters enrolled him at Hogwarts as a seventh-year rather than hire private tutors.
A more exciting theory was that Evans was a spy for Gellert Grindelwald tasked with infiltrating Hogwarts. On the other hand, Tom had trouble believing that Grindelwald would entrust such a mission to a no-name Muggle-born, particularly one who would live right under Dumbledore’s nose.
Or there was nothing to theorize at all, and Evans was just as boring as the rest of the school. Another person fortunate enough to be blessed with magic, yet utterly unworthy of mastering it.
Whatever the case might be, Tom needed to find out to decide whether he should expend effort befriending and recruiting Evans. After all, there was only room among his Knights for the best or the most useful.
“I want to know everything about him,” Tom had commanded. “Who he is, what he knows, and more importantly, why he’s here.”
“I will not fail you, my Lord,” promised Abraxas.
That exchange had been two hours ago, and Abraxas had yet to report back. Tom tapped his quill against his Potions essay. What was taking him so long? Had he succumbed to the wiles of yet another witch before completing his mission?
Impatience spilling over, Tom grabbed his two-way parchment, an invention of which he was rather proud. Until he found a way to physically brand his Knights, everyone carried a clone of the parchment so they could communicate with Tom at a moment’s notice.
Abraxas, he wrote, any update?
The ink seeped into the parchment and disappeared, signaling its reception on the other end. If Abraxas came back to the Slytherin common room drunk and empty-handed, Tom had a human subject for a new hex he wanted to test out.
Fortunately for Abraxas, an answering buzz came from the parchment. Tom squinted at the response. For a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, Abraxas had the most atrocious handwriting. Inebriation certainly did not improve matters.
Be on guard, my Lord, he seemed to have written, the new transfer student intends to kiss you.
Tom stared at and reread the words multiple times. Harry Evans wanted to…kiss him? Why? They’d had exactly zero interactions since Evans’ arrival, being in neither the same house nor the same year. Tom was surprised that Evans even knew who he was.
Then again, Tom was a prefect and the brightest student at Hogwarts, not to mention quite handsome and the subject of crushes from wizards and witches alike. Perhaps, despite his short tenure, Evans had already heard professors sing Tom’s praises, or witnessed other Gryffindors lust after him.
Well. How unexpected, flattering, and a little disturbing. How presumptuous of Evans to believe that he even had a chance with Tom. Slytherin might have an admittedly well-deserved reputation for being the most promiscuous house, but Tom had standards. He didn’t stoop to snogging anyone without pedigree or an impressive family Gringotts vault.
Head swirling with questions, Tom settled back in his chair. He was most eager for Abraxas’ return.
As soon as Abraxas staggered back into the dungeons, Tom hauled him up to the fifth-year boys’ dormitory to debrief under a privacy ward.
Which was no easy feat, given the pathetic state of Abraxas; his usually pale face was flushed with alcohol and he was barely capable of stringing two words together. For all the distilleries the Malfoys supposedly owned in Scotland, they were as incapable of holding their liquor as the most weak-stomached Gryffindor.
Abraxas sank onto the edge of his bed, groaning. Tom tutted, annoyed he didn’t plan ahead to brew a Sobriety Potion.
“Recount your conversation with Evans,” he demanded.
“Evans?” Abraxas’ eyes were glazed. “Who’s Evans?”
“The transfer student. The person I asked you to investigate.” Tom only managed to check his temper when Abraxas bobbed his head, understanding dawning. “How was he?”
“Evans. Yes. Odd bloke.”
“Odd?”
“The way he was talking to me, it was as if he knew me. He called me Malfoy and mentioned the manor. You understand what I mean?”
Tom didn’t understand, but that didn’t matter. “What did you talk about?”
“He was living abroad and wanted to learn more about Britain. So we talked about, um, Quidditch players, professors, books, our favorite sweets.”
“All very important topics,” Tom said dryly. “Where abroad?”
“He didn’t say. Then we both drank a lot…Evans was more plastered than I was by the end.”
Abraxas puffed with pride at the dubious feat of outdrinking a Gryffindor. Tom rolled his eyes.
“Of course not, nobody can tolerate alcohol like a Malfoy,” he said, never one to be stingy with insincere compliments. “Now, explain to me the meaning of your message.”
The first flicker of alertness came over Abraxas’ features. He sat up a little straighter. “Right, the message. Well, at some point in the evening, I slipped some Truthfulness Drips into his Firewhiskey as planned.”
Tom nodded. Unlike the Veritaserum, Truthfulness Drops were easily accessible from Zonko’s Joke Shop, and nudged rather than compelled the drinker to tell the truth. Loosen the tongue of your rival, according to the marketing pitch. Their effectiveness increased as the drinker became less guarded, so they mixed well with alcohol. Until the Ministry caught on, Tom planned to take full advantage of Truthfulness Drops to collect information.
“Once he had a few sips, I asked him about Hogwarts, and what he was doing here —”
Abraxas let out a huge yawn, assaulting Tom’s nose with a strong whiff of alcohol. Tom glared.
“Sorry. Where was I…yes, I asked him what he was doing here, and he told me what I reported to you right away.”
Not exactly right away, but that wasn’t important. “You’re certain he means me?” Tom asked. There were inferior Toms at Hogwarts.
“Yes.” Abraxas looked serious. “He even said Lord Voldemort.”
Tom stilled. Lord Voldemort was a moniker that he used only with his Knights, each of whom was sworn to secrecy. How would a new student know? Did this mean that he was Grindelwald’s spy after all?
“What else did he say?”
“Before I could ask anything else, Longbottom and Shafiq dragged him off to talk about Quidditch, and Melinda came to find me.”
Abraxas’ cheeks pinkened at the mention of Melinda Macmillian, his current objection of infatuation, whom Tom estimated to last at most a month. The Malfoys were known to be fickle lovers.
“Can you recall anything else?”
Abraxas shook his head. “I’m afraid that was the end of our interactions tonight.”
Dissatisfied and distrusting that Abraxas had shared all pertinent details, Tom drew his wand. “Look at me, Abraxas,” he said, grabbing Abraxas’ chin so he couldn’t wriggle away. “Legilimens!”
Abraxas was too drunk to resist as Tom dove into his mind, sifting through his disconnected memories of this evening. There was Abraxas going to Gryffindor Tower. There was Abraxas glancing over at the Gryffindor witches to search for Melinda. And…yes, perfect, there was Abraxas, sitting obscenely close to Harry Evans on the couch.
“Definitely not the upcoming World Cup,” Evans was saying, expression smug. “Bet you five Galleons.”
“Done,” returned Abraxas, as they clinked Firewhiskeys.
Tom fast-forwarded through the conversation, past gossip about Slughorn’s secret cupboard (“He definitely sells illegal potions on the side to fund Slug Parties”) and an argument about Malfoy Manor (“I’m telling you, white peacocks are tacky!”). He noted with amusement the change in Evans’ and Abraxas’ demeanors as they grew increasingly inebriated. When Abraxas finally broached Tom’s topic of interest, Evans was half-sprawled on the couch, glasses askew and words slurring.
“Why did I come to Hogwarts so late in the term? For Lord Voldemort, of course,” Evans said, caressing the syllables of Tom’s new name.
“Lord Voldemort?” Abraxas’ tone was heavy with surprise and fear.
Evans nodded. “Yes, I want to ki —”
“My Lord?” gasped Abraxas in the present, doubling over and throwing Tom from his thoughts. “I — I’m not feeling so well, I need to —”
Tom didn’t relax his grip. “No one will learn about this. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, of course — my Lord, please, I need to —”
Tom released him and gestured towards the bathroom. “Go before you stink up the room any further.”
Abraxas obeyed, and not a moment too soon. Seconds later, there came the sound of violent puking.
Tom wrinkled his nose and cast a Fresh-Air Spell around his bed. He hoped that this time, Abraxas went for the toilet instead of the sink.
On Sunday morning, Tom awakened to a quiet dungeon. Many students, including the hungover Abraxas, were sleeping late, and the few who rose early for breakfast were lounging in the common room. Tom spotted Lucretia and Walburga Black painting each other’s nails, and on his way to the exit, he passed a group of younger Slytherins trying to hide the evidence of copying each other’s essays.
Tom nodded to the Black cousins in greeting, but slipped out before either could invite him to join. For him, Sundays meant study sessions in the library, not for trivial socialization. Preparation delineated losers from winners, he liked to preach to his Knights and held himself accountable for setting a good example.
He took his customary table at the library, tucked in a corner where he had a good balance between privacy and view, and laid out his books. He had a set routine that was long ago perfected: go through the previous week’s homework to ensure he had absorbed the material, finish the next week’s reading to impress the professors, and make progress on his personal research.
The last was the most interesting, and the topics of his research varied. A few years ago, he had been tracing his lineage, discovering to his delight that he was directly descended from Salazar Slytherin. Afterwards, his focus had shifted to the Chamber of Secrets.
Nobody, not even his Knights, believed that the Chamber existed beyond urban legends. Unsurprising, as less discerning minds could not grasp the possibility that a chamber could exist for centuries at Hogwarts without discovery. Tom was the exception. Based on what he’d learned about his ancestor and what he understood of location magic, he was convinced that the Chamber did exist and contain the means with which Slytherin wanted to purge the school — and eventually the wizarding world — of impurities.
Over the past several months, Tom had been making progress narrowing down the location of the chamber. For instance, it must be located beneath the school, given Slytherin’s affinity for dungeons and the necessity of having enough space for the monster he left behind. At the same time, the chamber must be connected to the rest of the castle through physical and not magical means, because it would’ve otherwise been detected in previous sweeps of the castle. Finally, the entrance to the chamber must be obvious, yet locked to admit only Slytherin’s descendants.
The key to unlocking the secret, Tom was certain, rested on gaining a better understanding of Hogwarts’ construction and layout. Therefore, after finishing schoolwork, he returned to perusing his growing collection of blueprints for Hogwarts and other magical castles constructed during the early Middle Ages in northern Scotland. He was deep in concentration, tracing the source of a particularly large vent on the fifth floor of a castle near the Cairngorms, when his ears perked at Madam Renfrew’s signature loud voice.
“Mr. Evans, here to visit the Restricted Section again?”
Tom raised his head. Harry Evans was shifting from foot to foot, evidently uncomfortable that the librarian was announcing his visit to the rest of the library. He bowed his head, murmured something, and held out a sheet of parchment.
“Same permission slip from Albus Dumbledore, I see. For your independent research on Transfiguration, is that right?” When Evans nodded, she waved him through. “Go on ahead, and do let me know if you require additional assistance.”
Tom’s interest was piqued. Evans had been at Hogwarts for a week, and already he was close enough with Dumbledore to do independent research, so much so that even the librarian knew. Interesting.
He watched Evans head into the Restricted Section. After nearly five years, he knew its layout by heart, so he noticed immediately that Evans was not heading into the Transfigurations section. Instead, he beelined for the section that focused on time and space magic.
Accidental or intentional? Evans was new to the school, but then again, surely Dumbledore or Madam Renfrew would’ve told him which shelves to browse.
Very curious. Tom turned back to his study of vents, though kept an eye on the Restricted Section.
Twenty minutes later, when Evans did not emerge, Tom rose to his feet, figuring he should stretch his legs. Madam Renfrew made no remark as he headed into the Restricted Section; Tom had been able to freely roam the library since his third year.
Tom wove through the aisles and the various reading areas interspersed throughout. Given the emptiness of the library, it didn’t take him long to find Evans. He was poring over a textbook whose spine read, in illuminated script, The Many Shapes of Tyme Magick. Based on the material and style of its binding, Tom ascertained it likely dated back to the fifteenth century, when many Renaissance-era magicians became obsessed with traveling back in history to recover knowledge lost during the Dark Ages, to limited success.
The print was small and the script flowery, so Evans was bent so close to the book that his glasses practically touched it. His finger moved across the page slowly as he repeated each word under his breath, giving the impression that he was barely literate. Evidently, he’d never heard of Magnifying Charms.
Tom let out a snort, which drew Evans’ attention. He looked up, posture alert and suspicious. In such proximity, Evans’ resemblance to Charlus Potter was astounding, aside from a thin lightning-bolt scar on his forehead and a pair of vivid green eyes, which were filled with an emotion so unadulterated that it flooded Tom’s mind with the barest brush of Legilimency.
If Tom didn’t know any better, he would say that Harry Evans hated him.
Thanks to Abraxas’ intel, he did know better and was in a kind mood, so he smiled at Evans.
Evans scowled right back. “What are you looking at?”
That was rude. Tom knew he had a nice smile. A smile that could launch a thousand broomsticks, Druella once said. The proper reaction would be swooning, not scowling. Nevertheless, he decided to be gracious.
“Hello, I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said. “My name is Tom Riddle and I’m one of the prefects at Hogwarts. Nice to meet you and welcome.”
Nose scrunched, Evans eyed Tom’ extended hand with such distaste that Tom dropped it awkwardly. “I know who you are. No need to introduce yourself.”
Tom kept his expression pleasant. “I heard you’re doing research with Professor Dumbledore. That sounds quite fascinating. In which sub-area of Transfiguration, precisely?”
“Of course you would eavesdrop. This is none of your business.”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Tom said, keen to set the record straight. “Everyone in the main reading room heard your conversation with Madam Renfrew. I’m quite interested in advanced Transfiguration myself and would like to learn more.”
“Regardless, my research is none of your business.” Evans patted his book. “Can I return to my reading now, Mr. Prefect?”
Tom refused to give up. “You could add a Magnifying Charm to your glasses to help with the small font. And a Translation Spell might also help with the old English.” He pointed at the textbook. “I could show you, if you’d like.”
“No need. I read slowly, but I can read just fine. If you wouldn’t mind, kindly keep your suggestions to yourself.”
“Well, if you need anything —”
“I don’t need your help with anything,” Evans snarled, slapping the book shut. “Good day, Riddle.”
He got to his feet, swept the books into his bag, and relocated himself to a different corner of the library without a backward glance.
Tom was left dumbfounded and more than a little offended. What was that about, some sort of reverse psychology? Was this what Walburga meant when she said that sometimes witches pretended to be difficult to entice their admirers?
If that was the case, Evans’ execution was highly unimpressive so far. He had nothing to gain and everything to lose by rebuffing Tom’s attempts to be friendly. Perhaps there was truth to the rumors that Evans was raised in seclusion and home-schooled; he had no idea how to woo an object of affection.
Tom couldn’t help feeling a twinge of regret. He had expected a little more intrigue, a little more excitement. Dating at Hogwarts wasn’t unlike the games of musical chairs that matrons at Wool’s sometimes forced the orphans to play. After five years, everyone who was remotely attractive and not socially inept had either already snogged each other, or collected enough data to decide against snogging. Evans could have been a much-needed injection of fresh blood into the kissing pool.
Instead, he was another uncouth Mudblood who didn’t know how to appreciate the gift of Tom’s attention to boot.
What a pity and waste of those pretty green eyes.
Chapter 2: Gambit
Notes:
Thank you for everyone’s enthusiasm and support! I hope you continue enjoying the story.
Quick note on Harry and Tom’s ages: we’re in May 1943, so Harry is 17 and Tom is 16 (essentially flipping their age difference from Inventing Paradoxes). There won’t be anything underaged.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Having dismissed Evans as a prospect, Tom proceeded to focus on the Chamber of Secrets and made a huge breakthrough.
Plumbing.
In retrospect, the solution to the entrance of the chamber was obvious. Whatever system used to disseminate water throughout the castle could just as well transport Slytherin’s monster. This then meant the entrance was located in either the kitchen or the bathroom.
Hogwarts only had a single kitchen, which was well-guarded by house-elves, which left a bathroom as the likely candidate for the monster’s lair. In all honesty, bathrooms fit Slytherin’s aesthetic better. They were dank and dark, exactly the type of environment where his monster would thrive.
Unfortunately, narrowing down the exact bathroom was no easy feat, given the castle’s size and unpredictability. There were thousands of nooks and crannies to investigate, and some rooms appeared under circumstances so specific that Tom doubted even the resident ghosts knew. Detection spells also did little to narrow the scope of Tom’s search; Salazar Slytherin was after all famous for his paranoia and secretiveness, so no doubt guarded against magical detection to the extent possible.
As a result, Tom found himself with the unenviable task of personally investigating every bathroom at Hogwarts. As a prefect, he did have the flexibility to incorporate bathrooms into his patrol schedule, but that strategy didn’t work for girls’ bathrooms. He decided to worry about that issue later, because surely Slytherin wouldn’t make things too difficult for his own heirs.
In his usual methodical fashion, Tom started his investigation, beginning with the lower floors, which would provide easier access to the dungeons, and slowly making his way up as each bathroom turned up nothing of interest.
Other difficulties soon presented themselves. For one thing, generations of idiotic students meant way too many red herrings where bathrooms were concerned. One evening, Tom was certain he was close to a breakthrough in the fifth-floor boys’ bathroom when he heard a mysterious echo from the wall behind a toilet stall. However, further examination merely revealed a hollow that past students created to share exam notes.
For another, bathrooms post-curfew, particularly those located in more remote corners, were a popular congregation spot for Peeves and stray creatures. After Banishing the third Boggart of the week — this time, transformed into a ruddy-cheeked Mrs. Cole withdrawing Tom from Hogwarts — Tom was starting to resent his revered ancestor. Why couldn’t he have left a map or something?
Finally there was Evans.
The first time Tom found Evans on the seventh floor, he hadn’t thought much of it, though yes, his stomach lurched in excitement at the prospect of speaking with the strange Gryffindor again.
“Can I help you?” he asked, determined to show he harbored no hard feelings from their library encounter.
Evans jumped and tore his eyes away from Barnabas the Barmy, still trying to teach the trolls ballet after centuries of failure. As soon as he recognized Tom, his mouth pressed into a thin line. “No, thank you.”
“You seem lost. I can show you how to get back to Gryffindor Tower.”
“You should get lost,” Evans snapped before he stalked off, leaving Tom befuddled in his wake.
A few days later, when Tom found Evans hanging around the same painting, suspicion brewed. He approached carefully.
“Lost again?”
Evans stiffened, and a mixture of guilt and defiance flashed across his face. He glanced between Tom and the blank wall opposite the painting, shook his head, and left. He didn’t even bother responding, but by now, Tom was used to his rudeness enough that he didn’t feel offended.
Although…why did Evans look so meaningfully at the wall? Surely, someone who’d only been at Hogwarts for a few weeks wouldn’t know about the Room of Hidden Things, which had taken Tom years to uncover and where he planned to hide his future Horcruxes.
Tom decided that it had to be a coincidence, though he still felt a tad unsettled.
Their third run-in happened, very strangely, on the second floor. Tom was passing through after dinner and caught Evans pacing outside the girls’ bathroom, as if he wanted to go inside.
Tom knew it was futile to talk to Evans, but he couldn’t help himself. “That’s a girls’ bathroom.”
Evans heaved a sigh of aggravation. “Yes, I know. Thank you for stating the obvious.”
“Are you waiting for someone?”
It would be interesting if Evans was here for a rendezvous, though his choice of location was suboptimal, since this bathroom saw some of the highest foot traffic given its proximity to the Great Hall.
Evans gave him a long, searching look. “Yes, for you,” he said sarcastically, and took off down the corridor.
Good riddance, Tom thought as he stared after him. What type of game was Evans playing anyway? Stalk Tom endlessly until he worked up the courage to confess his feelings?
If that was what he wanted, he should get on with it, so Tom could decline gracefully. His patience was running out. He had better things to do than chase down delinquent seventh-year Gryffindors who did not understand subtlety and nuance. Let alone romance.
And then, everything changed with the infamous Dueling Club session.
The Dueling Club was Filius Flitwick’s idea. A dueling champion in his youth, he felt strongly that practicing versus merely studying duels was key to dealing with the looming threat of Grindelwald’s invasion. Thus, he petitioned Headmaster Dippet until he and Galatea Merrythought had permission to organize a weekly Dueling Club.
The setup was straightforward. All interested students were welcome. Every meeting consisted of professor-directed practice with enchanted targets and dummies, but the highlight was the mock dueling sessions, where students in the same year dueled each other in a tournament format. Even though Merrythought and Flitwick insisted that the tournament was academic in purpose, the more competitive students kept a running tally of wins and losses. Tom, in particular, planned to use tournament performance as input into the recruiting process for the Knights of Walpurgis.
Unsurprisingly, Tom was undefeated among the fifth-years. In fact, he doubted many in the upper years could challenge him, so he found the mock duels dull and preferred to finish them as soon as possible in favor of target practice with the sixth- and seventh-years. Tonight, he was preparing for another short-lived duel with another hapless fifth-year partner when a loud thump reverberated through the Great Hall.
Some heads turned. Tom threw a cursory glance over to the other side of the hall. On the floor, Rubeus Hagrid lay in a groaning heap. Knocked out of the duel already? All the more reason that half-breeds were worthless and shouldn’t be trusted with wands.
Seeing no cause for concern, Tom started to redirect his attention back to his own duel.
“Apologize to Hagrid!”
More heads turned this time. Evans had assumed a protective stance in front of Hagrid’s fallen body.
“What’s going on?” asked Merrythought, bustling over.
“Walburga Black tripped Hagrid,” replied Evans. “He needs to go to the hospital wing, and Black should get detention.”
“Detention?” Walburga stood with her arms crossed and an arrogant smile playing at the corner of her lips. “It’s hardly my fault that the giant oaf tripped over his own feet.”
“He didn’t trip. You hexed him.”
By now, commotion was in full swing. Everyone abandoned their own activities to watch the argument. Sheathing his wand, Tom joined a few members of his Knights.
“Be careful who you’re accusing, Mudblood,” Walburga said, dark eyes flashing. “As if I would waste my time embarrassing a third-year.”
“Miss Black! That is inappropriate language.”
“I know what I saw, and of course you would stoop that low,” Evans said hotly, interrupting Flitwick and shoving aside Ignatius Prewett’s restraining arm. “You’re precisely that insecure and desperate.”
At that, Orion split into a gleeful grin. “Walburga has met her match.”
Mirth dripping off her face, Walburga growled, “I will not be reprimanded by a Mudblood.”
“Miss Black, again I must remind you —”
“And what are you going to do?” Evans said. “Run back to Mummy and cry about it?”
Walburga leveled her wand at him. “You dare to insult me?”
“I believe I already have, multiple times,” Evans shot back, raising his own wand. “Or did your fancy pure-blood head fail to register them?”
“Miss Black, Mr. Evans,” Merrythought warned.
Neither acknowledged her.
“Don’, Harry,” said Hagrid, who had gotten back on his feet with a wince. “I’m not worth’t, an’ I’m fine.”
Evans spun around. “You’re worth everything, Hagrid,” he said fiercely, and a pang rattled through Tom. Nobody ever defended him this way.
Eyes brimming with tears, Hagrid nodded and allowed Prewett to lead him to the nearest House bench. Evans turned to face Walburga again.
“Besides, I’m not afraid of her.” The corners of his mouth lifted. “I bet she’s not even that great of a duelist.”
A collective gasp swept through the bystanders. Everyone knew that Walburga was one of the best duelists in the club, trading off top spot only with Linus Rosier. Both of them had been trained in the Dark Arts from a young age, Walburga by her parents and Linus by his infamous Aunt Vinda.
And here was Harry Evans, a nobody who idiotically offended the heiress of the illustrious Black family over the honor of a half-breed.
Such scandal, such drama!
“One last chance to apologize,” Walburga said, tone soft with danger, “or you’ll regret insulting me.”
“This is a dueling club, isn’t it?” Evans taunted. “Do your worst.”
He had barely finished before Walburga flung her first hex at him. Evans dodged and it exploded near the Gryffindor table, sending splinters of wood flying until the professors and nearby students contained them.
“Walburga,” Merrythought said with a frown, “that spell is not appropriate to use on a fellow student.”
“Demonstrating spells from Mummy and Daddy’s library, are we?” Evans shouted. “Expelliarmus!”
With a look of disdain, Walburga dispelled the spell before it was even halfway across the room. Which was to be expected, as the Disarming Spell was easily blocked by an experienced duelist.
“Expelliarmus, really?” Abraxas scoffed. “Walburga was probably dismissing those in her nappies.”
“Silence,” said Tom, growing rather invested in the duel.
Walburga sent another hex, which scorched a section of the stone floor. Evans dodged, and in turn tried the Disarming Spell, again to no avail. Walburga slashed her wand and conjured a cloud of sharp-taloned crows. Evans sent a powerful Severing Charm through the birds, returning them to magical energy, and sent yet another Disarming Spell that was blocked.
“What is this, his signature spell?” Orion said, sounding disappointed. “Is that all he’s got?”
“This duel won’t last long,” Linus said, evidently smug that he wasn’t about to outshone.
Tom said nothing. He’d watched Walburga duel plenty of times, had dueled against her himself enough times to be familiar with her aggressive style and build a counter strategy. Evans was proving to be a very different type of opponent.
His power wasn’t in his magic. Yes, it was strong, but it was not extraordinary, and his arsenal of spells was limited in comparison to Walburga and the older Slytherins. His hawthorn wand also didn’t smoothly channel his magic, which made Tom wonder whether the wand was originally his.
Instead, Evans’ power lay in his speed and his ability to counter Walburga’s every move. Though she wielded a wide array of spells that he certainly didn’t recognize, he instinctively knew when to defend and when to attack, when to duck and when to advance, and moved with such fluidity that he wasn’t winded after exchanging multiple spells.
“Just dodging Walburga isn’t enough,” Ethan said, cutting through Tom’s thoughts. “Sure, he can hold her off right now, but eventually she’ll wear him down.”
Tom hummed, noncommittal. He noted the way Evans scanned the room and the way he studied the dummies scattered throughout the Great Hall.
Something was up his sleeves, not that Tom was going to say anything. He had nothing to gain from defending Evans’ competence.
By now, students and professors alike had backed away to leave Walburga and Evans a wide berth. As the duel progressed, Walburga’s spells became more and more powerful, toeing again the line between school-approved and illegal. Dodging her attacks, as Ethan predicted, was no longer enough. Visibly panting and hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, Evans was betraying signs of physical exertion.
Mercilessly Walburga advanced, literally backing Evans into a corner. Her wand zigzagged, sending a burst of flames towards Evans. Tom’s hands clenched.
Instead of meeting it with a Shield Charm, as he’d been doing, Evans directed his magic at the pile of dummies nearby. One dummy rose to absorb the impact. A mini explosion ensued and the smell of burnt rubber filled the air.
Coughing, Walburga stumbled back a few steps. Instead of seizing this opportunity to attack her, Evans kept his wand on the dummies, rippling the air with his magic, and such magic it was, pure and clean and powerful. Tom soaked it up, marveling at its familiarity. Beside him, Linus stopped smirking.
Another burst of flames from Walburga broke Evans’ concentration, forcing him to abort what he was doing. Evans ducked and flicked his wand so that another dummy rose to absorb the impact of the spell.
“Come on,” Walburga taunted. “Are you going to hide behind these dummies now? This is getting boring.”
There were a few scattered laughs from the crowd, but most waited with bated breath. People were catching onto the fact that Evans wasn’t simply hiding behind the dummies. Rather, he was trying to do something bigger, except whatever it was took too long to set up, so he was forced to abort each time.
Walburga shot yet another sequence of spells, a blend of slime green and dark purple lights that threatened to force Evans to abort his plan yet again. Alarm followed by grim determination flashed across Evans’ face. He pointed his wand at the dummies, but this time, he did not use them to intercept Walburga’s spells.
As a result, they hit Evans’ shoulder dead on, leaving it blistered and bleeding. A few students cried out, a weak-stomach third-year vomited over his shoes, and even Tom was disturbed. He’d been on the receiving end of Walburga’s curses before, and they were serious business. Even the school nurse had trouble healing them, leaving Tom with painful symptoms for weeks.
As bad as this injury looked, Evans didn’t falter. His face twisted, not from pain or embarrassment, but from fury, treating Walburga’s momentary victory like a personal affront.
“Ready to surrender?” Walburga said. “You don’t have much left.”
“Funny, I could say that about you,” Evans said, and released a final wave of magic, so potent that the Great Hall quaked and candle lights flickered.
As one, all the remaining dummies rose into the air, transformed into a floating platoon of soldiers. Walburga’s mouth fell open as they flew over to surround her.
That was what Evans was doing, Tom realized. He was trying to animate multiple dummies into live objects that he could control. It sounded simple in theory but required strong Transfiguration and Charms skills, not to mention the creativity to come up with that strategy on his feet in the first place.
Evans knew all along he couldn’t defeat Walburga one-on-one. A small army of dummy soldiers significantly shifted the tides in his favor.
Walburga, who was now tightly circled by the dummies, had reached the same conclusion. And the look on her face was marvelous.
Evans grinned. “Attack,” he commanded.
Walburga tried to defend herself with a quick succession of Exploding Charms, but one wand was no match against twenty dummies. Even as bits of burning rubber showered the Great Hall with every Bombarda, the surviving dummies fell on top of her. Two dummies pinned her wrists and two more shackled her ankles, limiting her range of movement as she thrashed about.
“Expelliarmus!” cried Evans in triumph.
Walburga shrieked and tried to hang on to her wand, but the Disarming Spell ripped through her meager defenses. The wand flew into Evans’ waiting hand.
“Let me guess, walnut and dragon heartstring?” he said, examining it with a faint smirk. “Like aunt, like niece.”
What aunt? And how would Evans even know Walburga’s aunt? Tom gave Orion a questioning look, but Orion was too absorbed watching the defeat of his fiancée.
“Give it back,” Walburga shouted, her imperious façade slipping.
“Are you going to apologize to Hagrid now?”
“To a half-breed? Never!”
“Then I don’t think so,” Evans said, tossing and catching her wand.
Flitwick cleared his throat. “Actually, Mr. Evans, by the rules of the club, you do need to return Miss Black’s wand. The duels are meant to be, er, friendly.”
“Oh. In that case.” Evans set the wand down on the floor, just beyond Walburga’s reach. “Here you are.”
Fingers scrabbling desperately for her wand, Walburga let loose a litany of swear words that would shame many generations of noble Blacks.
“And the dummies, Mr. Evans?” Merrythought added delicately.
“I’m not as good as removing them,” Evans said, his expression innocent and helpless. “Perhaps you and Professor Flitwick could help Black?”
The professors exchanged a look and removed the dummies, albeit with more difficulty than Tom expected.
Walburga got to her feet, her styled dark hair in disarray and her face blotched with red. “You!” she barked, and if looks could kill, Evans would be a burnt, smoking corpse.
Evans didn’t flinch. “I take it we won’t bow and shake hands then?”
“You’ll pay for this.” Walburga’s hand shook as she brandished her wand.
He shrugged. “Careful with what you cast. Your wand prefers me now, so these hexes might backfire on you.”
With an ear-splitting scream, Walburga stomped off. Lucretia, mouth twitching with amusement, chased after her cousin. “Wally, it’s okay to lose sometime!” she could be heard shouting.
“Oh dear,” squeaked Flitwick, “we’re definitely getting a few Howlers tomorrow.”
“Mr. Evans,” said Merryweather, pinching the bridge of her nose, “if you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to Professor Dumbledore’s office.”
“‘S not his fault, professor!”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Hagrid. I merely want to debrief with your head of house as to what happened, plus Mr. Evans’ shoulder needs immediate medical attention.”
“I’ll be fine, Hagrid,” Evans said, and head held high, he followed Merryweather out of the Great Hall, basking in the shocked and reverent looks from the other students as he wound through the crowd.
As he passed the group of Slytherins, he cocked his head. His green eyes found Tom’s, and his mouth curled in a challenging smile.
The message was all too clear.
Your move.
The club wrapped up after a few rounds of half-hearted duels. Nobody could concentrate after that spectacle, and on their way back to the dungeons, Walburga Black’s housemates discussed nothing else. Though Slytherins banded together in public, her arrogance and brattiness didn’t do much for her popularity among her housemates in private.
“Mudblood or not, I’m warming up to Evans,” Ethan said. “Walburga had it coming.”
“Imagine being Disarmed by a Gryffindor nobody,” Orion said, grinning. “I must write to Mother and Father.”
He didn’t bother to disguise his delight at the prospect of further embarrassing his betrothed. Tom didn’t need to be a Seer to know that marital bliss was not in Orion’s future, not that it was any of his business.
“What do you think, Linus?” Ethan said. “Think you could take him on next time?”
Linus shot him a dirty look and stalked ahead without answering. Ethan chuckled. “I would pay Galleons to see Linus duel Evans. Imagine if Evans also defeats him!”
“Imagine, indeed.” Tom yawned, feigning disinterest.
The stone wall slid open. Inside the common room, everyone could hear Walburga’s wails drifting from her dorm. None of the seventh-year girls was getting sleep tonight, that was for sure.
Noticing Abraxas shooting nervous looks at him out of the corner of his eye, Tom headed for the staircase. Abraxas hurried to keep up.
“My Lord.” He glanced around to make sure that Ethan and Orion were out of earshot. “I realize that must’ve been quite disturbing to watch.”
“In the morning, Abraxas.”
“But my Lord…”
“We will discuss this in the morning. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to retire early tonight. Walburga’s screeches are giving me a massive headache.”
Abraxas bit his lip, but wisely refrained from further protest. Tom brushed past him and ascended the stairs. He took his time showering and brushing his teeth, and then, ensconced in the privacy of his bed, he replayed the duel.
There was no other word for it: that duel was stunning. Despite the clumsiness of the execution, animating and controlling twenty dummies was no simple feat. And that last Disarming Spell — Tom would be reliving the fire in Evans’ eyes and the humiliation on Walburga’s blotchy face for a while.
Mudblood or Potter bastard, Evans had certainly raised himself in Tom’s estimation. Was that why Albus Dumbledore saw fit to mentor him?
Tom smiled to himself. Evans was an asset that he fully intended to recruit to his cause, and of course, he knew exactly how to do so.
His move, indeed.
Notes:
On the class years (and first names) of everyone introduced thus far, since every writer handles Tom’s schoolmates a little differently:
- Seventh year: Harry Potter, Walburga Black, Lucretia Black, Linus Rosier, Ignatius Prewett, Algie Longbottom, Ibrahim Shafiq
- Sixth year: Melinda Macmillan
- Fifth year: Tom Riddle, Abraxas Malfoy, Ethan Avery, Orion Black
- Fourth year: Druella Rosier
- Third year: Rubeus Hagrid
Chapter 3: Cat and Mouse
Notes:
Thank you everyone for your support!
This chapter is delayed because I made an eleventh-hour decision to swap some scenes between chapters 3 and 4. On the bright side, that means chapter 4 is already half-written and should be ready soon.
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Invigorated with fresh energy from a good night’s sleep, Tom headed to breakfast to find the Great Hall abuzz with excitement. Unlike Flitwick had predicted, no Howlers arrived from the Black matriarch, but the latest owl post brought explosive news nevertheless: according to the Daily Prophet headline article, Gellert Grindelwald had landed in England to negotiate a treaty with the British and French Ministries of Magic.
Opinions were divided between those who felt that peace was finally coming and those who suspected that the gesture was a front for darker motives. Tom belonged squarely in the latter camp; a fake peace treaty was a strategy he might someday employ to fool gullible government officials.
A side effect of Grindelwald’s visit was a battle among pure-blood heirs for the opportunity to host him, and nowhere was it as bloody as at the Slytherin table.
“We have exotic creatures,” Abraxas announced to the Rosier siblings. “Of course he would choose the manor over your crumbling castle. Do you even have proper insulation?”
“Enough with those bloody peacocks, no self-respecting wizard cares,” Druella shot back. “Our enchanted garden, on the other hand, was curated by the most famous Herbologist in Turkey and features exclusively cross-bred plants.That is worthy of a noble family.”
As Abraxas sputtered in indignation, Tom turned his attention to the other end of the Slytherin table, where interest in politics had waned in favor of personal vendetta. Walburga was still sulking over last night’s duel.
“I asked Dorea and Charlus,” she said, slamming her fist on the table. “Charlus has never heard of a Harry Evans, and doesn’t know anyone in the Potter family who could’ve fathered Evans.”
Tom dragged his fork through his breakfast hash and shook his head. Charlus’ denial meant little. No pure-blood family, not even the liberal Potters, was going to admit to any heir siring children with Muggles out of wedlock.
“How would they know? It’s not like Charlus can keep track of every Potter in the world,” Lucretia said. “In any case, Charlus said he’d be interested in connecting with Evans regardless of his blood.”
“A bastard will always be a bastard,” Walburga seethed. Lucretia and Orion shared a conspiratorial grin.
Tom’s eyes flicked over to the Gryffindor table. Evans was absorbed in the reading of the Daily Prophet. Next to him, Hagrid was happily chomping away at a huge stack of crumpets. Evans glanced up, met Tom’s eyes, and glared before turning his back on Tom.
“My Lord?” Abraxas had concluded his argument with the Rosiers over peacocks and plants. He followed Tom’s line of sight to the Gryffindor table. “Is everything all right?”
Tom returned his attention to the Slytherin table. “Certainly. Why the concern?”
“Well, after the duel last night…” Abraxas lowered his voice. “It’s clear that Evans can’t be underestimated.”
“It was indeed impressive.”
“Should we tell the others about him?”
Tom stiffened. His status as the object of Harry Evans’ romantic affection was his business and nobody else’s, especially now that Evans had established himself as someone worthy of attention. He didn’t want competition.
“And what purpose, pray tell, would that serve?” he asked, keeping both tone and expression neutral.
“We should recruit the others to protect you. I understand that seeing Evans in this new light must be distressing, but we will ensure that he won’t get close to you.”
“That’s absolutely unnecessary.” Tom couldn’t completely hide his annoyance. Did Abraxas think Lord Voldemort was unable to handle a little kiss? “I am not distressed, nor do you or anyone else need to intervene on my behalf.”
“I don’t doubt your abilities, my Lord,” Abraxas hastened to say, “but it’s better to be vigilant when it comes to your safety.”
Anger surged. “Do you not trust that I can handle my own matters?”
“Of course not, my Lord, I never meant to suggest otherwise.”
“Then trust me when I say that I’m not alarmed in the least by what Evans intends to do to me. I have proven myself to be very adept in that department, as many can attest to.”
Abraxas cowered. “That — that’s true.”
“Refrain from pointless suggestions in the future.”
“Of course, my Lord. I do apologize. I merely wanted to help.”
The sight of a contrite Abraxas soothed Tom’s temper. “However, I do require your assistance in a different matter,” he said, adopting a calmer tone. “I would like to learn more about Evans.”
“You want me to continue investigating him?” Abraxas said.
“Indeed. For example, provide me with a detailed breakdown of the Potter genealogy. Every male, legitimate or bastard or suspected bastard, I want their names.”
“You don’t think…?”
“Furthermore,” Tom pressed on, “I want to learn about Evans himself. His schedule, his interests, his friends. Enlist Melinda and your other Gryffindor connections to help if needed. I want a complete dossier by tomorrow.”
“His…schedule? Do you mean that you actually want to spend time with him?”
“That would depend on the results of your investigation,” Tom said, not revealing his hand. “I am courting the possibility, yes.”
“You are courting the possibility,” Abraxas repeated, assuming the expression of someone who could not get an Arithmancy equation to converge.
Tom tapped fingers on his arm and sighed. “Is there a problem?”
“But courting —”
“That’s enough,” Tom said, noting some heads turning their way out of the corner of his eye. He did not want any other Slytherin to be involved in this delicate dance. “I don’t want another word on this topic. Will you or will you not execute what I have asked of you?”
“Yes. Yes, of course I will.”
“Then there’s nothing else to discuss.” Tom bent his head towards Abraxas, close enough to intimidate. “Just remember, Abraxas, this remains our special secret.”
With that, he turned his attention to Randall Selwyn, a promising third-year whom he wanted to recruit, leaving poor Abraxas to decipher whether he’d been bestowed an honor or a threat.
Abraxas did complete a dossier, but it was useless, as he found no connection between Evans and the Potters. Furthermore, according to Linus’ correspondence with his aunt Vinda, no one who fit Evans’ description existed among Grindelwald’s ranks.
Solely relying on his Knights was evidently not enough, so Tom took it upon himself to observe Evans himself. He arranged his patrols to favor the eastern part of the castle, where the Gryffindor Tower was located, and obtained a copy of Gryffindor seventh-year class schedule from Melinda to maximize the probability of encountering Evans between classes.
Evans remained as prickly as ever. Whenever he caught sight of Tom, he would make himself scarce before he could be approached. At the same time, he continued to hang around the Room of Hidden Things and Ravenclaw Tower, thwarting Tom’s budding research on Ravenclaw’s diadem.
“Witches,” Abraxas lamented after the inevitable fallout with Melinda before even reaching the one-month mark. “They are so fickle. They’re always playing this game of cat and mouse, but they never tell you if you’re supposed to be the cat or the mouse!”
Tom hummed in mock sympathy, privately noting that Abraxas’ description fit Evans perfectly.
However, Tom’s efforts weren’t completely in vain. He did learn more than a few things about Evans, though not all of them made sense.
For starters, Evans had a nonchalant attitude towards his education. While he spent an inordinate amount of time in the library, working steadily through the Restricted Section, he did so at the expense of skipping most of his classes. According to Melinda, the only classes he bothered attending were Defense Against Dark Arts, Charms, and Transfiguration.
However, Evans never got detention, and that had to do with Tom’s second discovery: despite the shortness of their acquaintance, Dumbledore had taken Evans under his wing. Well, Dumbledore did always favor Mudbloods and Gryffindors, and Evans was both. Thus, Evans frequented the first floor of the Defense Against Dark Arts Tower, where Dumbledore’s office was situated.
Naturally, Tom was quite curious to learn what the two of them talked about, because surely a research project didn’t require that many private sessions. Eavesdropping without suspicion was difficult to pull off, and the one time Tom managed, he only caught Evans saying, “He also enjoyed sherbet lemons, and all sorts of sweets from Honeydukes,” to which Dumbledore chuckled, “How delightful. More sherbet lemons?”
Dumbledore wasn’t the only one at Hogwarts who took a shine to Evans. After his Dueling Club performance, Evans increased in popularity among students delighted to see someone breaking the perfect Slytherin streak. He sometimes took meals at the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, the Gryffindors were openly fond of him, and even snobby Melinda cozied up to him after chucking Abraxas.
For some reason, instead of capitalizing on this popularity, Evans demonstrated peculiar tastes in friends. In addition to fellow seventh-years Prewett, Ibrahim Shafiq, and Algie Longbottom, he spent a lot of time with Rubeus Hagrid, displaying endless patience for Hagrid’s pathetic baking attempts and excitement about yet another creature he supposedly tamed.
Even more oddly, Evans spent a lot of time with Eileen Prince, a second-year who was ostracized in Slytherin despite her pure-blood status. Nobody cared to associate with a ratty-looking girl with perpetual Gobstone stink and a scowl to greet anyone foolish enough to talk to her. Her only friends were equally neglected Mudbloods from the Gobstones Club.
And yet, Tom found Prince and Evans playing Gobstones together on the great lawn more than once. Prince seemed to enjoy his company, and Evans remained good-natured as she obliterated him in under ten minutes.
Since Evans was proving to be tough to crack, Tom decided to target his misfit friends as his weak link, starting with Prince. After classes one afternoon, he approached her in her usual corner of the common room, where she was hunched over her Potions textbook.
In response to his greeting, she looked up in surprise and pushed a lock of dank hair from her face, which was a fair reaction. Tom had never bothered talking to her unless it was absolutely necessary.
“Eileen, we haven’t talked in a while.” Tom slid into the seat across from her. “How are classes? Slughorn mentioned to me only the other day that you can already handle O.W.L. Potions.”
Flattery worked wonders on most humans, but not on Prince. She fixed him with a direct and wary gaze. When Tom tried to take advantage of the opportunity to skim her mind, he was met by surprisingly solid Occlumency shields and unceremoniously ejected.
Prince narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “What do you want?”
“I see that you’ve been spending some time with the new student, Harry Evans,” Tom said, figuring there was no point skirting the topic. “I wanted to know what you think of him.”
“Why do you care?”
“I’m happy to see good inter-house relationships, especially between Gryffindor and Slytherin. It’s what I’ve been trying to foster as a prefect.”
Prince scoffed. “Is that so? First time I heard of it.”
“It’s a long, delicate process.”
“Well, then I suppose I’d better tell you why we’re spending so much time together.”
Tom leaned forward.
“The Gobstones team!”
Tom stared. “Don’t we already have one?”
“We have a Gobstones club, but it’s too recreational, and I didn’t have enough interest in a competitive team,” she explained. “Harry has been helping me recruit other players.”
“Evans started Hogwarts three weeks ago. How would he know anyone?”
“He’s quite popular after that duel with Walburga, haven’t you noticed?” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Actually, you must have. You’ve been very interested in him, I notice. Almost obsessively so.”
“I am not obsessed,” Tom said, bristling.
“Okay, you’re not obsessed,” Prince said with a shrug. “Well, just in case, you know what might endear you to him?”
Despite himself, Tom leaned in. “What?”
“Gobstones!”
“Gobstones,” Tom repeated. “Are you mocking me?”
“I’m quite serious. Evans promised he’d help me get the team off the ground, so he’ll be coming to the meets. I’m even trying to convince him to be co-president. If you impress him…” Her voice trailed off suggestively.
Join a Gobstones team to get closer to Evans. How outrageous. He would never stoop to such desperate measures.
“I’ll consider it,” Tom heard himself say, and spent the rest of the day scrubbing away the image of Prince’s smug face.
Having received no useful information from Prince, Tom next sought out Rubeus Hagrid. While he had little interest in cultivating a true friendship, he had been careful to defend Hagrid from school bullies a token number of times. A half-giant’s loyalty could be instrumental in building alliances with giants in the future.
He came upon Hagrid sitting in the pumpkin patch behind Ogg’s cabin, knitting a pink jumper. Hagrid was so absorbed in his stitches that he didn’t notice Tom’s presence until Tom’s shadow fell over him. Then he jumped and almost stabbed Tom with his oversized knitting needles.
“Oh, hi, Riddle.” Hagrid chuckled. “Almos’ took out yer eye there.”
“Hello Rubeus,” Tom said, keeping some distance between himself and the needles as he took a seat on the ground. “What are you making?”
“Jumper for Ogg. Wan’ ter see?”
Hagrid held it up and Tom pretended to admire it, even though he could not imagine the aging groundskeeper looking anything but ridiculous in bright fuschia. “Those are very neat stitches. I’m impressed.” As Hagrid puffed up with pride, Tom continued, “You know, we haven’t talked in some time.”
“Yer a nice bloke an’ all, Riddle, but we never talk.”
“You exaggerate,” Tom said, trying to sound wounded. “I’ve always cared about your well-being. I reprimanded Walburga for what she did to you.”
Hagrid blinked. “That’s kind o’ yeh.”
“Tell me how things have been with you. For instance, I notice that you’ve been spending a lot of time with the new transfer student.”
Hagrid’s eyes darted away, the first hints of mistrust appearing. “’m not supposed ter talk to yeh abou’ Harry.”
“Why? Because Evans said so?”
Hagrid fumbled with the knitting needles, effectively answering the question. Rather than being annoyed, Tom was flattered that Evans talked to Hagrid about him. He knew Evans had to slip sometime.
Tom put on a practiced smile. “Evans and I didn’t make the best initial acquaintance, but I mean him no harm. In fact, I find him quite…admirable.” He paused. “What else has he said about me? You’re not betraying him by telling me, Rubeus. I want to set things right.”
Waves of uncertainty rolled off Hagrid as rivaling loyalties warred. “He says yer not trustworthy,” he said eventually.
“Why not?”
“He didn' say.”
Tom maintained eye contact, gently nudging open Hagrid’s mind. His giant blood made his mind harder to read, but Tom managed to discern fuzzy images that coalesced into memories. Hagrid and Evans studying together in the common room, Hagrid and Evans sneaking into the Forbidden Forest, Hagrid taking Evans to the dungeons to show him a cardboard box.
And wait, was that an acromantula? Where on earth did Hagrid find those things?
Tom filed that away, having a feeling that it would become relevant.
Though oblivious to the mental intrusion, Hagrid was watching him with worried lips. “All righ’, Riddle?”
“Call me Tom, we’ve known each other long enough.”
“Oh thanks…Tom.”
“I'm glad we were able to chat, Rubeus,” Tom said. “By the way, I’ve been hearing rumors from students about disturbances in the dungeons. Some say they’ve seen a giant spider. You wouldn’t happen to know anything, would you?”
Hagrid clutched his jumper close. “No,” he said unconvincingly, and Tom took the opportunity to tease out another memory from his mind.
A rather incriminating memory, it turned out. “You have to take him to the forest or he’ll hurt someone,” Evans was saying, while Hagrid begged, “Not yet, he’s too young ter leave mummy. Give us a few mo’ weeks.”
Tom was now almost certain Hagrid and Evans were up to something illicit involving an acromantula. If nothing else, this could be useful leverage for the future.
Keeping his composure, Tom stood, bade Hagrid farewell, and returned to the castle with the satisfaction of an interrogation well-done.
A breakthrough of a different sort occurred after classes on Friday. Abraxas wanted to show off his newest Cleansweep, so he dragged his dormmates to the Quidditch pitch with the promise of newly delivered Malfoy Manor desserts afterwards.
Initially, Tom only planned to stay the requisite ten minutes before bailing in favor of more productive pursuits. As it turned out, someone else had the same idea as Abraxas. Tom immediately recognized Evans’ lithe form flawlessly executing advanced turns and dives on a rickety school broom.
He looked good. Really good. Breathtakingly good. Tom had never been a fan of Quidditch, finding the rules of the game convoluted, but Evans exuded such joy in his flying, such freedom and confidence, as if every possibility in the world was within his fingertips.
Tom couldn’t look away.
Meanwhile, Abraxas looked absolutely furious.
“Pretty advanced flying over there,” Orion remarked, grinning. “He has the build for a Seeker, don’t you think?”
“Definitely a Seeker, and a good one at that,” Ethan agreed, never passing on an opportunity to nettle Abraxas. “Imagine if he played for Gryffindor. Slytherin would have no chance at the Quidditch Cup.”
“I have an idea,” Orion said brightly. “Why don’t you two practice together, Abraxas?”
“Not a chance,” Abraxas snapped. “Some of us actually have the means for high-quality brooms. He won’t be able to keep up. And besides, I’ve changed my mind. The weather today isn’t conducive to flying.”
“Is it not?” Ethan said. “Evans seems to be handling it perfectly. Maybe he can teach you a thing or two.”
Abraxas reddened while Orion and Ethan sniggered.
“Well, if you’re not going to fly,” Orion said, “we might as well head back. We still get the sweets, right?”
Abraxas grunted in agreement. As the three Knights ambled towards the lawn, Tom lingered behind. Surely Evans had noticed him by now. Would it be completely forward if Tom were to initiate a conversation after his practice?
“My Lord?” Abraxas circled back. “Are you joining?”
Tom tilted his head and stuck hands into pockets. “Shortly, yes. You go on ahead.”
Abraxas glanced at Evans, then back at Tom. “You should not be alone with Evans, because if you recall my intel —”
“What intel? I asked you to investigate Evans and the Potters last week, and the only valuable thing you gave me in that sorry dossier was Melinda’s class schedule.”
Abraxas bowed his head. “I assure you I’m still working on additional updates, but I was referring to my original intel.” When Tom didn’t react, he added, “What I told you after the Gryffindor party. You…do remember?”
“Obviously I remember.” Was Abraxas doubting Tom’s memory on top of his kissing skills?
“I know my handwriting can be difficult to decipher at times.”
“It’s indeed atrocious, but hardly more difficult to decipher than ancient scripts.”
“He said he wanted to ki —”
Evans dived, causing Abraxas to drop his broom and stumble back. As Evans pulled out of the dive, he made eye contact with Tom. He was a disheveled mess, yet at the same time, absolutely becoming with his sweaty mop of hair and flushed cheeks.
Tom gave him a winning smile.
Evans took one hand off the broom, made a rude hand gesture, and jerked the broom back up, keen to put as much distance between him and the Slytherins as possible.
Tom was no longer fazed. It was clear what was happening now. Evans was definitely attracted to him, but he’d made his admission to Abraxas under the influence of Firewhiskey and Truthfulness Drips. Either he didn’t remember, or he didn’t feel worthy of Tom. As a result, he was doing his best to hide those feelings.
Well, Tom would set those woes to rest.
“Are you all right, my Lord?” Abraxas gasped. “That was quite a close call.”
“I’m fine.”
“He’s a menace.”
Tom crossed his arms. Yes, Evans was very much a menace, he thought fondly. Perhaps he had planned to kiss Tom in mid-air and Abraxas got in the way. Who knew what Evans would try next? What an exciting game this was turning out to be.
“Come, let’s head back, or Orion and Lucy will make short work of your mother’s chocolate mousse.”
Abraxas obediently followed. Never one to linger on serious topics for long, he started to prattle about the Malfoys’ efforts to curry Grindelwald’s favor. “Just wait until Druella sees the fruit basket that Mother sent him! Each fruit costs a thousand Galleons to acquire.”
Tom tuned him out. His mind was focused on the strange courtship between him and Evans. That last look they exchanged right before Evans pulled out of the dive — that was simply sizzling with tension and longing.
He was making progress. It wouldn’t be long before Evans caved and gave up this game of cat and mouse.
He was (almost) sure of it.
Chapter 4: Gauntlet
Notes:
Thank you everyone for your encouragement and support! I hope you will enjoy the update.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Life at Hogwarts droned on, though certain developments broke up the monotony.
After a heated campaign, the Malfoys won the bid to host Gellert Grindelwald, resulting in an insufferable Abraxas and palpable tension among the heirs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. “We are throwing a welcome ball for him,” Abraxas announced during a Knights of Walpurgis meeting while handing out gaudy embossed invitations to everyone. “A peacock-themed ball, because Lord Grindelwald is very into exotic creatures. Fowls especially. You are all invited, of course,” he added magnanimously.
Resisting the urge to Silencio Abraxas, Tom made a mental note not to leave the idiot alone with Linus for the foreseeable future, lest he should lose two Knights over disagreement about peacocks, of all things.
Evans continued to upset the pecking order in Dueling Club. In his second meeting, he was challenged by Linus, who had been goaded by his housemates and pressured by Walburga. No one, including the professors, made a pretense of doing anything other than watching their duel.
Though Linus made sure to stow away the dummies, he had one weakness that Evans seized upon: he had a pretentious way of enunciation that slowed him down for complicated spellwork. They ended up dueling to a standstill, leaving half of the Great Hall in smoldering ruins, forcing Flitwick and Merrythought to end the session early. Walburga looked more offended by Linus’ loss than her own, and Abraxas looked relieved to share the burden of Linus’ wrath.
Two days after Dueling Club, Tom attended the first open meeting of the fledgling Gobstones team. For research and possible recruiting purposes, he told himself. There might be gems in this crowd.
An awed sigh passed through the students as he presented himself, and he couldn’t help preening under the attention. After all, most of these losers would otherwise never be worthy of sharing air with him.
Evans was the lone exception. He half-rose from his crouched position on the floor, where he’d been drawing game circles, and gave Prince an accusing glare.
“Why is he here?” he hissed.
“It’s good publicity,” Prince whispered back, before bestowing upon Tom a bright smile. “Welcome Tom, I was hoping you would show up! Why don’t you join the fifth-years? We aren’t mixing up the years today.”
Grudgingly, Tom took a seat beside a group of starstruck Hufflepuffs, who immediately fought amongst themselves for the privilege of playing against him first. Having dabbled in Muggle marbles at Wool’s and found the game dull, Tom fully expected the hour-long mock tournament to be excruciating. Knocking stones together required little skills.
To his surprise, the wizarding version was addictive and offered visceral satisfaction in a way dueling could never do. Dueling was too civilized, whereas sometimes Tom would love to rip away the pretentious façades of everyone in Slytherin and settle debts in the way favored by East End orphans: dirty and physical.
In this case, spitting putrid liquid at the loser’s face.
“Doing well there, Tom,” Prince said towards the end of the meeting, after Tom had downed four Hufflepuffs in a row and was slaughtering the fifth. “Keep this up, and you could challenge for co-captain.” She leaned in and added in a conspiratorial whisper, “If you continue coming, I’ll pair you and Harry up next time.”
Tom blinked; he’d been so engrossed in his games, trying to optimize the angle and force of every move, that he’d forgotten how he’d ended up in this abandoned classroom in the first place.
“I’ll consider it,” he said, loud enough that Evans could hear.
Evans scowled.
Tom proceeded to practically float back to the Slytherin dungeons. Sure, he had to take an extra-long shower to remove the stench of Gobstones liquid, but that had definitely been an hour well spent.
Despite his budding Gobstones career, Tom was becoming frustrated with the lack of progress on a different front. After investigating all known boys’ bathrooms and the prefects’ bathroom to boot, he came to the unfortunate conclusion that Salazar Slytherin had a terrible sense of humor. Somehow, he’d seen fit to locate the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets in a girls’ bathroom.
Tom refused to be stumped. While he couldn’t normally walk into the girls’ bathroom without raising eyebrows, investigating post-curfew under a Disillusionment Charm afforded him a great deal of freedom. Thus, the investigation of the basement and first-floor bathrooms proceeded without incident. In the process, he also learned that witches were much cleaner than wizards.
He ran into trouble on the second floor. The string of bad luck began with his first attempt, when Peeves showed up out of nowhere and started screaming that a student was out of bed. Even though Tom was invisible and Peeves wasn’t looking in his direction, the ensuing chaos forced him to abort his investigation.
The second time, the crazy caretaker Apollyon Pringle was pacing up and down the corridor waving his infamous cane. Once or twice, he almost hit the Disillusioned Tom. More incidental bad luck, Tom decided before shifting focus to the third floor for the remainder of the night. (While that bathroom was calm, he also found nothing there.)
The third time, the second-floor bathroom was roped off with Muggle-looking tapes. Closed for cleaning, read the accompanying sign in a messy scrawl.
Tom had never seen any bathroom closed for cleaning during his time at Hogwarts, since Scourgify could take care of the worst incidents. Surely this was a joke? Just as Tom decided he would gamble and go inside anyway, the sign changed. Are you sure? it now read. You might regret this.
“I’m not bloody afraid of you!” Tom snapped at the sign, forgetting for a second to be discreet. This had to be the work of a prankster student. This had to be.
In response to his skepticism, something clanged in the bathroom pipes. Toilets flushed in unison and dark-colored liquid began to seep out. Tom got away right before an ill-tempered Pringle stomped onto the scene.
En route to breakfast the next morning, Tom took a detour by the offending bathroom. In broad daylight, it mocked him with its normality and innocence. Inside, taps turned on and off, and two girls exited, chatting merrily. They noticed Tom and giggled, but Tom paid them little heed.
His brain was spinning. Had the past three nights been merely coincidental, or was the truth more nefarious?
Was this bathroom cursed against male intrusion?
Or was this part of Slytherin’s trial to make sure that his heir was truly committed to finding the Chamber of Secrets?
As Tom pondered the possibilities, Evans rounded the corner, caught sight of Tom, and stopped in his tracks. He smirked. “That’s a girls’ bathroom, Riddle.”
Tom’s face heated, but before he could string together a response, Evans had already turned to go.
To be fair, Tom wasn’t sure what he could say. He couldn’t exactly say that he believed his ancestor might’ve hidden his legacy in the plumbing, but he didn’t have other legitimate-sounding reasons at hand for explaining his interest in a girls’ bathroom.
Wait a second. Hadn’t he found Evans outside a girls’ bathroom and used the same line? In fact, wasn’t that bathroom this very one?
So much for Evans’ uptightness, Tom thought scornfully. Evans was just as obsessed with this bathroom, and unlike Tom, he didn’t have a valid excuse.
Unless…Tom was his excuse.
Puzzle pieces clicked. Could Evans be the one thwarting him? Did he somehow notice Tom’s interest in bathrooms and decided to engage his attention in this manner? Perhaps seeing how Tom dealt with his bathroom obstacles was Evans’ way of ascertaining whether Tom’s intentions were sincere.
This possibility was so debauched, so unlikely, that Tom’s annoyance seeped away, replaced by intrigue and excitement.
If Evans wanted to play, who was Tom to refuse?
Game on, Evans.
A stalemate ensued. Needing some time to regroup, Tom temporarily turned his attention to other floors and the research of Ravenclaw’s diadem. None of these investigations were fruitful.
At midnight on Sunday, he ventured again to the second floor. As he approached the girls’ bathroom, he held his breath, but tonight, nothing happened. No sudden appearance of Peeves or Pringles, no mocking signs, no flooding toilet.
Instead, a girl was sobbing. Something about her glasses and acne. How trite. Most of the student body either had terrible tastes in eyewear or horrible skincare, hardly anything to cry about.
Well, at least this meant that Tom was in luck today. Once he chased this girl out with the threat of detention, he could cross this bathroom off his checklist and impress Evans in the process.
About to dismiss his Disillusionment Charm, Tom realized that the girl wasn’t alone.
“Olive Hornby is a bully,” said Evans’ distinctive voice. “She doesn’t matter!”
Tom immediately moved closer to the door to better hear the conversation.
“She’s always been so mean to me!” whimpered the girl. “Even when I try to be nice.”
“Look, I know her type, I grew up with someone just like her. People like them want to make others miserable because they’re miserable themselves, so you have to either ignore them, or fight back. Like punch them in the face.”
“I can’t punch Olive!”
“Well, you don’t have to punch her. You just have to show that you’re not afraid, or she’ll never stop.”
The sobbing calmed somewhat. Tom peeked inside. Evans was sitting on the floor with a girl who was clutching his arms and blubbering into his shoulder. Their proximity would’ve aroused Tom’s jealousy, had he not noted Evans awkwardly patting her on the back and looking resigned to his fate as a human-sized handkerchief.
After what Tom felt was an inappropriately long interval, the girl finally lifted her head and wiped her eyes. “Thanks, Harry. I feel better.”
Now that he could see her face, Tom recognized her as Myrtle Warren, third-year Ravenclaw who had been bullied since the day she’d set foot at Hogwarts. Indeed, who could blame the other students? An unattractive Mudblood with the personality of a wet blanket practically invited scorn, though Hornby was especially egregious in this regard.
“You should get back now,” Evans said gently, helping her to her feet. “Come on, I can walk you.”
“Oh no, it’s okay. I don’t want you to get into trouble.” Warren adopted a slightly flirtatious tone. “I mean, you aren’t exactly supposed to be here. What were you doing, anyway?”
Evans coughed. “I got…lost. Anyway here, take this.” He pulled something out of his bag. “You can give it back to me tomorrow.”
Tom sucked in a gasp as he took in the silvery cloak that Evans handed over. If he wasn’t mistaken, that was an Invisibility Cloak. How did someone like Evans come across something that rare and expensive?
“This is amazing, thank you so much,” said Warren, once she had put on the cloak and admired her reflection in the mirror. Only her disembodied head remained visible. “I really owe you for tonight. Let me know if I can return the favor sometime.”
“Actually, you can. Promise me this: next time you have to cry in a bathroom, pick a different bathroom.”
“Pick a different…bathroom?”
“Yes,” Evans said firmly. “Anyone but this one. This bathroom is no good. Promise me.”
“All right, I promise,” Warren said hesitantly. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow then. Good night. You stay safe.”
She put on the hood and disappeared completely from view. Tom sidestepped the entrance in time to sense her passing by.
Now Evans was alone in the bathroom. Perfect timing. Tom ended the Disillusionment Charm and stepped inside. Peeves or Pringle or anyone else be damned, he was not letting Evans go this time.
Evans stood in deep contemplation before the bathroom sink, so he took a few seconds to notice Tom’s presence. When he did, his eyes widened, then narrowed. “Eavesdropped on the whole thing, didn’t you?”
“Not intentionally, I was patrolling.”
“Great job, considering you’re allowing students to bully each other under your watch.”
“I’ve been trying to help.”
“Sure you have.” Evans crossed his arms. “So. You’ve finally come. Took you long enough.”
Feeling a stab of triumph, Tom stepped forward. “Well, I’m finally here, just as you wanted.”
“Funny, I wanted you to sod off, but you didn’t seem to get the message.”
Even now, Evans was so antagonistic. Lucky for him that Tom had the patience of a saint.
“Don’t you think this game is getting a little tiresome?” Tom said. “We don’t have to keep circling around each other.”
“There’s a very simple solution for that. Leave me alone, and when I say leave me alone, I also mean keep your minions away from me.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Evans snorted. “I’ve seen Abraxas Malfoy skulk around and talking to my housemates. He’s not exactly subtle.”
Tom had to sigh. Of course Abraxas would muck up his mission. Sometimes he wondered why he even bothered coaching him.
“And not just Malfoy,” Evans continued. “You too. Why were you questioning Hagrid and Eileen? Why did you join the bloody Gobstones team?”
“Fine, I was doing all these things,” Tom admitted, switching tactics, “but this goes both ways. I know you’ve been following me too. I know you’re interested in me.”
At that, Evans adopted a funny look. It was that mixture of guilt and defiance again.
Emboldened, Tom moved even closer. “Look, we got off on the wrong foot —”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Evans muttered, which honestly was an overreaction. During their first encounter, Tom had offered to help him with old library books. What was so controversial about that?
Tom forged ahead regardless. “I never had ill intentions towards you. In fact, I quite admire you, because I believe that you have a lot to offer.”
“A lot to offer,” Evans repeated, cocking his head. “I see now. You would deign to fraternize with a Muggle-born because I’m useful?”
“You are at least a half-blood,” Tom said confidently. “Nobody who dueled the way you did could be a Muggle-born.”
“Do you hear yourself? This is exactly why we can’t be friends. You’re so bigoted and you don’t even realize it.”
“Listen, Harry —”
“Don’t say my name.”
“I’m on your side. I want to be your friend.” Tom took another step so that they were inches away and brushed Evans’ shoulder with his forefinger. “How’s your shoulder doing, by the way? That was a nasty hex by Walburga.”
“My shoulder is none of your business,” Evans said, but he didn’t recoil from Tom’s touch. His eyes were darting between Tom’s face and Tom’s hand, and Tom loved the way his lovely long eyelashes were trembling.
Tom was now in familiar territory. He wasn’t considered the most charming Slytherin boy for naught. “Stop fighting this, Harry. There’s no shame in wanting what you want. In fact,” he said, lowering his voice in an attempt at sulturiness, “maybe I want the same thing.”
Their eyes locked. Evans’ mind was a muddle of emotions, confusion and excitement and hatred. Tom allowed his hand to drift from Evans’ shoulder to his bicep, which he squeezed lightly.
“I want to make you an offer,” he said. “You’re talented, and a talent like yours deserves to be nurtured and recognized. I want you by my side.”
“Your side?” Evans choked. “Not interested. Never.”
“You don’t have to be shy. You don’t have to deny yourself anymore. This is what you want, you admitted it yourself, don’t you remember?” Tom leaned in. “There’s no reason why we can’t both be satisfied.”
“Bloody nutter, get away —”
Evans never got to finish. Tom grabbed both his arms, pushed him against the wall, and kissed him.
His lips yielded, and oh, they were warm and lovely and chapped, so different from the overly moisturized and minty pure-blood lips Tom was accustomed to. These lips were intoxicating and Tom wanted to commit every detail to memory.
Tom pressed closer, wanting — no, craving — more. He gently nudged open Evans’ lips, tilted his chin upwards, and —
Evans shoved him away and rushed into the nearest toilet stall, where he proceeded to dry heave.
Tom was offended. He brushed his teeth regularly with high-quality toothpaste, courtesy of the Malfoys, and knew his breath smelled nice. His kisses were far from vomit-inducing.
At long last, the toilet flushed, and Evans turned. “What the hell was that?” he demanded, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m granting you an honor,” Tom replied, pushing through faint stirrings of concern.
“How, exactly?”
“You told Abraxas you wanted to kiss me.”
“I told Abraxas I wanted — oh.” Evans raked his hair, making them stand up even more than usual. “So Abraxas was spying on me from the very beginning, and you thought I wanted to kiss you.”
Tom held his tongue. The whole situation was going off-script, and he wasn’t sure why.
“You thought I wanted to kiss you,” Evans said, this time slowly and deliberately.
Then, out of nowhere, he began to laugh. He laughed so hysterically, in fact, that he collapsed against the wall of the stall and wheezed.
“Unbelievable,” he said when he managed to straighten and catch his breath. “Bloody unbelievable. Of course Lord Voldemort would turn out to be the Veela that Ginny was so worried about.”
Evans was losing his plot. Tom wasn’t a Veela — he was superior in every way — and who in Salazar’s name was Ginny? Did Evans have an old paramour he needed to eliminate?
“I don’t see the source of amusement,” Tom said coldly.
Evans’ eyes snapped up. His mirth was fading, replaced by fury. Unease settled into the pit of Tom’s stomach.
“The source of my amusement, Riddle,” Evans said, approaching, “is you. You with your outsized ego and utter lack of empathy. Do you expect me to be another bootlicker who falls for your charisma? Do you expect me to swoon at your feet? Do you expect me to tell you my secrets so you find me worthy of your attention?”
Tom opted for an enigmatic shrug although he did, as a matter of fact, expect all of these things.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, I want none of these things. Do you want to know why?” Evans didn’t wait for an answer. “Here’s my tragic life story that you’re so curious about. Because of you, my parents died and I never got to know them. Because of you, I grew up in a cupboard under the stairs with relatives who hated the sight of me. Because of you, I’ve had this stupid thing marking me my whole life.”
He jabbed his forehead, and Tom found himself looking at the jagged scar, stark against Evans’ pale skin. He quenched the desire to trace his finger over the angry red lightning bolt.
“Because of you, I spent the last nine months running for my life and fearing for everyone I loved. Because of you, so many innocent people have lost their homes or their lives. Because of you, I tried to sacrifice myself to save everyone, except I couldn’t do that properly and ended up getting trapped here, of all places.” Evans took a deep breath and fisted his hands. “People are dying because I don’t know how to get back. And now, after everything, you think that I want to kiss you. Do you hear yourself?”
No doubt Evans was well and truly off his rocker. Nothing he said made a modicum of sense. Yet even as he ranted, Tom could not look away from the mesmerizing green of his eyes, the flushed pink of his cheeks, the inky mess of his hair.
Even now, he was recalling the sinfully delicious flavor of Evans’ mouth. More, he needed more.
“Fuck, I’m tired of this. I don’t have time to deal with Voldemort and you.” Evans raised his wand so that he was forcing Tom back at wand point. “Listen, Riddle, let me break the news to you,” he said, his tone harsh and grating. “I have absolutely zero intention of kissing you. If I could, I would kill you.”
Kill you.
Oh.
The new transfer student wants to kill you.
That makes…more sense.
Wretched Abraxas and his terrible handwriting.
“But I’m not, because I just want to be out of your stupid timeline as quickly as fucking possible,” Evans said. “So don’t test my patience. If you keep getting in my way, I may change my mind. After all, I know you don’t have any Horcruxes.”
This time, Tom couldn’t hide his gasp. Nobody, not even his Knights, had any inkling that he’d been working towards immortality.
Ugly satisfaction spread across Evans’ face. He jabbed Tom’s sternum with his wand. “Do you understand me, Riddle?”
Tom’s ego refused to allow Evans to have the final word. “It’s not a good idea to threaten me,” he retorted. “I’m Dippet and Slughorn’s favorite, and I have much influence among the Slytherins. I can and will make your life hell.”
Evans let out a bark of laughter. “You’ve made my life hell already. What else can you possibly do?”
“You might not be afraid of me,” Tom said, discarding at this point any semblance of cordiality, “but what about your friends? What if Eileen’s Gobstones team fails because she couldn’t get the approval from professors? What if the Ravenclaws learn that Myrtle cries in the bathroom all the time?”
Evans swallowed audibly. Wonderful.
“Or what if someone catches wind of Rubeus’ new pet?” Tom pressed on, stoked by the appearance of chinks in Evans’ armor. “Would the professors appreciate having an acromantula on the loose? I daresay the Board of Governors wouldn’t bat an eye before expelling him.”
Evans moved. This time, Tom was shoved against the wall. Winded, he watched Evans’ angry face loom close.
“Damn you,” Evans growled, each word an angry puff of air against Tom’s cheek. “You are just like him. You ruin everything.”
Instinct honed by years of tussling with other orphans, Tom shoved Evans back, causing him to stumble on the slippery tiled floor. However, Evans was still fisting Tom’s robes, so Tom crashed with him in a tangle of elbows and knees. As they landed on the cold floor, an earsplitting buzz came from Evans’ shoulder bag.
Evans swore, pushed Tom off, and pulled a library book from his bag to examine for damage. The hardbound cover had been dented by the impact of the boys’ fall, the spine somewhat cracked. Under the boys’ scrutiny, the book opened its own and flipped to a page with the illustration of an elaborate time turner, golden and studded with multi-colored jewels.
“Get out of the way, Riddle!” bellowed Evans as the book emitted a powerful blast of magic.
A hurricane of colors and sounds greeted them. Ancient magic from the book, Tom realized as he squeezed his eyes shut; ancient magic that didn’t take well to disturbance at all.
There was nowhere to hide in the small space. The magic washed over the bathroom, elongating each passing second into what felt like hours. Tom became keenly aware of the cold tiles beneath his feet, the mugginess of the air, the sound of water falling from a leaking faucet. Drip, drip, drip.
All of a sudden, the hurricane stopped. Only silence remained.
“Riddle?” Evans sounded a little panicked. A soft hand gingerly touched his wrist. “You alive?”
Tom opened his eyes. “More or less,” he answered, glancing around. The bathroom looked normal. The book was shut and in the process of being stuffed back inside Evans’ bag. “What was that?”
Evans withdrew his hand and his brief expression of concern faded back into distaste. “My research project with Dumbledore,” he said, and Tom knew better than to challenge his lie right now.
“Listen, about tonight…”
“You’re not going to tell anyone,” Evans said, and Tom noticed that he was still clutching his wand. “Not only that. Stay the fuck away from me and stay the fuck away from my friends. Otherwise, trust me when I say you’ll be sorry. I know every single dark secret you’re hiding. Understand?”
Ridiculous, of course he wasn’t going to agree to this. Evans had nothing on him. Tom opened his mouth to call Evans’ bluff. What came out instead was a groan. He must’ve hit his head during that fall.
“Good, I’m not wasting any more time here.” Evans gave Tom a fierce glare and started towards the door. Halfway there, he glanced over his shoulder. “By the way, if your head hurts, you should go to the nurse and check for concussions. I’d rather not have your death on my hands yet. Good night.”
With that, he stepped out of the bathroom and disappeared into the corridor.
Pressing one hand to his throbbing head, Tom sagged against the wall, his appetite to investigate this bathroom long extinguished. He tried to digest what had just transpired, which had been unexpected, in more ways than one.
Was Evans an agent of Grindelwald? Was Evans a Potter bastard frustrated by his abandonment? Or was the truth something darker, something more dangerous?
Why did Evans hurl all these accusations at Tom, even though they’d never met until this month? Somehow, there was something — and something quite substantial at that — linking the two of them together. What was it?
And finally, what did the magical explosion have to do with any of this?
Secrets clearly abound where Evans was concerned, and Tom was no closer to figuring any of them out. However, he was far from disappointed. Unraveling, and more importantly, taming Harry Evans was shaping up to be a substantial challenge, but Tom always liked challenges. And this one, in particular, was far more interesting than investigating bathroom plumbing.
Tom had been wrong. Their game wasn’t getting tiresome. It was only getting started, and moreover, the stakes had just increased. Stay the fuck away from me, Evans might have said, but Tom was never one for obeying other people’s rules. Not the matrons of the orphanage, not the professors, and certainly not a very interesting half-blood. In fact, Tom was already looking forward to their next clash.
Though first, he really must lecture Abraxas on his penmanship.
As it turned out, that soon became the least of his problems.
Notes:
In my initial concept, the fic was supposed to end here: the boys will kiss, laugh about their misunderstandings, and live happily ever after. However, Harry refused to cooperate, so we have quite a bit more to go.
Don't worry, there will be tons more of obsessive Tom and sassy Harry and their wild adventures. I’m cautiously excited about what’s to come, which will be somewhat experimental (for me), and hope that you’ll enjoy the journey :)
Chapter 5: Minesweeper
Notes:
Thank you everyone for your support!
Some commenters asked why Tom didn’t figure out Harry was a time traveler from all the clues, which is a fair question. My view is that in canon, time travel is extremely rare due to the complicated magic and Ministry regulations, so unlike us Tomarry fans, Tom isn’t familiar with the trope. That said, he can’t avoid the truth for long :)
Hope you enjoy the update!
Chapter Text
Sunday morning got off to a rocky start. Literally.
As soon as a groggy Tom stepped into the common room, he tripped over a handful of Gobstones, causing an explosion of goo and requiring multiple Scourgify before he felt presentable again. Eileen Prince had ventured away from her usual corner to claim prime real estate for her morning Gobstone games.
Prince did not falter under Tom’s withering glare. “Slept well, Tom? You’re up later than usual.”
“Quite well,” Tom snapped, even though he hadn’t. He gestured at the floor. “Would you care to explain?”
She brightened. “Aren’t those great? Papa got me a limited edition Gobstones set and it was finally delivered last night. I’ve been waiting the whole week. See? They have unique colors and textures. And you can teach them to explode!”
“They pose a tripping hazard,” said Tom, seeing no merit in these features.
“There’s hardly anyone around.” She shrugged, not the least bit contrite. “You should consider being less uptight, Tom. Harry is very free-spirited, after all.”
Halfway to the exit, Tom turned to shoot Prince one last deathly glare, but she was no longer paying attention to him. Instead, she was crouched on the floor once more with her new Gobstones. With the rising interest in her Gobstones team — thanks to Tom’s attendance, obviously — she was becoming bolder and bolder. He needed to address her lack of discipline soon.
Tom’s mood improved marginally at breakfast. The Slytherin table was sparser than usual, both due to the lateness of the hour and the fact that many of the prominent pure-blood heirs, including Abraxas and Ethan, had gone home the night before to prepare for Grindelwald’s welcome ball. In other words, there were fewer people to sap his attention and energy.
After pouring himself a cup of black coffee, Tom settled between the Rosiers, who had not forgiven the affront of being passed over as Grindelwald’s host.
“Of course, we had to accept the invitation,” Linus said, “but we’re going to arrive as late as socially acceptable.”
“Mother and I sourced the best peacocks for my dress, all the way from southeast Asia,” Druella said, twirling a strand of blonde curls around her finger. “Abraxas will think twice before he brags about his albino peacocks next time.”
“And if old man Malfoy doesn’t think Father will convince Grindelwald to come spend a few days with us, he has a surprise coming.”
“You agree that our castle is far more hospitable, don’t you, Tom?”
Tom hummed a response. In truth, Rosier Castle had made as much of an impression as Malfoy Manor. It was a crumbling, austere structure, focused on dazzling visitors with useless architectural details rather than providing any real comfort.
In any case, although he was on the guest list, he had little interest in witnessing the exhausting and pointless mind games pure-blood families played amongst themselves. Besides, charisma aside, Grindelwald was known to be a manipulative wizard who appreciated and respected no one but himself and, if rumors were to be believed, Albus Dumbledore. Not someone to be trusted without more due diligence. Thus, his Knights were attending in his stead, and if their reports of Grindelwald were promising, he would have Abraxas arrange a private meeting.
As the Rosier siblings continued outlining their plan to upstage the Malfoys, Tom snuck a glance at the Gryffindor table. Between bites of his scone, Evans was talking animatedly to Shafiq and Prewett, looking bright-eyed and alert, as if he didn’t stay up way past midnight. In the din of the Great Hall, their fight in the bathroom felt surreal.
Myrtle Warren approached the Gryffindors, a wrapped parcel in her arms. Evans greeted her with a smile and slid over to make room for her on the bench. Even after the parcel was returned and stowed away, she lingered, giggling and occasionally brushing her shoulder against Evans’.
How utterly shameless.
If glares could kill, Warren would be a moaning ghost in the second-floor bathroom right now.
Evans shifted to grab another scone and turned his head in Tom’s direction. Before he could be caught staring, Tom glanced away and grabbed the Daily Prophet that lay discarded by Linus’ plate.
As usual, the headlines were disappointing, additional evidence that the wizarding world’s journalistic standards were slipping. Aside from an article summarizing Grindelwald’s meeting with the British and French Ministries of Magic (no conclusion on the peace treaty, how shocking) and an incomplete update on the Muggle war (the Allied forces were intensifying their attacks in Germany, about time), the other articles covered frivolous topics. There was a long feature on the Malfoys’ peacock-themed ball, no doubt arranged by Gertrude Malfoy. There was a detailed (and largely incorrect) overview of Muggle weapons and how they functioned. And then there was a three-page article with the headline, Petition reaches inflection point for Westminster Crup Show!
At this, Tom snorted into his coffee. Lucretia leaned over. “Oh yeah, that,” she said. “Annalise was over the moon, you should’ve heard her earlier. Apparently old dowager Selwyn has been lobbying for years so she could show off her pure-bred crups.”
“Fascinating,” Tom said dryly.
“By the way, we’re going to Hogsmeade so Druella could get her dress robes fitted one last time. Do you want to come with us? You mentioned you wanted a new set of quills, didn’t you?”
Tom wrinkled his nose. Watching Druella fret over peacock feathers was the last thing he wanted to do.
“Or maybe you have more pleasant plans?” Lucretia wore a slight smile. “I heard from a little snake that you came back to the dorm rather late last night. Even though you don’t patrol on Saturday nights.”
Orion must’ve noticed and snitched to his sister. Tom shook his head. Two could play this game. “Unfortunately, I have some homework to finish,” he said, “but I’m sure Ignatius will be more than happy to accompany you. I heard there were some disturbances in the broom cupboards the other day.”
As calculated, Lucretia reddened and dropped the topic. Having polished off his coffee and porridge, Tom grabbed his bag and excused himself. With a healthy injection of caffeine into his system, a productive morning at the library awaited.
The library turned out to be a terrible idea. The Chamber of Secrets and Horcruxes were poor distractions when Tom’s head rang with Evans’ strange accusations.
Because of him, Evans’ friends and families were dead.
Because of him, Evans was trapped at Hogwarts.
Because of him…but how?
Abandoning his own research, Tom headed into the Restricted Section. He doubted he would find another copy of Evans’ mysterious book, since most of the restricted books were one-of-a-kind, but there were other books on time magic he could consult.
Tomes upon tomes of possibilities greeted him. Books on Time Turner construction, time rituals, even potions that would regress time (and thus aging) targeted at especially vain wizards and witches. Tom generally felt that the whole field of time magic contained a lot of baloney, because it promised so much theoretically and delivered so little empirically, but there might be substance he’d previously overlooked.
Since Evans had mentioned timeline during his rant, Tom focused his search on timeline manipulation and returned with a stack of books to skim through. There were many schools of thoughts regarding how timelines worked. Some experts claimed that time was inflexible and resisted any attempt at alteration. Others claimed that it was malleable and ever shifting. Some likened it to a river that could flow forwards and backwards; others liked it to strings that could be knotted together.
All experts, however, did agree on one thing: time magic was highly dangerous and not to be meddled with.
Which begged the question: why was a seventeen-year-old half-blood studying it, and what was the significance of his book?
The answer flitted at the edge of Tom’s consciousness, tantalizingly out of reach. Every time he came close, he recalled the feeling of Evans’ lips against his own, the beat of Evans’ heart against his chest, and the warmth of Evans’ body in his arms.
This was hopeless.
Tom slammed the books on the table, startling nearby students and earning an admonishment from Madam Renfrew.
Frustrated with his inability to focus, Tom didn’t return to the library after lunch. Instead, he headed outside for fresh air. Thanks to the warm spring weather, a great number of students who opted out of the Hogsmeade trip were lounging on the lawn. Prince, unsurprisingly, was showing off her new Gobstones set and her weird Gobstones teammates.
“It’s my new set! They explode and everything!” she announced. “Hey Harry, join us!”
Evans was some distance away, accompanied by Hagrid and his unfinished pink jumper. “Maybe later,” he shouted back, before steering Hagrid in the direction of the pumpkin patch. By the look of his gesticulations, he was trying to convince Hagrid of something, and by the protective way with which Hagrid was hugging the jumper, he was resistant.
Before Prince tried to recruit him, Tom separated from the crowd and continued towards his original destination. One of his favorite spots at Hogwarts was a little nook by Black Lake. Before the dungeon politics and library research absorbed most of his attention, he used to enjoy lounging there in his free time.
Tom lay back on the grass and stared at the bright blue sky. Almost five years later, Hogwarts remained a revelation to him, a sanctuary that allowed him entry for ten blessed months every year. In contrast, his world at Wool’s was confined to the cramped square feet of his room. Instead of vibrant colors and powerful magic, it was filled with skies rendered dull by smog, the acrid smell of streets burning, and nights shattered by blaring sirens.
Thoughts of the orphanage reminded him that he was due to return to that hell hole in a month, and Tom’s mood rapidly soured. Two months of sharing air with useless Muggles, two months of not eating enough, two months of surviving without magic in an intensifying war. If only he could stretch out time and delay summer…
Heavy footfall jerked Tom to awareness. “Tonight then,” Evans said. He and Hagrid were passing by en route to the lawn, though thanks to the tall grass, he didn’t notice Tom’s presence. “I’ll meet you in the entrance hall.”
“Tonight,” Hagrid agreed, sounding resigned.
They disappeared up the hill to join Prince and her Gobstones friends on the lawn. Tom’s curiosity stirred, recognizing the scent of potential blackmail material, always useful for future persuasion and coercion. What was Evans up to this time? Was this related to Hagrid and his crazy pets? Did that mean nobody would interfere with his bathroom research tonight?
You ruin everything.
Tom’s head throbbed. He turned his attention back to Black Lake and allowed the undulating waves to distract him from Evans, the orphanage, and the war for the time being.
When evening came around, Tom was still plagued by lethargy and migraine. He wanted to wrap up his patrol, enjoy a long soak in the prefects’ bathroom, then take the headache potion prescribed by the school nurse.
As luck would have it, he found Walburga and Evans facing off against each other in the entrance hall. They made a strange looking pair, with Walburga resplendent in her dark purple dress robes and matching gold jewelry, clearly about to Portkey to Malfoy Manor, and Evans in secondhand Muggle clothes, clearly about to break school rules.
Walburga thought the same. “Sneaking off somewhere, Evans?” she said. “Such unbecoming conduct for a Potter.”
Evans gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve told you and your cousins, I’m not related to the Potters. I’m just a Muggle-born, and right now, I’m just returning something to the broomshed.”
The latter wasn’t a believable excuse, though Walburga didn’t challenge it. She cocked her head, dark eyes calculating under glittering lashes. “Mudblood or not, Charlus is interested in meeting you. He may be at the Malfoys tonight, so if you’d like, you can come to the ball as my date.”
“And find my dead body in a ditch? No, thank you.”
Walburga flexed her fingers, displaying newly manicured nails. “Do you know how many would grovel for this honor?”
“Pick them, then. I don’t want to fraternize with the likes of you in a snooty pure-blood ball.”
Walburga growled and made to step forward. Evans stopped her with the threat of his wand.
“I’m not afraid to humiliate you again, Wally,” he said. “And stop with that face. You’re not going to age well.”
“It will do you good to learn some manners while in the company of pure-bloods,” she snarled, grabbing her own wand.
This was going to get ugly if Tom didn’t intervene, though he had to tread carefully. It would do his future no good to alienate Orion’s betrothed and Pollux Black’s favorite, but he also didn’t want to further incense Evans.
“Walburga,” he said, drawing the attention of two hostile faces. “Linus and Druella are looking for you. They are under the impression you are taking the same Portkey.”
The corner of Walburga’s mouth lifted. “I didn’t think Druella was ever going to stop fussing over those stupid feathers.”
“Well, she’s finally done,” Tom said, hoping that was true, “and she’s quite eager to see your dress.”
Walburga threw a glare at Evans, which was returned in full.
“The opening dance is starting shortly, if I’m not mistaken,” Tom added.
“Very well,” she said, relenting, “No point ruining my evening over ungrateful Mudbloods. I will see you at the ball.”
“Enjoy,” Tom said, and stepped aside to allow her to flounce off in full style. After the clicking of her heeled boots had faded, he turned back to Evans, who was patting his bag, as if to check that something was still there.
“Stop following me around,” he said, noticing Tom looking. Tom’s heroic rescue had not earned him much goodwill. “Don’t you have a ball to go to?”
“No, I wasn’t planning on attending.”
“Funny, I thought it would be right up your alley. Dark Lord 101 and all that.”
The implication that Tom was some sort of a mass murderer again. Yes, Tom thirsted for power and domination, and yes, there would be collateral damage, but he would never stoop to Grindelwald’s crude methods. Nurmengard was so plebeian compared with what Tom had in mind.
Briefly tempted to respond with a flippant remark, Tom said, more sincerely than intended, “If you’ve been to one of those balls, you’ve been to a hundred. It’s mostly old families trying to outshine each other and not realizing that money cannot buy respect. And even though —”
Tom stopped. Even though their children look up to me, they look down on me, he almost said, and that would’ve exposed too much.
There was more he could’ve shared. How tantalizing the food had appeared to someone who never had enough to eat growing up and didn’t recognize half the dishes; how carefully he had studied the correct usage of cutleries and corrected his accent to hide his East London upbringing; how he had let loose stray displays of wandless magic to hint to the elder pure-bloods that he wasn’t someone to be crossed.
Evans was watching him. For the first time, his expression wasn’t scathing. Rather, it was thoughtful, and it had a hint of —
Pity? No, that wasn’t quite it; Tom would know, having been subjected to it regularly until his ascension in the Slytherin pecking order. Pity was dull and ugly, whereas this emotion felt gentle and reassuring. There was another word for it.
Was this…sympathy?
“Harry? Yeh ready — oh.” Hagrid coughed awkwardly. “Hello there, Riddle.”
Evans tore his eyes away from Tom and moved closer to his half-giant friend. “Yeah, we really need to go to the broomshed,” he said. “You don’t mind, do you, Riddle? We will be back before curfew.”
Without waiting for Tom’s permission, he grabbed Hagrid’s arm and led him towards the front door. Hagrid kept looking over his shoulder, radiating so much guilt that he might as well confess right then and there.
Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. Luckily for them, he was far more interested in a bubble bath than enforcing school rules, so he didn’t try to stop them.
The prefects’ bathroom was thankfully empty. For extra insurance, Tom locked and warded the door. Under the flickering light of the candle-lit chandelier and the curious eyes of the mermaid portrait, he filled the giant tub with his favorite mixture of bathwater and soap bubbles. It had been a long time since he had the time to indulge, and if he had a weakness for lavender-scented bathwater and rainbow-colored bubbles, who — other than the mute mermaid — was to know?
Once the tub had been prepared to his satisfaction, Tom slipped inside with his Impervius Charmed textbooks and spent a quiet hour reading. Long after the bath had finished and the water drained, he lounged in a comfortable bathrobe, enjoying the luxury of a proper bathroom after almost a month of investigating lesser toilets.
The welcome ball must be in full swing now, and all the Sacred Twenty-Eight were probably making fools out of themselves courting Grindelwald’s interest. He looked forward to his Knights’ report tomorrow.
It was nearing midnight by the time Tom returned to the dungeons, and all was blissfully quiet in the dungeons. Without Abraxas’ snoring and Ethan’s restless tossing about, there was no need for Silencio.
Tom finished his headache potion in one gulp and crept into bed. Exhaustion settled over him like a weighted blanket, quite ironic for a day during which he accomplished nothing other than a bubble bath. As he closed his eyes, he spared a thought for Evans. Was his secret mission with Hagrid successful?
I suppose I will find out tomorrow, Tom thought drowsily, before he followed darkness into dreamless sleep.
Tom woke up feeling much more rested. Today was going to be a better day, he could feel it in his bones.
He dressed, headed down the stairs, and promptly tripped over an exploding Gobstone.
...or perhaps not.
“I told you that they pose a tripping hazard,” he snapped at Prince after spelling away the mess. At least it was only one stone this time. “What are you doing, playing Gobstones right now?”
Prince looked up from her cross-legged position on the floor, oblivious to the fact that classes were due to begin in less than two hours. “Papa got me a limited edition Gobstones set, and I just finished unwrapping everything. Thanks for finding that one for me.”
She held out her hand, and rolling his eyes, Tom dropped the offending stone in her palm. “Why do you need another set?” he demanded. Old man Prince needed an intervention concerning the spoiling of his daughter. How many limited edition Gobstones sets did this crazy girl need?
“Look, they have nice texture and colors, and you can even train them to explode on command. Isn’t that great? I can’t wait for our next team meeting.”
Tom rubbed his temples, feeling the relapse of his migraine. At this rate, he would need a double dose headache potion from the school nurse before the morning was over.
“Clean this up,” he said, heading for the common room exit. “Classes are beginning shortly.”
“You’re too uptight. Harry is quite free-spirited, you know. You’d never get anywhere at this rate.”
Tom turned to glare but, engrossed in setting up a new game, Prince was no longer paying attention to him. She really needed to learn some discipline and respect.
The Great Hall was emptier than expected for a Monday morning. At the Slytherin table, most of Tom’s Knights were still absent, including Abraxas, who’d promised to return in the morning with updates. The welcome ball must’ve been a success, though a successful ball wasn’t going to save them from their professors’ disapproval.
The students present sat in roughly the same arrangement as yesterday. Tom sat down near the Rosiers and reached for the coffee pot.
“So then I told Mother, if they’re going to have a peacock-themed party, I will need the most beautiful peacock dress,” Druella was telling Lucretia. “And of course, we made an appointment with Twilfitt and Tattings immediately. In fact, I need to do one final fitting today. Do you want to come?”
As Lucretia nodded eagerly, Tom turned to Linus. “Another peacock-themed ball?”
Perusing the newly delivered Daily Prophet, Linus shrugged. “Witches,” he said, and Tom conceded that was an apt response.
Saving questions on the ball for Abraxas, Tom studied his notes on Conjuring Spells in preparation for Transfiguration and Dumbledore over sips of black coffee. His mind wandered, catching and discarding the snippets of conversations around him.
“...peacocks…southeast Asia…”
“...Gertrude Malfoy…so vapid…”
“...Father will of course court him…”
Odd that the Rosiers were still talking about the ball. Surely, after attending it yesterday, they could avoid insulting the Malfoys for a few hours.
“...Grindelwald would never sign treaties…”
“...attacked Germany, Muggles are getting serious…”
Those war updates were giving Tom a serious sense of déjà vu. Wasn’t a major German city just attacked the day before?
“...‘rifles’...what a funny-sounding word for a weapon…”
“...petition for Westminster Crup Show finally got enough traction…”
Weapons and crup shows again, honestly the Prophet needed to —
Wait.
Tom set down his coffee cup. “What did you say?”
Annalise Selwyn, crup lover who hailed from a distinguished line of crup breeders on her half-blood mother’s side, lit up at his display of interest. “We were just talking about the feature article, Tom. You’ve heard of the Muggle Westminster Dog Show?”
He nodded impatiently.
“Well, Grandmama has been trying to start a wizarding equivalent for crups for ages, since crups are so obviously superior to Muggle dogs. Sadly Minister Spencer-Moon and Fawley were so resistant to the idea, and it was only yesterday that her petition finally got to an inflection point.”
“An inflection point?”
“Yes, Grandmama was brilliant. She knew that the officials would never be interested, so she reached out to —”
Tom snatched the paper from a startled Annalise. He read and reread the article, then stared at the title so hard that it would soon combust from the intensity of his scrutiny. But the words didn’t change. They were exactly as he’d read them a day ago.
Petition reaches inflection point for Westminster Crup Show!
With trembling hands, he flipped to the front page, where the date greeted him in large block print.
Sunday, 30th May, 1943.
Chapter 6: Hide and Seek
Notes:
Thank you everyone for your support! I was relieved that you are excited about the time loop and enjoyed reading your theories in the comments. Hopefully my choice for going down this route will become clear over the next couple of chapters. The tags have also been updated to reflect the new plot development.
Hope you enjoy the update!
Chapter Text
This had to be a prank, a horrible prank.
How dare anyone mock him.
Masking his inner turmoil, Tom set down the Daily Prophet and surveyed the table, which presented a perfectly mundane breakfast scene. As he made eye contact with his housemates, he scanned their thoughts. Why is Tom acting so oddly about crups…Sunday morning scones are always the best…classes begin tomorrow, must do homework tonight…finally, another Hogsmeade weekend…my peacock dress better be perfect…
No triumphant glee, no masked malice, no obvious culprit.
Tom turned away from Druella, heart pounding. Unless everyone suddenly became an accomplished Occlumens, which would be an absurdity in itself, he could draw only one conclusion: he was somehow reliving yesterday.
Except how? Why?
Abandoning breakfast, Tom rushed to the library, where the sense of déjà vu intensified. The same set of students were present in the same seating arrangement, Madam Renfrew was browsing the same literary catalogue, and the books on time magic were exactly where he had previously found them.
Tom carried the whole lot back to his table and went through them more meticulously this time. After much researching and cross-referencing, he came up with three possible explanations for what might be happening.
First, time travel. While highly regulated by the Ministry, controlled time travel into the past was well-studied and well-documented. The current known record was a month, achieved by an East African warlock, so traveling back a day was within the realm of possibility. However, time travel would mean that there existed a past version of Tom, which was not the case.
No, not time travel.
Second, time dilation. Time could be stretched out to pass more slowly, though the effect was extremely localized. For example, there was an experimental chamber in Croatia where time passed three times as slowly inside and passed normally outside, used to study the growth of rare plants. However, the issue here wasn’t that time was passing too slowly; it was that an entire chunk of time had been lost altogether.
No, not time dilation either.
Finally, time loop. A specified unit of time could be repeated ad nauseum. Like time dilation, the effect was localized, though unlike time dilation, the localization was to a single person rather than location. That person would continually relive the same time period with perfect awareness, while everyone else would reset their memories with each repetition.
Now, this was promising, because time loop fit the situation well; Tom was reliving Sunday whereas everyone else had no idea that the day had already occurred. Unfortunately, time loops were extremely rare, so none of the texts had conclusive evidence on how they were created and completed. The prevailing theory was that every time loop was gated on a predefined condition and ended once it was met, except predefined conditions could encompass anything.
It didn’t help that Tom had no recollection of creating a time loop. It also didn’t help that most documented cases of time loops were hardly more credible than urban legends. Tom could find only one case verified by firsthand and eyewitness accounts, that of an Englishman in the fifteenth century who was to be beheaded for treason and relived the hour before his execution until he was ready to face death.
(Which, in Tom’s opinion, was ridiculous. If this supposed wizard had that much time and talent, shouldn’t he try to avoid execution or escape?)
Having exhausted his stack of books, Tom returned to the Restricted Section to seek other relevant literature. He found nothing, as the shelves that might’ve held promising avenues currently housed only empty spaces.
“Madam Renfrew, if I may ask a question,” he said, approaching the librarian with a smile that best displayed his dimples.
“Of course,” she said, glancing up from her catalogue. “How may I help you, Mr. Riddle?”
“I’m doing a research project on the history of Time Turners and similar devices. A few of the books of interest to me appear to be checked out.”
“Ah, yes.” Madam Renfrew pushed her spectacles up her nose. “Another student has been interested in the same topic as of late…”
Tom nodded, careful to maintain eye contact. The librarian’s mind was organized like a mini-library, complete with mental notecards and signs. He traversed the aisles, examining the students who recently checked out books, and came upon the image of Harry Evans. Strange but polite boy, Madam Renfrew had noted. Albus likes him. Visits the library during class time.
Of course Evans would have something to do with this, Evans with his disregard for rules and obsession with the Restricted Section. Tom’s life had been normal until he showed up out of nowhere.
Tom redirected his magic to bring the books in Evans’ arms to sharper focus, in case any would be helpful. An Anthology of Time Magic; he had read a different edition of the book and found it too academic. The Lost Rites of Kairos; the author was well-known for her discoveries in time travel, but not in other fields of time magic. Stories of the Past: A Witch’s Dive into Roman Times; that sounded more like the trashy romances favored by Mrs. Cole than a legitimate research text.
Hmm, The Many Shapes of Tyme Magick; this book sounded and looked familiar. Hadn’t Evans been reading this very one when they first met? It might even be the exploding book, judging by its binding and thickness.
“...but I can let you know once the books are available again, probably early-to-mid next week.”
Tom slipped out of Madam Renfrew’s mind and plastered on a grateful expression. “That would be very helpful, thank you,” he said, even though waiting for Evans to return the books was pointless.
No matter. This conversation helped to identify a culprit — a very likely one, at that — for his predicament.
Tom left the library with a new resolve. Spy or Potter bastard or budding time wizard, he was going to confront Evans. He had no idea why Evans created a time loop, or how he proposed to get out of it, but this was one game for which he had no intention of participation.
Tom wasn’t familiar with Evans’ weekend schedule, but fortunately, he knew exactly where Evans would be.
“Hey Harry!” Prince shouted from the lawn. “Join us!”
“Maybe later!”
Outside the castle, Evans and Hagrid were again making their slow trek to the pumpkin patch. It didn’t take long for Tom to come within hearing distance, and thanks to the students milling around, neither Gryffindor noticed their new companion. Snatches of their conversations drifted back, carried by the spring breeze.
“I dunno,” Hagrid said, fiddling with his pink jumper. “Methinks ’s still too soon. Yeh promised I could keep me baby fer ’nother week.”
“That was before,” Evans said. His manner of speech was oddly toneless, as though he was distracted. “Someone at the school knows about Aragog and they will get you into trouble.”
“But —”
“This is also for Aragog’s own good. What do you think the school will do once they find out?”
Hagrid drooped. “He’s still so young…”
Evans reached up to squeeze his friend’s shoulder. “I’ve told you, Aragog will be all right,” he said, softening. “He’ll grow up to be big and fearsome and terrorize the forest with his children. And grandchildren and great-grandchildren.”
Hagrid perked at that. “You promise?”
“I promise,” Evans said firmly. “Now, about tonight —”
Absorbed in the eavesdropping, Tom accidentally crunched on a cluster of fallen twigs. Evans spun around, alert green eyes narrowing.
“Do you mind not eavesdropping for once, Riddle?” he said. “We’re trying to have a private conversation.”
“Harry!” Hagrid said in consternation. He tugged at Evans’ sleeve, but was shaken off.
“Hello Rubeus, pleasant day, isn’t it?” Tom said, offering him a friendly smile. “Evans, if you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you.”
“You can talk to me here. Since you don’t believe in privacy.”
Evans’ jaw was set, clearly unwilling to budge. Tom considered his options and decided he didn’t want to cause a scene.
“Very well, I want to talk to you about yesterday,” he said, keeping his wording vague.
Evans only shrugged. “You mean, you letting students be bullied under your watch? You should talk to a professor about that, not me.”
“That’s not all that happened,” Tom said evenly.
Evans took a few steps forward, leaving Hagrid out of earshot. “What do you mean?”
Was Evans being obtuse on purpose? His confusion seemed genuine. Holding that angry gaze, Tom gently scraped the surface of his mind. Annoyance, suspicion, concern for Hagrid…so far, nothing condemning, and certainly nothing that suggested his awareness that today had already occurred.
Tom tried to dive a little deeper and, to his surprise, came upon an Occlumency shield. He tested it with a light push. While it wasn’t strong, it was strong enough to alert Evans to Tom’s intrusion if he probed further.
All right, he needed to provoke Evans a bit more.
“How was your trip to the forest?” Tom asked. “Quite dangerous at night, isn’t it?”
In a flash, Evans was holding his wand, though he didn’t raise it. “Don’t tempt me, Riddle.”
“That seems uncalled for. We can have a civil conversation, Harry.”
Evans’ face spasmed, but his Occlumency shield remained in place. He took another step forward.
“If I recall,” he said in a low voice, “I made my position quite clear. You do not mess with me or my friends.”
“As long as you aren’t breaking rules,” Tom said. “It wouldn’t do to repeat the same mistake.”
Evans jerked at Tom’s usage of the word repeat, and right when Tom tried to dive back into his mind, Hagrid rushed to his friend’s side.
“Harry didn’ do nothin’!” he cried, throwing out an arm as a shield. “It was me fault. He’s on’y helpin’ me!”
“Hagrid, everything is all right,” Evans said, not looking away from Tom. His eyes were wide and nearly unblinking. “Neither of us is in trouble.”
“But Riddle said —”
“Riddle is full of dragon dung. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Eyebrows knitted, Hagrid glanced between the two of them, but wisely dropped his arm and quieted. Just in case, Tom scanned his thoughts. As expected, Hagrid’s only concerns were his acromantula and protecting Evans, nothing about the time loop. Thank Salazar, Tom would not want to be trapped with him.
“Is that all then, Riddle?” Evans said. “Because if you don’t mind, Hagrid wants to show me his new pumpkins.”
Tom hesitated. He wanted to keep testing Evans — he was making progress — but passing students were beginning to gawk at their trio. Admittedly they did look conspicuous, what with Evans holding his wand and Hagrid’s guilty face, but the attention was unwelcome.
“Of course not,” he said, smiling once more. “Go on and enjoy. It was great talking to you both,” he added for the benefit of bystanders.
Evans snorted. “Come on, Hagrid, let’s go. And Riddle?” His breath was so warm against his ear that Tom stifled a shudder. “Remember what I said. I’m not too worried about being expelled, if you catch my drift.”
With that last threat, Evans started hustling Hagrid toward Ogg’s cottage, Hagrid looking apologetically over his shoulder all the while.
Tom kept his polite smile until Evans and Hagrid had disappeared, and the curious crowd had dispersed. Then he let it drop and frowned.
Well, that was inconclusive.
On the one hand, Evans had deviated from his actions “yesterday,” not to mention he had reacted strongly to Tom’s insinuation about the forest and repeating mistakes. Both were incriminating.
On the other hand, Tom had instigated the whole confrontation, so he’d essentially forced Evans to go off-script. Besides, if Evans had picked up on Tom’s hints, he could’ve given some indication that he knew today’s yesterday was different from yesterday’s yesterday.
But then again, maybe Evans was being dense on purpose out of spite. That would be entirely in-character.
Tom groaned. This logical deduction could go on for a while. That was the issue when dealing with someone hot-tempered like Evans. The two of them operated on such different wavelengths that Tom had trouble reading him even with Legilimency. Any of his reactions could be chalked up to dislike, distrust, dishonesty, or a combination of all three.
And even if Evans was responsible, was there any guarantee that he knew how to get out of the loop, or that he would help Tom? Was there a chance Tom would relive 30th May, 1943 for eternity?
That was a sobering thought.
Tom plopped down in his nook by the lake and raked a frustrated hand through his hair, messing up his neat coiffure. The sun beamed down, surrounded by clouds in a familiar arrangement, and the Giant Squid thrashed his tentacles in the distance, causing familiar ripples of waves.
After running through several possible courses of action, he came to a decision. If Evans was responsible for the time loop, he had to slip up sooner or later. In the meantime, Tom would keep investigating other students or professors, in case someone else was responsible.
For better or for worse, he had plenty of time.
No culprit for the time loop presented themselves by dinnertime. Everyone’s thoughts were unremarkable, and while Tom would love to know whether Dumbledore was involved somehow, his Legilimency was no match for the older wizard’s Occlumency.
Out of ideas for the time being, Tom decided to retire to bed early. With any luck, today — or yesterday — was merely a very vivid dream, and he would wake up to Monday in less than twelve hours.
He did make two stops before that. His first stop was the entrance hall, because he hadn’t given up on the possibility that Evans knew about the time loop. If Evans was also reliving his day, he might choose a different time to meet Hagrid to avoid encountering Walburga. As a corollary, if he showed up at the original time, that was evidence for him not being in the time loop.
A wave of disappointment rolled over Tom upon finding Walburga and Evans locked in the same argument. How odd; it wasn’t as if he even wanted to be trapped in a time loop with Harry Evans.
He almost considered not intervening, just to see what would happen, but as soon as Walburga brandished her wand at Evans, he stepped forward like an actor responding to his cue. The words came out mechanically: the lie about the Rosiers; the reminder that the dance was starting.
As before, Walburga calmed down and left, but this time, Tom didn’t stay to talk to Evans and instead bade him a pleasant good night. He thought he detected a hint of disappointment on Evans’ face, but that might simply be wishful thinking.
His second stop was the prefects’ bathroom, because a bubble bath was much appreciated after a doubly long day. A perk of repeating today was that Tom got to try out different bathwater and bath bubbles. As it turned out, he rather liked jasmine-scented bathwater.
The candlelight in the chandelier overhead flickered and the mermaid giggled behind her hand. Ensconced in the warm comfort of his bath, Tom fell asleep in the marble tub.
When Tom woke up, he was back in his bed, and Monday did not arrive.
Once again, he tripped over Prince’s Gobstone — how did those things get everywhere?! — and suffered through another explanation of her limited edition Gobstones set. At least this time, she didn’t get a chance to accuse him of being uptight.
All right. New plan.
Tom was going to steal Evans’ exploding book.
In truth, he wasn’t certain that it would help, when none of the other library books did, but reasoned it couldn’t hurt. If something in the book caused the time loop, something in the book could end the time loop. That was the hope, anyway.
On the bright side, he had a prime opportunity tonight to sneak into the seventh-year boys’ dormitory. The Gryffindor prefects were lax about non-Gryffindor visitors and many of the older students would be attending the ball. Most importantly, Evans would be busy releasing an acromantula in the forest, which also meant he was unlikely to lug along a temperamental and heavy book. Not that being caught had real consequences for Tom if everything was going to reset, but always better to be safe than sorry.
The day passed by in a blur. Breakfast and lunch were quick, as there was only so much yammering on peacock feathers and crups Tom could handle. The rest of the time, he remained in the library, alternating between half-hearted Horcrux research and frantic time loop research. Neither was particularly productive.
After dinner, Tom found his way to Gryffindor Tower. A few sweet remarks to the Fat Lady about her portrait admirers later, Melinda was poking her curler-filled head out of the portrait hole.
“You were looking for me, Tom?” she asked.
“Yes. Abraxas left something here and asked me to retrieve it for him.”
Melinda winced at the mention of her ex-suitor. “What did he leave?”
“A book that came from his family library. He lent it to Harry Evans but needs to return it tonight.”
“A book?” she repeated, eyebrows raised. Abraxas wasn’t known to be an avid reader.
“Yes, for a class project. He sent me a note. See?”
Tom handed over a folded piece of parchment and she squinted. “These are scribbles.”
“Well, you know Abraxas’ handwriting,” Tom said, adding a long-suffering sigh for emphasis. In fact, he did just draw scribbles on some parchment with the Malfoy insignia, but honestly, the effect wasn’t too different from an actual note from Abraxas.
Melinda chewed her lip. “It’s not that I don’t want to help. It’s just that now is not the best time. Harry isn’t in the Tower and I’m in the middle of getting ready.”
“For the ball, yes. That gold is a lovely color on you.” It was ridiculous how the pure-bloods worked themselves up for a stupid political ball. “I can come inside and get it myself. I’ll be quick and we both know Prewett doesn’t mind visitors from Slytherin.”
He gave her a wink full of boyish charm, and she sighed. “All right, but be quick. Let yourself out if I’m gone by the time you finish.”
Tom thanked her and climbed inside the common room. It was the first time he saw the inside of Gryffindor Tower. As expected, everything was decked out in gaudy red and gold, lacking the elegance of green and silver, though Tom had to admit that he envied the open eastern view that the Gryffindors enjoyed.
Most of the common room was chatting amongst themselves, scrambling to finish their homework, or getting ready to Portkey to Malfoy Manor. The few who noted Tom’s presence were quickly reassured by his prefect’s badge.
Since Prewett and Shafiq were both attending the ball, and Longbottom was helping a few first-years with Herbology by the fire, the seventh-year boys’ dormitory was unoccupied. Tom wrinkled his nose at the mess: the dirty socks on the floor, the crumpled sheets on the bed, and the half-eaten snacks on the windowsill.
He easily picked out Evans’ bed, by virtue of it featuring the most battered trunk at its foot. As he approached, he was overcome by curiosity. Here was his opportunity to peek under Evans’ layers of mystery at last. Temporarily forgetting the original purpose of the visit, he rummaged through the trunk to see what Evans stored inside. Other than a huge stack of books, he found an odd assortment of trinkets. A broken shard from a mirror. Empty Potions vials. Patched and oversized Muggle clothes. And two halves of a broken wand.
Tom reached inside and touched the wand. Holly with a phoenix feather core, if he wasn’t mistaken, different from the hawthorn wand that Evans carried. Strangely, this wand hummed upon making contact, and his own wand trembled in response. He withdrew his hand, unsettled. That had never happened with any of his Knights’ wands.
He next turned his attention to the books. Most of them were secondhand textbooks — were the Potters too stingy to spend money on their bastard? — but at the very bottom of the stack, Tom found what he was looking for. The Many Shapes of Tyme Magick, its spine and cover still dented from the altercation in the bathroom.
With the book tucked in his schoolbag, Tom returned to the common room. Melinda and most of the ball attendees had left, so keeping a low profile, he climbed out of the portrait hole.
Before he could breathe a sigh of relief, someone ran almost headlong into him: Evans, who wasn’t accompanied by Hagrid and didn’t look freshly returned from a foray to the Forbidden Forest. He was coming from somewhere though, judging by his panting and sweating.
They blinked at each other. Evans recovered first. “What are you doing in Gryffindor Tower?” he demanded.
“Picking something up for Abraxas,” Tom replied. The timing was unfortunate, but by the time Evans noticed his theft, it would be too late, and the day was hours away from resetting anyhow.
“I see,” Evans said, and to Tom’s surprise, he didn’t remark further. As earlier, he seemed distracted. His eyes slid along the walls, as if searching before something, before snapping back to Tom. He opened his mouth, stopped himself, and gave his head a slight shake. “Good night, then.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Good night.”
Evans stepped aside to let Tom pass, and until he rounded the bend in the corridor, Tom was aware of Evans watching his every step.
The Magick of Tyme was decent bedtime reading. As its title suggested, it dealt with timeline manipulation, particularly more complex magic that changed timelines into different shapes towards different outcomes, including time loops.
Interestingly, this book theorized that unlike other forms of time magic, time loops were powered by emotions, and as a result, they were triggered by the desire of the caster. The fulfillment of that desire, the book continued, would complete the time loop and allow the affected wizards to leave.
The desire for what? Tom had his own desires, but most of them were either fleeting fancies, such as snogging Evans, or required long-term investment, such as taking over wizarding Britain. None seemed appropriate for triggering time loops.
And how could desires gate something as powerful as time loops, anyway? That sounded like rubbish that Dumbledore would come up with.
What a whole lot of bollocks, Tom thought, setting the book aside and turning out the light. Honestly, desires.
Well, tomorrow would be another today, and by then, he would think of a new plan.
The next morning was shaping up to be yet another unproductive Sunday, though for the first time, Tom managed to avoid tripping over a Gobstone. He exited the common room, too busy planning his day to notice his visitor at first.
Then he froze. Evans was waiting for him outside.
“Good morning, Riddle,” he said. His arms were crossed and his smile was humorless. “We need to talk.”
Chapter 7: Dare
Notes:
Thank you again for your support! This chapter was getting long, so I split it in two and aim to have the next part ready soon.
Hope you enjoy the update :)
Chapter Text
“What do you want to talk about?” Tom asked, feigning innocence.
“I think you know,” Evans said grimly. He turned to lead the way down the corridor, all but confirming Tom’s suspicions.
They made their way to the nearest classroom, the tension heightening with every step. By the time Evans locked the door behind them, Tom could no longer keep silent. He burst out, “This is all your fault, isn’t it?”
“My fault?”
“You trapped us in a time loop!”
There, the accusation was out in the open. To Tom’s satisfaction, Evans didn’t deny it, but to Tom’s annoyance, he displayed little guilt.
“You would’ve been fine if you’d simply left me alone,” he retorted, perching himself on a desk and crossing his legs. “So this is partially your fault. And why were you snooping through my belongings?”
“Figuring out how to get out of the loop, obviously.”
“So, did you?”
“Of course not,” Tom snapped. “I wouldn’t be here if I had.”
“Hmmm, that’s too bad. I thought I’d missed something.”
Evans’ nonchalance grated on Tom’s nerves, replacing his righteous anger with pure annoyance.
“Enough of this,” he said. “It’s time you tell me what’s going on.”
“We are already talking about it. My book trapped us in a time loop and neither of us knows how to get out.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Tom said, actively resisting the urge to hex Evans. “I mean it’s time you stop being so bloody mysterious and tell me what’s going on. With you.”
At that, Evans fixed Tom with a long, searching look. Tom could practically hear the cogs churning in his little Gryffindor brain.
“I’ve told you before, that’s none of your business,” Evans said.
“It’s very much my business,” Tom said. “You showed up out of nowhere, started doing clearly dangerous research with Dumbledore, and wanted to kill me for crimes I never committed. And now, you trapped us in this mess because of your own incompetence. Who are you, really?”
“No.”
“Tell me,” Tom hissed, so frustrated that he slipped into Parseltongue.
Unlike most people’s reaction to the language of serpents, Evans showed no surprise or fear. Instead, he tilted his head, as if he understood Tom’s words, though he remained stubbornly silent.
“Very well,” Tom said. “Here’s what I think. Whoever you are, you are at Hogwarts against your will, probably for reasons related to time magic, which is why you’re doing your research project, except you aren’t making the progress that you’re hoping for, so you’re becoming increasingly desperate. You may be related to the Potters, but for whatever reason, you refuse to reach out to them.”
Though Evans continued to stare instead of answering, Tom could gather from his facial spasms that he was on the right track.
“I know you dislike me,” Tom said, intentionally moderating his tone. Evans snorted at the understatement, but he forged on. “Maybe one of my ancestors wronged yours, or maybe you’ve heard vicious rumors about me. But I’m on your side. Whatever supposedly happened between us, I want to get out of the time loop as much as you do. I can help you.”
“You’re the last person I’d accept help from.”
“You don’t have much of a choice. No one else is in the time loop, so you’re stuck with me.”
That was a shot in the dark — Tom wasn’t positive that nobody else was in the loop — but judging from Evans’ scowl, he was right.
“There’s much I can offer,” Tom said, sensing victory close at hand, “I know the library better than anyone else at Hogwarts, including Dumbledore. I can even get us access to the libraries of any pure-blood family in Slytherin. If we work together, I’m certain we will be able to escape.”
In actuality, he was less confident about their likelihood of success, but he only needed Evans to believe in his value.
And Evans was indeed wavering. “What’s the catch?” he asked. “You never do anything out of the kindness of your heart.”
“I don’t,” Tom admitted, unabashed. “I expect you to be honest with me about who you are and why you’re dabbling in time magic. I expect you to answer my questions. In return, I promise that I’ll be honest with you.”
That last promise was a lie, but it wasn’t as though Evans could hold him to his word. Tom waited, breath bated, for Evans’ response.
“Okay,” Evans said, to Tom’s surprise, “but first, you must swear an Unbreakable Vow. I won’t tell you anything without one.”
“An Unbreakable Vow?” Tom repeated. “That’s preposterous! Nothing you tell me can warrant the usage of an Unbreakable Vow. Even the Minister for Magic doesn’t make those Vows.”
“Doesn’t matter. I won’t trust you with my secrets unless we make one.”
Tom folded his arms. “Then we are at an impasse.”
“I reckon so, and honestly it’s for the best,” Evans said, shrugging. “I don’t think you could handle the truth anyway. Your ego is too fragile.”
“Fragile?” Tom sputtered. “I’m not scared, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I guess you’d never know now. But hey, good luck with your research.”
Evans hopped off the desk and made his way to the classroom door, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. Tom clenched his hands. Did Evans cave in? Did Evans change his mind? Did Evans realize that Tom had the upper hand all along?
Evans did none of those things. “If I figure out a solution to the time loop,” he said with a smirk, “I might even bring you along. Assuming I’m in a good mood, of course. Good day, Riddle.”
Before Tom could think of a worthy comeback, Evans left.
Tom seethed throughout breakfast. Fragile ego? Unable to resolve the loop on his own? How dare Evans make so many unfounded and unfair assumptions!
He stabbed at his porridge. Who needed Evans’ help anyway? Tom was going to escape the time loop and let Evans suffer alone.
Another hour of fruitless research in the library later, Tom began to reconsider. There was no doubt that Evans had a treasure trove of secrets. What if he knew what gated the time loop? More importantly, what if he had information that would be beneficial to Tom post-loop? For example, he might know more about Tom’s family, because he understood Parseltongue. Or he might know more about Grindelwald, because there had to be a deeper reason for Dumbledore’s fondness.
And Unbreakable Vows didn’t necessarily work against him. They were by design unbreakable, but they required consent from both parties to properly bind. Tom could agree to it now and refuse later if Evans tried to impose unreasonable conditions. He might even be able to find loopholes down the line.
Making this deal with Evans was a risk, no question about it. Nevertheless, Slytherins were known for their ambition, and no ambition could be fully realized without some measure of risk-taking.
Tom found Evans sitting in the Quidditch stands, tossing and catching a Snitch. Above him, the members of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team were playing scrimmage. None of them flew as well as Evans, not that Tom was ever going to tell him.
He slid into the seat beside Evans. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”
Evans grunted, but at least didn’t move away. He threw the Snitch in the air, and it reflected the bright sunlight on its golden body before fluttering back to land on Evans’ palms.
“You’re not supposed to take Quidditch equipment without permission if you’re not on a House team,” Tom said. “I could take points off for stealing.”
“This is my Snitch,” Evans said. “Unlike you, I don’t steal.”
Tom bristled. “I don’t steal!”
In his opinion, it didn’t count as stealing if he didn’t get caught.
Evans scoffed. “You took my book without permission. By your definition, Mr. Prefect, that’s stealing.”
“There were extenuating circumstances.”
“Of course there were. In your world, rules don’t apply to you.” Evans tossed and caught the Snitch again. “People like you coast through life on charisma and conceit, make up rules to serve your own agenda, and end up ruining life for everyone else, all the while pretending to be good and noble. It makes me want to hex your perfect face off.”
“Hex my — you think my face is perfect?”
Evans shot him a death glare. “Are we done with small talk? What do you want, Riddle?”
Tom heaved a deep breath. “I’ll do it.”
“Do what?”
“I’ll take the Vow.”
“This is a pretty quick change of heart.”
“I decided I may have been hasty in my judgment.”
The corners of Evans’ mouth twitched. “So you are okay with this ‘preposterous’ request?”
“Yes,” Tom said, before he could change his mind, “but I reserve the right to refuse any condition that’s unreasonable.”
Evans tossed and caught the Snitch one last time, then stuffed it back in his pocket. “All right, then. You got some time?”
“Right now?”
“I know someone who can help us with the Vow.” He raised his eyebrows at Tom’s hesitation. “Unless you need more time to mentally prepare yourself?”
There was that challenging glint in Evans’ eyes again, that note of scorn in his tone just evident enough to raise Tom’s hackles.
He grabbed his schoolbag and stood first. “Let’s go.”
Tom bit back a scowl as Evans rapped his knuckles on Dumbledore’s office door. Of course Evans would choose Dumbledore to be the bonder.
His hopes that Dumbledore was elsewhere were dashed when the door swung open and the familiar voice answered.
“Ah Harry, how lovely —” Upon noticing Tom, Dumbledore’s smile faded and blue eyes hardened into ice. “Mr. Riddle.”
“Professor Dumbledore,” Tom returned, just as coldly.
“May we come in, professor?” Evans said. “There’s something we’d like to discuss with you in private.”
Dumbledore waved them inside. His office was bright and clean, filled with books, delicate instruments, and a cage housing his pet phoenix. Tom used to visit the office semi-regularly earlier in his career at Hogwarts, because Headmaster Dippet had wanted Dumbledore to help him acclimate to the magical world. It hadn’t taken long before both parties acknowledged that neither enjoyed these visits, so they tapered off and never restarted.
With a wandless gesture, Dumbledore locked the office door and Summoned two chairs. Evans sat down immediately and Tom followed suit cautiously, keenly aware of Dumbledore’s scrutiny.
After passing around a tin of sherbet lemons, from which Evans took a handful and Tom didn’t deign with a look, Dumbledore sat back in his chair. “Well, how may I help you boys?”
“We have a bit of a delicate situation,” Evans said. “As you know, I’ve been doing a lot of research in the Restricted Section.”
“Yes, you mentioned you were making some progress when we last spoke.”
“Right, I thought I was, but there’s been a slight mishap. One of the books reacted poorly to a, um, confrontation. I’m not clear on what exactly happened, but the result is that Riddle and I are caught in a time loop.”
There was a pause as Dumbledore took off his spectacles, rubbed the lenses against his robes, and replaced them.
“Are you quite sure that it is a time loop?” he asked. “Time loops are quite rare and, from my limited understanding, require much magic to initiate and sustain.”
“Quite sure,” Evans said. “I can prove it to you. I can tell you the headlines of all the articles in the evening Daily Prophet, what we’ll be having for lunch and dinner, what everyone will say or do. I can even tell you your schedule for the rest of the day.”
“I have no doubt you can, but that can also be achieved with advanced Legilimency and, if I may say, trickery.”
Evans smiled slightly. “I think you know me better than that, professor.”
Dumbledore returned the smile, conceding the point. “I don’t mean to doubt you, Harry. What you claim is quite extraordinary.”
“It’s all right. Actually, I had very similar conversations with you the past two days — er, loops.”
Dumbledore definitely wasn’t part of the loop then. Good.
“Ah, I have no recollection, so I do apologize.” Dumbledore stroked his beard. “Was I of much help in previous loops?”
“Somewhat. We discussed theories on what might end this time loop, but some of the conditions would be difficult to realize.”
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “But now, you believe that you have a breakthrough.”
“Sort of. Riddle and I just realized that we’re in the loop together, and he offered to help.”
“Tom Riddle wants to help you,” Dumbledore said with a hint of disbelief. He tossed Tom a glance, distrust and dislike all too evident on his lined face.
“Yes, but in exchange, he wants to know about…me.”
“Does he already…?”
Evans shook his head right away. “No, only suspicions.”
“Then are you sure that involving Mr. Riddle is wise, Harry? I understand that being trapped in a time loop is distressing, so you’re tempted to accept help from unlikely corners, but certain information will have dire consequences in the wrong hands. If it is help you seek, it is quite possible, even likely, that I can do so with more time, of which you have infinite.”
Tom’s heart thudded. Dumbledore was right that non-loopers could still offer substantial help. There were ways of passing knowledge across time loops between Evans and Dumbledore. Memories, for example, could be extracted into a Pensieve so knowledge gained in past loops could be shared.
“I thought about this, professor. It’s not just about the help. A few time magic books suggest that a time loop is gated on desires, and the fulfillment of that desire allows the loop to end.” Evans leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Remember what I shared with you when I first came to Hogwarts.”
A look was exchanged, laden with meaning.
“So you think that is the desire,” Dumbledore said slowly.
“Yes, and that’s why…I think we have an opportunity.”
Tom shifted in his seat, trying to hide his impatience. The conversation was flying over his head, and he hated being relegated to the sidelines.
Evans and Dumbledore were both looking at Tom now, Dumbledore with hostility and Evans with curiosity.
“I still don’t, I’m afraid, completely see how this plays in your favor in any way.”
“Riddle has promised to swear an Unbreakable Vow,” Evans explained. “I think that, if worded well, the Vow will be to everyone’s benefit once we get out of the loop.”
A twinkle reappeared in Dumbledore’s eyes, never a good sign for Tom. “I believe I understand what you seek to achieve now.”
“I do want to confirm one thing,” Evans said. “Would an Unbreakable Vow hold across loops, or would Riddle have to swear one every time?”
Tom’s fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, unsure what he wanted Dumbledore’s response to be. This could be a bona fide loophole, which would allow him to learn Evans’ secrets without being bound to secrecy. At the same time, a loophole would throw their collaboration into doubt, which would leave Tom with no secrets, and potentially, no means of escape.
“Good question,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “I believe that a Vow would still work, because it is tied to your magic which is not reset between loops.” Tom and Evans both relaxed. “In addition, I will retain the right to Obliviate Mr. Riddle should this not end up being the case.”
Tom’s jaw dropped. “You can’t — that’s illegal!”
“For the greater good, Mr. Riddle, I can and I will, even if it puts me at the mercy of the Wizengamot and the Board of Governors. Of course, if all goes well with the Vow, this should never come to pass.”
“But —”
Evans turned to Tom. “This is your last chance to back out.”
Tom swallowed. Instinct told him that he should back out, that he was giving up more than he was gaining with the Unbreakable Vow, but he was too far gone at this point. He held out his right hand.
“I’m ready.”
They faced each other across Dumbledore’s desk and clasped right hands. Dumbledore stood between them and raised his wand. The atmosphere was taut with anticipation.
“You may begin, Harry,” Dumbledore said.
Evans’ eyes bore into Tom’s. “Do you promise to do your best to get both of us out of the time loop?”
This was easy. “I do.”
A thin tongue of fire emitted from the end of Dumbledore’s wand and swirled around their clasped hands. Tom flinched, but despite the burning red color, the fire didn’t hurt.
In contrast, Evans did not seem perturbed in the least. He continued. “Do you promise to never share anything I tell you to anyone outside this room?”
This was painful. Tom was a big believer in delegating tasks to his Knights, and it would be harder to do so if knowledge could not be shared. It would also be much more difficult to leverage his new knowledge post-loop.
“I do.”
The tongue of fire thickened and coiled more tightly around their hands, illuminating Dumbledore’s sagging cheeks and Evans’ scrunched nose. Tom’s palm was starting to sweat.
Evans hesitated a beat before he plunged ahead with the third condition. “Do you promise to never use anything I tell you to harm others, particularly anyone of the Potter family?”
Tom’s head jerked to study Evans, reflecting the dancing firelight in the clear green of his eyes.
So the rumors had been true after all. Harry Evans was a Potter, who cared for his family enough that he would include this extra clause, little sense though it made. While the Potters had been blasted out of the Sacred Twenty-Eight for consorting with Muggles and Muggle-borns, without the foresight of covering their tracks as the Malfoys had done, Tom harbored no strong feelings against them.
The fire licked at their joined hands and the room was growing more stifling by the second. Evans — no, Potter now — was waiting and Dumbledore was twinkling.
This Vow was definitely a terrible idea. Tom recalled his earlier resolution; he could still end it now.
“I do.”
Potter’s face was alight with triumph. The fire burned even more brightly as it wove around them in a final complicated pattern. The magic surged through Tom’s body, sealing his words into the strongest promise a wizard could make.
In the aftermath of the Vow, Tom and Potter gazed at each other.
“Now, Harry Potter,” Tom said, savoring the sound of Potter’s real name. “Please enlighten me.”
Chapter 8: Truth
Notes:
Thank you again for your support! Here’s the second part of Truth or Dare. Hope you enjoy the update :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“You’re a Potter,” Tom said. “A true Potter.”
“I’m sure Walburga will be sorely disappointed that I’m not a bastard,” Potter said dryly.
“If you’re not a bastard, why are you so averse to meeting Charlus?”
Tom would definitely milk a powerful Slytherin relative for all his worth.
Potter frowned. “I’m not sure this is relevant.”
“You must’ve included the Potters in your Vow for a reason,” Tom pointed out. “You promised to answer my questions honestly and I’d expect a Gryffindor to live up to his end of the bargain.”
His appeal to Potter’s Gryffindor pride worked. Potter became contemplative.
“The thing is, I’m not sure where to even begin. There’s just so much —” He chewed his bottom lip. “Professor, could we please borrow your Pensieve? I think it’s easier if I show Riddle.”
Eagerness shot through Tom. A Pensieve was such an excellent idea that he should’ve thought of it. Seeing Potter’s memories firsthand would be far more engaging and revealing than a long sequence of questions and answers.
Dumbledore had misgivings about this plan, judging by his body language as he helped Potter prepare the Pensieve behind a privacy bubble. The two of them kept disagreeing, presumably over which memories to share. Tom drummed his fingers against the armrests of his chair. If he’d known it would take this long, he would’ve brought a book. Or a snack; breakfast porridge was over an hour ago.
At long last, the privacy bubble burst.
“All set,” Potter said. He glanced up from the Pensieve, in which he’d deposited the last strand of memory. “Would you like to start?”
“Yes,” Tom said, rising immediately.
“Take the time you need,” Dumbledore said, adding with an undertone of warning, “Mr. Potter and I will observe your progress closely.”
Tom bent over the Pensieve. The silvery liquid inside swirled, beckoning him closer. “Should I just…?”
“Go on,” Potter said. “The memories will guide you.”
Tom dove in.
While Tom understood the concept of a Pensieve, he’d never used one. In comparison to Legilimency, it came with a loss of control, giving him the sensation of freefalling from the sky to an unknown destination.
Eventually, he landed on solid ground, and the whir of the wind around him settled into a familiar voice saying, very gravely, “It begins, I suppose, with — with a person called — but it’s incredible yeh don’t know his name, everyone in our world knows —”
Tom surveyed his new surroundings. He was in a crumbling shack in the middle of the sea, the air imbued with the scent of cooked sausages and putrid seawater. Hagrid and Potter sat talking on a sofa, while three Muggles cowered some distance away, looking upon the duo with a mixture of bale and fear.
Finding the Muggles unworthy of attention, Tom turned to Hagrid and Potter. Something about them was amiss, and it took a moment to realize why. Hagrid looked to be at least three or four decades older, most of his face hidden behind a large beard threaded with gray, whereas Potter looked much younger, his cheeks still round with childhood and the shadows under his eyes much lighter. And he had even worse fashion sense, judging by the oversized shirt and taped-together glasses.
“Voldemort.” Tom stiffened and crept closer. “Anyway, this — this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too — some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right…”
Hagrid had to be talking about Tom; Voldemort could refer to no one else.
“He was taking over. ’Course, some stood up to him — an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o’ the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of…”
Tom circled the sofa, mind racing. Based on what Hagrid was saying, Voldemort had started ascending to power twenty years ago. Together with Hagrid’s older appearance and Potter’s young appearance, there was only one explanation, implausible though it might seem.
Potter was from the future, a future in which Tom’s dreams of becoming Voldemort had come to fruition.
Hagrid continued droning on, moving from Voldemort to Potter’s parents. “Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em...maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an’ — an’ —” He paused to blow his nose. “You-Know-Who killed 'em.”
Because of you, my parents died and I never got to know them.
“An' then — an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing — he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut.”
Because of you, I’ve had this stupid thing marking me my whole life.
Potter’s accusations made perfect sense now. Tom had murdered his parents; he’d tried and somehow failed to murder him as a baby.
Chills ran down Tom’s back. The concept of murder never bothered him, since any route to power necessitated bloodbath, but he’d never expected to come face-to-face with one of his future victims in this manner.
“But what happened to Vol —, sorry — I mean, You-Know-Who?” Young Potter asked.
“Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see…he was gettin’ more an’ more powerful — why’d he go?”
With that last question, Hagrid’s voice faded, along with the shack.
The next memories came in a quick succession:
An underground chamber, where a perfect replica of Tom — down to the proud posture, the strand of hair curling over his forehead in just the right way, and the location of his prefect badge on his school uniform — loomed over a scraped-up Potter. “Voldemort,” he said, and how disorienting it was to hear his own voice from another mouth, “is my past, present, and future.”
A barely furnished room, where a woman with giant glasses whispered to a startled Dumbledore: “...the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…and either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives…”
A tall dark figure towering over a pleading woman with familiar green eyes, commanding her to stand aside. “Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead…” she cried, shielding the crib behind her as her world exploded in green light.
An older and fatter Horace Slughorn in his office, dodging Potter’s none-too-subtle questions about Tom Riddle’s school days.
A wizened Dumbledore, telling Potter: “He disappeared after leaving the school…sank so deeply into the Dark Arts, consorted with the very worst of our kind, underwent so many dangerous, magical transformations, that when he resurfaced as Lord Voldemort, he was barely recognizable…”
Tom felt as though he was watching a montage about the wizard he would one day become, but those secondhand snippets weren’t enough. He wanted to see for himself what Lord Voldemort was like.
Dumbledore’s office gave way to a graveyard, filled with ill-maintained tombstones and the occasional mausoleums. A gleam of light in the distance drew Tom’s attention. On his way there, he stepped through a heap of something that turned out to be a young man lying on the ground and staring unseeingly at the dark sky. Inches away from his hand lay a trophy cup on its side.
Not Potter, Tom noted with relief. He tore his eyes away and continued forward.
He found Potter tied to a headstone: older but still scrawny, arm bleeding from a fresh wound, and eyes filled with horror as he stared at a large cauldron, illuminating the night with bright sparks. No doubt a ritual of some sort was in progress.
Tom peeked inside. Was it his imagination, or was there something submerged inside the liquid, something resembling a misshapen baby?
Just then, the sparks disappeared. Instead, the cauldron began to billow white smoke. Right before his eyes, a figure rose, skeletal and nude.
“Robe me,” it hissed.
A bumbling one-armed wizard hurried into sight to follow the order. As the mist shrouding the figure dissipated to reveal its face, Tom stumbled back and almost lost his footing in this memory world. He’d never seen such an inhuman visage: scarlet eyes, flat nose with snake-like slits, and a hairless skull that shone bone-white. Even the body was abnormally proportioned, like a sculpture gone wrong and inexpertly remediated.
With a sick fascination, he watched the figure create a silver hand for his servant and summon a group of masked wizards to the graveyard. However, it wasn’t until the figure began a mocking speech in Potter’s honor that cold realization shot through him.
No. This could not be possible.
This travesty couldn’t be him, couldn’t be Lord Voldemort.
What happened to his hair? What happened to his nose ? Even his voice was different, so shrill and high-pitched, as opposed to the lovely baritone Tom had cultivated with puberty.
Nor was his appearance the only source of Tom’s distaste. There was something rather pathetic about the wizard who’d once brought wizarding Britain to its knees.
Maybe it was the fact that barely a dozen followers arrived in response to his call, as opposed to the hundreds and thousands he supposedly had under his influence.
Or the fact that he delivered a long monologue on his convoluted plans to taunt a teenaged boy to disguise his own insecurities.
Or perhaps the fact that he tortured Potter, failed to Imperio Potter, then insisted on a mockery of a duel to flatter his own ego, whereas it would’ve been more efficient to kill Potter outright.
Tom had always envisioned Lord Voldemort would channel Alexander the Great or Napoleon at his prime: a warrior first and foremost, who dominated and inspired through magical prowess. This petty creature resembled a circus clown.
Voldemort and Potter began their duel, and against all odds, Potter was holding his own against the much more experienced wizard. To make up for his limited repertoire of spells and underdeveloped magic, he called upon his agility, reflexes, and clever use of surroundings.
No wonder his dueling style was so intense. He’d literally dueled for his life before. Multiple times, at that. Walburga and Linus were child’s play in comparison.
“Expelliarmus!”
“Avada kedavra!”
Potter and Voldemort’s spells crisscrossed to create a giant golden web, and under its glow, the graveyard dissolved —
Replaced by yet another quick succession of memories:
The atrium of the Department of the Mystery, where Lord Voldemort and Dumbledore engaged in a fierce duel that ended in a narrow victory for the latter.
Soaring above the nightscape of England where Voldemort and Potter waged an aerial battle, resulting in Potter’s wand consuming Voldemort’s in a spurt of golden fire to anguished shrieks: “Mine!”
A voice reverberating through the stones of Hogwarts: “Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you shall be rewarded…”
Even when separated by the decades, Tom could discern the frustration and desperation in Voldemort’s ultimatum.
The flow of memories slowed once more:
Tom was deposited in a small clearing. He was in the Forbidden Forest, if he wasn’t mistaken, where Voldemort and his followers had set up a base. It was eerily silent. Voldemort’s followers seemed too scared to even breathe, whereas the Dark Lord himself gazed into the distance, crimson eyes blazing with anticipation.
Seconds elapsed, then minutes. All was still in the forest save the occasional breeze and creature dashing by.
Voldemort spoke, disappointment evident in his tone, “I was, it seems, mistaken…”
“You weren’t,” Potter said.
He’d appeared out of nowhere, and ridiculously, he was by himself, unarmed save for the wand in his hand, which he didn’t even raise in self-defense.
He’d come to surrender, Tom realized. Rather, he’d come…to die.
The idiot.
Triumph overcame Voldemort’s snakelike features. “Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.”
Realizing what Voldemort was going to do before he even raised his wand, Tom opened his mouth in a silent cry.
“Avada kedavra!”
The green light pierced Potter’s body and Tom was falling, falling, falling —
And then, he was back in Dumbledore’s office, slumped over the Pensieve and gasping for breath.
Tom took a few moments to collect himself. When he finally raised his head, Potter and Dumbledore were both staring at him. His eyes flew to Potter’s forehead, to the lightning bolt-shaped scar just visible beneath the bangs, which had taken on new significance. His fingers itched to touch it, touch Potter and check whether he was real.
“Uh, Riddle?” Potter said tentatively. “Are you —”
“You’re dead!” Tom blurted.
Potter rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, sort of, but not exactly.”
“But I killed you. I saw.” The words left an unpleasant aftertaste on Tom’s tongue, like dining hall gruel at Wool’s. “How are you alive? How are you here?”
“Um, that’s a bit complicated, and I don’t quite understand myself.”
“Tell me.”
“Um well, after you, er, killed me, I somehow ended up in limbo. It’s like some place between life and death, and everyone has their own version. Mine looks like King’s Cross Station.”
How predictably banal. If Tom was ever to go into limbo, Salazar forbid, he would make sure it was grandiose enough to put Malfoy Manor and Rosier Castle to shame.
“Anyway,” Potter continued, “my Dumbledore, who actually did die, was there. We caught up, settled some differences, and he suggested quite strongly that in fact, I’m not dead, and I have two choices. I could move on to the afterlife, or I could choose to keep fighting Voldemort.”
Tom leaned forward. “And…?”
“And I took the wrong train.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“It’s a train station,” Potter said, affecting a tone of exaggerated patience. “Dumbledore said some mumble jumble about making choices and boarding trains. I knew I wanted to go back and fight Voldemort. A train came, I got on, and ended up here instead of the forest.”
“How dense do you have to be to take the wrong train?” Tom demanded.
“Of course I can bloody well take the wrong train,” Potter snapped back. “You think the trains in limbo are labeled? Hey, this one goes to The-Forest-Where-You-May-Die-Again and this one goes to The-Past-Where-You-Are-Harassed-By-Your-Archenemy.”
“There must’ve been some signage,” Tom said, ignoring Dumbledore’s chuckles.
“None whatsoever, and Dumbledore had disappeared by then.”
Tom shook his head. “This goes to show that you can never count on Dumbledore.”
“Oh trust me, I know,” Potter said, with unusual bitterness. “It won’t be the first time he deliberately withheld information from me.” All of a sudden, he remembered his audience. “Er, no offense meant, professor.”
“None taken,” Dumbledore said cheerfully, waving away Potter’s embarrassment. “I can be quite infuriating, I’ve been told. It appears I didn’t improve in my old age.”
Tom threw him a dirty look. At least, this tiresome man would be dead within the next several decades. That day couldn’t come soon enough.
“So that’s how you ended up here,” he said, turning back to Potter. “You time traveled from the future.”
That was another sequence of words he never expected to say.
Potter nodded. “You can imagine why I might not want to alarm dear great-uncle Charlus by saying hello.”
“And that’s why you want me to leave the Potters alone. You want to make sure you’re still born so you can try to kill me in fifty years.”
“Well, you heard the prophecy. I’m your downfall. Incidentally, this brings us to the subject of the time loop. Remember how it’s gated on my desire?” Tom nodded slowly. Potter had adopted a half-grin, which was unnerving. “Well, now you know quite well what my greatest desire is.”
“I do?”
“You do. I even told Abraxas,” Potter said, deadpan.
The new transfer student wants to kill you.
Tom blanched. No, Potter had to be joking. There had to be a mistake. The trigger to end the time loop couldn’t be his own death.
But the prophecy in Potter’s memory was rather unambiguous on that front, wasn’t it? Either must die at the hand of the other. They were destined to fight each other until one was left standing.
And Potter couldn’t die, not when he controlled the loop, which could only mean —
Bloody hell, the Unbreakable Vow was a trap after all. Tom had essentially agreed to help Potter kill himself.
Tom didn’t realize he was gripping his wand in self-defense until Potter burst out laughing.
“Relax, I’m not going to kill you,” he said. He and Dumbledore both looked too amused at Tom’s expense. “Even if I do, I doubt you will remain dead given the time loop, and anyway, I said I want to kill Lord Voldemort, not you.”
“But I am Lord Voldemort.”
In response, Tom received a huge eye-roll. “This is a basic time travel principle,” Potter said, as if Tom were a particularly slow child. “We’re from different timelines, so killing you won’t help mine.”
“And how would you know?”
“Easy. If we are from the same timeline, then the Voldemort I know should remember me from his school days, and he clearly doesn’t.”
Fair enough, Tom did read something along those lines during the past two days of time magic research. Something to do with time travel paradoxes.
“So don’t worry, you’re safe,” Potter said. “Killing you will just delay my return, since killing another student probably comes with a lot of paperwork.
“And an Azkaban sentence,” Dumbledore added severely, eyes on Tom instead of Potter.
Tom loosened the grip on his wand a tad. The knowledge that he belonged to a different timeline didn’t reassure him as much as it should have.
“So you don’t want to kill me,” he said, just to make sure.
“Nah, one Voldemort is enough for me,” Potter said. “Go burden another Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. You aren’t my problem. Er, sorry professor.”
“No matter,” Dumbledore said. “This won’t be my problem either, once the loop resets, the one silver lining to the knowledge that I will soon cease to exist.”
Tom lowered his wand. “Well, if it’s not killing me, what will end the time loop?”
Potter scratched his chin. “What I want more than anything else is to get back to the future and finish my battle with Voldemort. This is what Professor Dumbledore and I agreed on during the previous loop.”
“Do you realize how impossible that is?” Tom said. “First of all, there’s the question of how to get you back to the future.”
“It’s a good thing you agreed to help me, isn’t it? Since you’re oh-so-resourceful when it comes to libraries and research.”
“But more importantly,” Tom continued, ignoring the jab, “how are you going to defeat Voldemort? You didn’t even put up a fight when he killed you!”
Potter pressed his mouth into a thin line and gave Dumbledore a strange glance before he answered, “I had to die. It was part of the plan.”
“Even assuming your crackpot plan actually works,” Tom said, “your Voldemort is not just waiting around for you.” Indeed, that was a ridiculous mental image, Voldemort and his followers setting up tents in the forest while waiting for Potter to return to life. “He’s probably taken over Britain and hunted down all your friends by now. And you’re going to defeat him and his army on your own?”
“Let’s start by figuring out a way to get me back to the future,” Potter said, subdued. “That may be enough to end the loop. Everything that comes after…well, I’ll worry about it later. I’ve overcome pretty bad odds in the past.”
“You’re setting yourself up for failure.”
“Guess you should’ve thought through everything before you signed up for this adventure.”
Tom glowered.
“This has been a most enthralling discussion, but if I may suggest something,” Dumbledore cut in. “Now that Mr. Riddle has seen Mr. Potter’s memories, perhaps you would prefer to continue your conversation elsewhere.”
“Sorry, professor,” Potter said. “I know we took up a lot of your time and you have some meetings later.”
“That’s no matter at all. My other engagements are, quite literally, inconsequential under the circumstances, and I’m certainly happy to regroup later if that would be helpful. I merely believe my usefulness is now quite limited and some words are better exchanged in private. Before I send you on your way, however, are there any questions I can help answer?”
Potter shook his head, but Tom leaned forward.
“Yes, actually. Do you know which resurrection ritual I used? You know, the one in the graveyard?”
Potter choked. “And how, precisely, is that relevant?”
“I lost my nose and hair. Do you think that’s because of the ritual?”
“That’s what traumatizes you? As opposed to the fact that you, oh I dunno, committed mass murder?”
“It was a fair question!” Tom said defensively.
In fact, it was an exceedingly relevant question. If he lost his looks because of the resurrection ritual, he needed to look up better immortality strategies. Mass murder wasn’t ideal, but it couldn’t be avoided. But losing his Grecian nose, that had to be avoidable.
Honestly, Potter should be more understanding, giving his appreciation of Tom’s perfect face.
Potter flexed his hands, as if itching to wrap them around Tom’s neck. Dumbledore coughed.
“While Mr. Riddle asked, er, a fair question, I confess that I don’t know what caused Lord Voldemort’s appearance to change. It could be the ritual, the dark magic he indulged in, or a myriad of other factors.”
“It’s definitely not only the ritual,” Potter put in. “You were already kind of ugly before I turned you into a wraith. Just so you know.”
“You’re lying.”
“Nope, I told you your ego is too fragile.”
“Voldemort should’ve finished his job properly!”
“Boys, please.” Dumbledore held up his hands in a placating gesture, though his mouth was quivering with amusement. “Mr. Riddle, we unfortunately don’t have a definite answer for you, but I daresay your probability of retaining your current appearance is higher if you take better care of your soul which, I should remind you, does persist from loop to loop. Any other questions?”
As a matter of fact, Tom had quite a few more, but Potter was looking more murderous by the second and his stomach chose that moment to rumble loudly.
“Ah, it must be lunchtime, and you both have much to digest,” Dumbledore said, chuckling at his own pun. “I propose that you take time to enjoy lunch and think over your next steps. Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if I can be of further guidance before the day is over.”
“Thank you again for all your help, professor,” Potter said, while Tom said nothing. Dumbledore wasn’t going to remember this exchange in any case, so why bother with faux politeness?
“Certainly. I wish the best to the two of you and my future iterations,” Dumbledore said. “Any sherbet lemon for the road?”
He was politely refused by Potter and unceremoniously refused by Tom.
They parted in front of the Great Hall, having exchanged few words since leaving Dumbledore’s office.
“I’m starving,” Potter said. “I’ll be in the library after dinner. Once you get your head out of your arse, you can come find me.”
“Why after dinner? Why not after lunch?”
“Hagrid will be disappointed if he doesn’t get to show me his pumpkins.”
“You’ve already seen them twice, and he’s going to forget and show them all over again tomorrow.”
“I already promised him this morning, I don’t want to disappoint him,” Potter said. “Besides, what if we get out of the loop tonight? Then Hagrid will remember me going back on a promise.”
“Fine, if you insist,” Tom said, rolling his eyes at the stupid Gryffindor logic. “I’ll see you in the library after dinner.”
Lunch was halfway over by the time Tom took his seat at the Slytherin table, which was fine by him, since it allowed him to eat and reflect on the morning with few interruptions.
It annoyed him that the time loop wasn’t within his control. If it were, he could see a lot of uses for unlimited time. Perfect Horcruxes, for one. Find the Chamber of Secrets at last. Finish Hogwarts curriculum so he could take more advanced classes next year.
Oh, and definitely find a better resurrection ritual as backup.
As it were, he still saw benefits in helping Potter. Knowledge of the future was always useful. Even if he couldn’t use it for world domination due to the Vow, he could use it to gain political favor. Potter’s memories implied that Grindelwald wouldn’t be around for much longer, which would leave a perfect power vacuum for Tom.
Who knew? Once he earned Potter’s trust, Potter might reveal other useful things as well. The possibilities were endless.
Yes, Tom was very much looking forward to working together.
Notes:
Harry showing Tom his memories has been done many times. I thought about skipping it, but felt that it was important for character and plot development. Anyway, I hope my version wasn’t completely boring.
Dumbledore was unclear about how Harry could leave limbo and return to the forest. In canon, it just mysteriously happened; in Game, I had Harry take the wrong train because he was confused.
Hopefully, this chapter shed more light on why we ended up with a time loop in a time travel fic. Since we already have lots of amazing fics where Harry goes back in time to redeem or kill Tom, I wanted a jaded Harry who just wants to go home and a confused Tom who’s roped in to help. A time loop is a fun (and silly) way for them to overcome their differences to work together.
Thank you for staying along on this ride!
Citations: in Harry’s memories, Hagrid’s lines are directly quoted from The Philosopher’s Stone; later lines use snippets from The Chamber of Secrets, The Goblet of Fire, The Order of the Phoenix, and The Deathly Hallows.
Chapter 9: Icebreakers
Notes:
My summer holiday is over, so I’m dialing back the update schedule. On a positive note, we’re halfway through the story and I also have a future snippet on my Tumblr in case you’re interested.
Thank you everyone for your continued support — knowing you enjoy the story gives me the motivation to write after long exhausting days.
Hope you enjoy the update :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When Tom went to the library after dinner, Potter was already seated at a table, presiding over two stacks of books while twirling a quill.
“Good evening, Harry,” Tom announced, sitting down across from him.
“I prefer Potter, thank you very much.”
“We should start our partnership on the right foot, don’t you think? Besides, your last name confuses me. What if it changes again?”
“Why would it — never mind.” Harry gestured at the books, apparently deciding going on a first name basis wasn’t worth arguing over. “Here’re all the books I have found on time magic. You start with these, and I’ll take care of the rest.”
A marked discrepancy existed between the size of the two piles. Namely, Harry’s stack was half the size of Tom’s.
“Why must I do all the reading?” Tom said, taking stock of his books, which came in an assortment of sizes and bindings. Though he was a fast reader, they would take him ages to absorb.
“You need to catch up to me.”
“Catch up? There’s no possible way you’ve already gone through them all,” Tom said in disbelief. He spotted only a few whose titles he recognized, and a handful that seemed familiar after years of browsing the Restricted Section. The rest were completely foreign. Where did Potter even find these?
Harry shrugged in false modesty. “I had a very productive month.”
“Have you done any classwork?”
“It’s Sunday, Tom. And it’s going to be Sunday tomorrow. And the day after. Of course I’m not going to do any classwork.”
“That’s not what I meant. Even before this whole loop business, you hardly ever went to class.”
Harry tilted his head. “How would you know?”
“Professors talk about it,” Tom lied. “They’re concerned that you won’t pass your N.E.W.T.s.”
“Do you think my grades here matter once I go back to the future? Do you think Voldemort would be impressed I got an O on my Potions N.E.W.T. in 1943?”
Tom didn’t know about Voldemort, but he certainly would be impressed. “How are you Voldemort’s downfall?” he wondered aloud.
“Turned out Voldemort only had two options, and he picked me.”
Tom shook his head in disapproval. Maybe Voldemort and the Seer should’ve done more due diligence before they anointed Harry. Surely Voldemort’s other option took his or her studies more seriously.
“In any case, you’re one to lecture on extracurricular research,” Harry added, a coy smile playing at his lips, “given your own interest in girls’ bathrooms past midnight.”
“It’s not what you think —” Tom began, then narrowed his eyes. Now that Harry had been exposed as a time traveler, his strange behaviors pre-time loop took on a less innocent hue. “You weren’t actually lost all these times, were you? You were messing with me on purpose.”
“I was pretty proud of that Flooding Spell. Wasn’t easy to get right. Peeves was easy to bribe though.”
“I thought I wasn’t your problem,” Tom accused. “I thought you were only worried about your Voldemort.”
“My research was taking more time than expected, so I figured I’d do what I could to help in the meantime.” Harry tapped his watch. “And speaking of time, do you mind, Tom? We have a few hours before curfew and I’d like to use them productively.”
Tom huffed loudly, just to annoy him, and reached for the topmost book on his stack.
Unsurprisingly, they didn’t find a way to end the time loop on that first night. Nor the day after.
They did, however, settle into a routine in which they spent their non-meal times together in the library. Thanks to the nature of time loops, few noticed their newfound rapport, and the stray curious look they received from time to time wouldn’t matter in twelve hours, give or take.
Most of the time, they read in silence, but at regular intervals, they paused to discuss new findings or theories. Progress was uneven, to say the least, especially as they took pleasure in knocking down each other’s theory.
“Time Turners are highly regulated,” Harry said, eliminating one of Tom’s first suggestions straightaway. “Dumbledore told me that none of the professors has one, so unless a student snuck one into the school, we will need to break into the Department of Mysteries. And trust me when I say that’s not easy.”
“That’s more plausible than building your own time machine,” Tom retorted, jabbing at the schematic that Harry had drawn based on some Babylonian wizard’s research. “You won’t be able to source half the materials in twenty-four hours, not to mention that some of the runes require days to mature.”
As the loops progressed, their theories became increasingly fantastical.
“Astral projection sounds like something my Aunt Petunia’s nutter neighbor was into,” Harry said, jabbing at Tom’s notes on soul magic. “She was all about this new age rubbish and kept trying to sell everyone crystals. I truly doubt my soul can use the astral plane to traverse timelines, and besides, I rather like having my soul tethered to my body.”
“You can’t reverse-engineer how you got to limbo unless you’re willing to die again,” Tom retorted in turn. “And even if that actually works and you do return to limbo, what if you take the wrong train again?”
“The day would reset, wouldn’t it? So I potentially get an infinite number of chances.”
“Or any mistake would further destabilize the time loop, and we would be forced back to square one.”
They both slumped in their seats, having eliminated each other’s pet theory of the day in less than ten minutes. Time magic research, as it turned out, consisted of endless rabbit holes.
Tom was starting to miss his bathroom investigations; he was even starting to miss listening to his housemates talk about peacock feathers and crups. At least they didn’t incense him with the same level of frustration.
“You know, you did make one interesting point,” Harry said, smoothing down his crumpled notes. His handwriting, Tom had learned, was only marginally better than Abraxas’. “We haven’t thought about how time travel would interact with time loops. That could complicate things.”
“I make plenty of interesting points, and go on.”
“What if we figure out a way to travel to some point in time before we created the time loop? Does that eliminate the time loop, or does that create some paradox where we end up with multiple time loops? Or is that completely pointless, because traveling back in time isn’t my heart’s desire?”
Trying to reason through Harry’s questions hurt Tom’s brain. Trust a Gryffindor to find the most outlandish edge cases.
“Let’s hope this serves as a lesson,” he bit out. “Bad things happen to those who mess with time.”
Harry had the cheek to chuckle. “My best friend Hermione used to say the same thing. Brightest witch in my year. Funnily enough, you sometimes remind me of her.”
Tom narrowed his eyes, sensing but unable to identify the backhandedness to the compliment.
“Maybe we should get Dumbledore’s opinion on what we’ve found so far,” Harry said. “He might have some pointers.”
Tom wrinkled his nose with distaste. In his mind, this was his and Harry’s personal project. Nobody else should get involved, least of all his hated Transfigurations professor. Old resentment bubbled.
“How would Dumbledore know anything?” he demanded. “He’s already forgotten everything you told him about the loop.”
“With a Pensieve, it won’t take long to catch him up on the situation, and he was already helping me look into time travel before the loop.”
“Why do you trust him, anyway? Sounds like he withheld some pretty important information from you. I would think you’d be a little more cynical about him.”
“In case you haven’t realized, I’m short on options. That’s why we’re here. I’m well aware Dumbledore has his flaws.”
“Do you? You act as though he knows everything.”
Harry glanced up from his scribbles, his gaze direct and serious. “I know he doesn’t. He’s made plenty of mistakes, especially with regards to you.”
“Because you think he should throw me into Azkaban before I become a full-fledged evil overlord?”
“No, because he sort of let you down. He judged you too quickly and never gave you a chance. I think that’s a shame.”
Harry’s tone was matter-of-fact. The bitter taste in the back of Tom’s throat receded, and something warm, something unfamiliar settled in the pit of his stomach. This was the first time someone had ever…stood up for him, roundabout though it might be.
“On second thought, I won’t bother him yet,” Harry said. “We should have at least a few concrete theories that don’t involve magical crystals and time-traveling trains first. It would be annoying explaining the time loop all the time.”
Tom shrugged and pretended to flip through his book. “Suit yourself.”
Silence descended upon them. As Tom took notes on a Romanian witch’s treatise on twisting timelines, he found that his self-righteous anger had disappeared. However, the fuzzy feeling in his stomach remained.
The library was always particularly empty during early Sunday afternoon as students worked off heavy lunches with afternoon naps or outdoors strolls. Sunshine streamed through the windows, lending an extra sparkle to the overhead chandeliers.
Tom was feeling the effects of an ill-advised second helping of shepherd’s pie. Normally he wouldn’t eat something so heavy, but after weeks of repeating the same menu, he’d gotten tired of the other dishes. At least, he was free to indulge in his food cravings without compromising his waistline.
In contrast, Harry was by all appearances engrossed in his reading. Despite his lackadaisical attitude towards academics, he was a dedicated researcher. Unfortunately for him, Tom refused to suffer alone.
Tom yawned, loudly and obnoxiously. “Tell me something about the future.”
Harry’s eyes flicked up from his reading. “Why? So you can destroy it?”
“How would I do that?” Tom widened his eyes innocently. “Your Vow ensured that I can’t use your knowledge to hurt others.”
Harry’s suspicion only deepened. “I don’t think so.”
“C’mon,” Tom urged, leaning forward. “This is for intellectual curiosity only. Tell me something. Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Anything.” Casting a wide net was a good approach when he didn’t know what he didn’t know. Even the most random nugget of information could become leverage.
Harry sighed and laid down his book. “Ireland will win the Quidditch World Cup in 1994 even though Bulgaria will catch the Snitch.”
Never mind, Tom had underestimated Harry’s penchant for undermining him. “Why would I care about a game in 1994?”
“In fifty years, you can make a good amount of money by betting on this game.”
In fifty years, Tom would have all the influence and wealth at his disposal. A stupid World Cup wouldn’t be on his radar.
“Tell me something useful.”
Harry made a great show of thinking by tapping his quill against his chin. “Dumbledore will get his own Chocolate Frog card, but you won’t. Someone named Bertie Bott is going to invent a pretty brilliant line of sweets. Oh, and someone named Madam Puddifoot will open up a tea shop in Hogsmeade that’s a terrible place to go to for dates.”
“None of these is useful.”
Well, except for the reveal that Lord Voldemort wouldn’t get his own Chocolate Frog card. Tom would have to rectify that snub. Not only would he get a Chocolate Frog card, he would make sure his would be worth way more than Dumbledore’s.
“You know what they say,” Harry said. “Curiosity kills the cat. In this case, the tomcat.”
Tom glared, though it did little to wipe that self-satisfied smirk off Harry’s face. That wasn’t even that witty. “Tell me something that’s actually relevant,” he said. “Like…who wins the next several Minister for Magic elections?”
“Don’t bother trying to rig the elections, the Ministry is highly corrupt as is.”
Tom noted it away for later. He’d never liked Minister Spencer-Moon that much, since he spent too much time courting Muggle politicians.
“What happens to Grindelwald? I’ve heard some say he’s going to have a showdown with Dumbledore.”
“He’s probably enjoying his welcome ball at the Malfoy Manor.”
Interestingly, Harry had blinked and avoided Tom’s eyes. Something was going to happen between Grindelwald and Dumbledore then, and given that Dumbledore was around in the 1990s to mentor Harry, the future didn’t bode well for Grindelwald.
“Do I ever find the Chamber of Secrets?”
“I’m not going to answer that.”
“I bet I did,” Tom said, mind racing. “You wouldn’t have tried to interfere with my research otherwise. What was inside? What did I do with it? Where is it now?”
“Riddle, none of these questions has any bearing on how we’re getting out of the time loop. Stop distracting us.”
“I can’t concentrate. I’m bored.”
Immune to Tom’s whine, Harry retrieved his book. “You sound like my cousin Dudley, and that’s not my problem.”
“In a way it is your problem. You picked the most boring day to relive.”
“I will remember that next time someone assaults me in the bathroom. Seriously, settle down, will you? I’m trying to read.”
Petulantly, Tom glanced back down at his own book. His vision swam as he tried to focus on the page. Why was the font so small and elaborate? Why was the author so long-winded? Why did he have such a weakness for gravy?
Maybe he could pretend he needed to use the bathroom. The marble tub in the prefects’ bathroom was a good place for a nap. Or maybe he could head down to the kitchen and see whether the house-elves could make him a proper cup of coffee. Caffeine always did the trick.
Then again, he enjoyed Harry’s company. With Harry, he didn’t need to expend energy on being nice; Harry knew his darkest secrets already. Having Harry in the loop with him was reassuring.
Not that he would admit any of this out loud.
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor broke through his thoughts.
“You win, I can’t concentrate either now,” Harry said, raking his hair so that they resembled a crow’s nest more than ever. “I’m going to take a break.”
Tom watched him shove books into his schoolbag, caught off-guard and a tad forlorn. “Where are you going?”
“Outside.” Harry stood and stretched. Then, as an afterthought, he glanced at Tom. “Fancy a walk?”
“Very well,” Tom said, after an appropriate pause. He didn’t want to come across as being too eager. “Some sunlight couldn’t hurt.”
Weeks had passed since Tom had last ventured outside the castle. He’d forgotten how nice the weather was on this Sunday, full of bright sunlight, fluffy clouds in blue sky, and the rejuvenating scent of fresh air.
Students milled about in familiar configurations, with some exceptions. In particular, Hagrid was leading a knitting circle on the lawn, demonstrating his half-finished pink jumper to wide-eyed first- and second-years. He noticed Harry and waved, beaming. Harry waved back.
“So that’s what Hagrid is doing now that you aren’t around to admire his acromantula or pumpkins,” Tom commented.
“He has lots of other friends,” Harry replied pointedly. “Speaking of friends, where are your minions?”
“Their proper name is the Knights of Walpurgis.”
Harry halted in his tracks to stare. “You’re kidding, right? That’s a mouthful.”
“I’m paying homage to Walpurgis Night, which has much magical significance, not that I expect you to appreciate it.”
“Yeah, well, your future self called his minions Death Eaters. Much catchier, if you ask me.”
Trust Harry not to appreciate the consideration Tom had put into naming his followers. The Knights of Walpurgis was a superior wordplay to Harry’s tomcat joke.
On the other hand, Death Eaters did sound catchier and happened to be more thematically consistent with Voldemort.
Well, he had lots of time to deliberate on this.
“To your question,” Tom said, “they are visiting Hogsmeade, getting ready for the Malfoys’ ball, or both.”
“I’m surprised Dippet allows students to leave during the school term to canoodle with Grindelwald. I’ve always heard that he was quite uptight about rules.”
“He is,” Tom said, sourly recalling the many times Dippet had turned down his request to stay at Hogwarts over the summer, “but it’s hard to argue with ten powerful families that the ball can help wizarding Europe achieve peace.”
Harry snorted. “Someone will be quite disappointed then.”
Hmmm, another veiled allusion to Grindelwald’s future. Before Tom could probe further, another familiar voice rang out.
“Hey Harry, join us!”
Oh for goodness’ sake. Tom had forgotten that Eileen Prince had been terrorizing Hogwarts with her new Gobstones set.
“Let’s go to the lake,” he whispered, tugging Harry’s sleeve. “I know a good spot.”
Harry gave Tom an assessing look. “Coming!” he shouted back.
“What are you doing?” Tom hissed. “I was under the impression that we’re going for a walk, not indulging in chaos.”
“Liven up, Riddle,” Harry said, green eyes glinting with mischief. “You were the one who said you were bored.”
“And Gobstones will help?”
“You seemed very absorbed in the game during the team meeting.”
Tom’s heart skipped a beat. “You were watching me?”
“Of course. I am the co-captain, so it’s my job to monitor talent. Now come on.”
With that, Harry all but dragged him towards Prince and her friends. Multiple sets of circles had already been drawn on the grass, each accompanied by a Gobstones set. Good grief, how many sets did she have?
“We’re here, Eileen,” Harry said.
“Don’t you two look cozy?” Prince said, adopting a sly grin as she observed the hand Harry had curled around Tom’s arm.
Tom ignored her all-too-obvious wink and jerked free from Harry’s grasp. “We were discussing business.”
“Well, you came in the nick of time. We needed two more people to have a power of two for the mock tournament. Now we can have three rounds before the winner faces the final boss: me!”
“That sounds fun,” Harry said, cutting off potential remarks from Tom. “Put Riddle and me on opposite sides of the bracket.”
Prince’s grin broadened. “I understand. That will be quite the showdown, won’t it?”
She flicked her wand, conjuring eight names in shimmering letters. With another flick, the names rearranged themselves into two brackets of four players. As promised, Tom and Harry were in different ones.
“Bracket A, you will play in these two circles,” she said, gesturing, “and Bracket B, you will play in these two.”
“Don’t lose too early,” Harry told Tom, before he headed over to his circle and opponent.
Tom scowled at his back. Challenge accepted.
The tournament began. Tom’s first opponent was a mousy Ravenclaw fourth-year who lost confidence as soon as Tom started gaining ground. He nearly forfeited in tears, which would’ve saved Tom some precious time. Unfortunately, he opted to keep playing in hopes of regaining some dignity. (He didn’t.)
Tom’s second opponent was a brash Gryffindor, who played aggressively in a bid for a quick victory. However, she too lost composure as the game swung in Tom’s favor, and he polished her off with flair.
“Nicely done!” Prince said, who had observed Tom’s second match. “I’m telling you, Riddle, you have a real talent for Gobstones. You really should join the team full-time.”
Tom straightened his crumpled robes and brushed off remaining Gobstones liquid. “Perhaps,” he said, noncommittal.
“All set, Harry?” Prince asked.
Harry had been cleaning his glasses on his robes, having already won the matches in Bracket B. He snapped to attention. “Time for Riddle vs. me?”
Prince nodded, practically vibrating with excitement. “Everyone? We’re ready for the finals!”
She waved her arms to attract attention from not only Gobstones players but nearby students as well. Tom winced, thankful that the time loop would preserve his reputation. Imagine being associated with Gobstones for the rest of his Hogwarts career.
Turning back to Tom and Harry, Prince held out her new Gobstones set. “This is limited edition. Make it proud!”
Harry took it, brows furrowed with intrigue.
“One final thing before you begin,” Prince said, basking in the attention after years of literally living in the corner. “You must bow to each other. That’s the proper way to begin any important match.”
Harry’s face twitched. Tom strongly suspected that he, too, was recalling his graveyard duel with Voldemort. Nevertheless, they both bowed without fuss.
“And now…” Prince set the stones in position with a flourish of her wand. “Match begins! May the best player prevail.”
Tom gained an early lead by knocking out two of Harry’s Gobstones in quick succession. Whereas his Ravenclaw opponent would’ve crumbled, Harry’s fighting spirit surged, and he soon caught up by knocking out two of Tom’s Gobstones without losing any of his own.
Their playing style could not be more different. While Tom meticulously planned then executed every move, Harry relied on quick reactions combined with strong instincts. As a result, Tom’s moves were countered by Harry’s daring maneuvers, whereas Harry’s moves were countered by Tom’s power and precision.
The first explosion took both by surprise. Tom had knocked one of his stones into Harry’s with more force than intended, forgetting the limited edition’s special feature. The bystanders laughed and applauded as the offended stone liberally showered both players in the most terribly pungent liquid.
“Gross,” Harry said, wiping his cheek with the back of his hand. “This isn’t normal Gobstones spit.”
“Secret formula for the limited edition set,” Prince said smugly. “You will want to use extra soap tonight. There’s more where that came from.
Tom and Harry exchanged a grim look.
As the game went on, however, neither bothered to clean up. Too much was at stake. First Harry was leading, then Tom, then Harry again. Prince was announcing their moves in the background, but Tom had long tuned her out. There were only a few stones left in the innermost circle. Endgame had arrived.
The sun beat down upon them. Tom rolled up his sleeves and squatted, heedless of his ungraceful posture and grass stains. This wasn’t merely a game of Gobstones. It was something more, something not unlike Harry’s aerial duel with Voldemort. Exhilarating, dangerous, and unpredictable.
The crowd watched in awed silence. Initially, they had jokingly separated into Team Riddle vs. Team Evans — Team Riddle was larger, obviously — but soon combined to support both with equal fervor.
A flick. Harry lost a stone. A mini explosion.
Another flick. Tom lost a stone. A larger explosion.
Still tied, they each knelt by the final circle, heads bent inches apart as they deliberated their next and possibly final move.
Tom had two options: he could play it safe and buy himself time, or he could risk everything and try to clinch the victory.
The decision was fast: there was no playing safe where Harry was involved.
They both flicked their last remaining stone at the same time.
The Gobstones knocked together with a loud crack. Both glowed ominously. Harry yelped in warning but it was too late. The grass quaked with the force of the resulting explosion, covering both in foul-smelling liquid and a shower of sparks. Unprepared, Tom hadn’t closed his eyes in time, and now the liquid was burning.
Groaning in annoyance, Tom tried to clear his vision. Once he got out of this time loop, he vowed to himself, he was going to get rid of Prince’s Gobstones set for good and make sure those limited edition sets became no edition sets.
A warm hand slid under his chin to gently tilt it. “Scourgify,” said Harry’s voice, and his face loomed into view, scrunched in mild concern and too close for comfort. He brushed aside Tom’s forehead curl. “Er, I think I got all of it out.”
The sting had disappeared, replaced by the pleasant tingle of Harry’s touch. Tom blinked slowly and breathed. Even with sweat glistening on his brow, Harry smelled…nice. A little sweet, probably those desserts he wolfed down every meal.
“Riddle?” Harry snapped his fingers. “Can you see me?”
“Yeah.” Tom gave his head a quick jerk and pulled away. “Yeah, I see you.”
The sound of cheers reminded him that they had an audience that featured more than a few friendly faces. Hagrid was beaming, Longbottom was clapping, and the Slytherins in attendance looked torn between excitement and dismay at their prefect’s disheveled state. Eileen Prince looked absolutely thrilled.
Tom got to his feet. Too bad this game didn’t count, he thought. Prince would never get this level of exposure for Gobstones again.
“Who will face you, Eileen?” Harry asked. “I think Riddle and I tied.”
Prince shook her head. “There’s no point playing me. Nothing and no one can outdo that match. You’re both winners. Congratulations!”
“What’s the prize?” Longbottom called out, eliciting chuckles from the crowd.
“Gobstones autographed by the legendary Albert Musso of Monaco, of course!” Prince replied. “I queued for ages last summer to get those. I’ll get them to you at dinner.”
Everyone cheered again.
Over the charred carcass of their Gobstones circles, Tom and Harry locked eyes. In this moment, Tom didn’t need Legilimency to know that Harry shared the same triumph and exhilaration. Nobody would remember this match but them; this memory belonged to them alone.
The thought felt warmer than sunshine.
Notes:
Canon sources on Gobstones are limited, so I modeled it after vague memories of playing marbles as a child. I don't believe I ever strictly played by the rules, but then again, I doubt the boys would either :)
delineate-creates drew this wonderful fanart for the Gobstones scene. Thank you so much!
Chapter 10: Connect the Dots
Notes:
I was happy to see that many of you enjoyed the Gobstones game in the previous chapter :) To be honest, I had no idea I’d be writing so much about Gobstones when I started this fic, but who am I to deny the boys their heart’s desire?
Thank you for your support and hope you enjoy the update!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
In the wake of the Gobstones tournament, tension between Tom and Harry eased, replaced by kinship. Tom could now say with 95% confidence that Harry no longer harbored animosity towards him.
Meanwhile, research failed to progress. After weeks — or was it months now? — in the time loop, they had exhausted every tangentially related book from the library and from Dumbledore’s personal collection. They were no closer to leaving the time loop than when they’d first begun their research.
“We need other resources,” Harry said one morning. Instead of poring over books, he was doodling a particularly grumpy-looking man waving a cabbage leaf. “Can you get us access to your housemates’ libraries?”
“I can, but they may not be that helpful,” Tom said. “Most of them are getting ready for the ball, and by the time we gain admission to the libraries, we would have at most a few hours to read the books before the day resets.”
“That’s true, but unless we get our hands on more books, we’ve hit a dead end.”
“I agree, which is why I have a better solution.” Tom had been mulling over this for a while. “We should go to a bookstore.”
“Like Flourish & Blotts?”
“No. The one I have in mind is owned by a distant relative of Caractacus Burke, so she sells secondhand books of more exotic origins, to put it kindly.”
“I’ve been to Borgin & Burke. I can imagine the type of books we’d find.”
“You have?” Tom said, surprised. “What were you doing there?”
“Floo mistake, so I ended up in Knockturn Alley instead of Diagon Alley. Nasty place, if you ask me.”
“It’s not for everyone,” Tom acknowledged. Now was not the moment to mention he’d considered inquiring about summer jobs there. “Anyhow, because of that Borgin & Burke connection, she stocks books that are out of print, or books that aren’t appropriate for most bookstores and libraries. Since we’re in a time loop, we can buy as many books as we want.”
“That’s a good idea,” Harry said, setting aside his doodle. “A really good idea, actually. Where is this bookstore? Is it easily accessible from Hogwarts?”
“Hogsmeade, so yes, quite accessible.”
“And there’s a Hogsmeade trip today,” Harry said, catching on. “What are we waiting for then? Let’s go catch the carriages.”
Tom barely had time to assent before he was dragged out of the library.
Harry bounced with eagerness throughout the ride, and Tom was bubbling with excitement himself as the thestral-drawn carriage screeched to a stop. He sorely needed this change of scenery, even though he had started eschewing Hogsmeade trips in fourth year because they felt too juvenile.
To his surprise, Harry suggested exploring the village rather than heading straight to the bookstore.
“It’s going to take us a few loops to find the right book,” he explained, “so I might as well explore 1940s Hogsmeade first.”
As it turned out, 1940s Hogsmeade wasn’t too different from the one Harry knew. The majority of the shops would survive into the 1990s and, despite changes of ownership in the intervening years, sold similar merchandise.
“We’ve barely changed in the last five hundred years,” Tom pointed out, when Harry voiced his disappointment. “What can you expect from five decades?”
The lack of novelty didn’t stop Harry from visiting his favorite places. They went to Zonko’s, where Harry almost knocked over a shelf of nose-biting teacups in his clumsiness; Gladrags, where he showed an alarming amount of interest in luridly-colored socks; and Honeydukes, where he loaded up on chocolates and treacle fudge.
Seeing Hogsmeade through Harry’s lens recaptured some of the childlike wonder Tom had experienced during his initial visits. Once, he’d been enchanted by the wizarding world to which he’d recently gained admittance. Once, magic had filled his life with simple pleasures, rather than serving as a mere tool for his ambitions.
He did, however, draw the line at Three Broomsticks Inn. “I don’t like butterbeer. It tastes like concentrated caramel. And we’re wasting too much time. Where’s your sense of urgency?”
His protests fell on unsympathetic ears. “We will get some pub grub,” Harry said, locating a table for two. “I know I’m not the only one who’s tired of dining hall food. And if we miss the carriages back, I know another way back.”
“Which one?” Tom didn’t know there was a secret passage between Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, and he’d spent hours poring over the castle’s blueprint.
Harry gave a smug grin. “A marauder never reveals his secrets. It’ll just be for a while, and it will be my treat.”
His treat ended up being two tankards of butterbeers and a “nutritious” meal of haggis, black pudding, and too many variations of shortbreads.
“Delicious,” Harry said with a happy sigh, after taking several gulps of butterbeer. “I think they use heavier syrup in this recipe. I’ll have to suggest this to Madam Rosmerta sometime.”
Tom snorted. As if butterbeer needed any more sugar. Still, he had to admit that the food was more than enjoyable, particularly the haggis, which he’d considered a rather barbaric dish. Maybe it had to do with Three Broomsticks replacing sheep organs with ibex organs for a richer, gamier taste; maybe it had to do with his mealtime companion.
Harry slurped the last of his butterbeer and grabbed a handful of biscuits. “Just like coming home. Though I wish the wizarding world had made a bit more progress since the 1940s.”
“How much did the Muggle world change?”
“You’d be surprised. We’re going to put people on the moon. We’re going to have computers. We’re going to have video games. It’s like going from black-and-white pictures to multicolored films. You probably won’t recognize London at all. ”
Half of what Harry’s words sounded like gibberish. At the same time, Tom could imagine the potential of Muggle technology. If weapons advanced so much between the two world wars, there was no telling what factories could produce during peacetime.
“What are video games?” he asked curiously.
“They are, uh, you know people on the telly? Imagine you can control them and complete challenges.”
“Control them…with something like the Imperius Curse?”
“No, with game controllers.” Harry’s hands waved as he tried to model out a ‘game controller’ in the air. “And you don’t have to control just one person. You can control a lot of different people at the same time.”
“Because you want to take over the world?” Tom tried to understand.
“Well, sometimes, but not always. Sometimes you want to…collect things. Or go around a maze. Or you don’t control a person at all. It could be blocks, or a ship, or an animal.” When Tom blinked in confusion, Harry groaned. “It’s hard to explain, all right? I only ever got to play when my cousin felt like sharing.”
“Your cousin.” Tom remembered the unpleasant Muggles on the edge of Harry’s first memory. “You grew up with Muggles, didn’t you? They were with you when Hagrid came to visit you. Who were they?”
“Family, if you must know. My aunt and uncle. I had to live with them after Voldemort killed my parents. They’re not too fond of magic, as you can imagine.”
It was what he had left unsaid. The white knuckles around his empty tankard. The glazed half-smile.
The din of the busy pub faded, and the world narrowed to the two of them.
“I can,” Tom said, because he knew only too well how it felt to be on the other end of a hostile gaze. He could still envision them, the kids in the orphanage who were too stupid and ordinary to appreciate magic. Freak, they’d called him, only to tremble in fear when Tom harnessed his magic in retaliation.
“Anyway. Don’t underestimate Muggles, their future is pretty amazing. You want the rest of the pudding?”
“No, thank you. I’m done eating.”
“Great, I’m also done. Should we go to the bookstore?”
Tom decided not to call out Harry’s clumsy attempt to change the subject. “Yes, let’s.”
The bookstore was located on a side road off High Street. A squat and unremarkable building, it featured curved windows, rounded façades, dark awnings, and a small sign that read Loretta’s Lair.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Harry said. “This is Madam Puddifoot’s. Or will be.”
“Where — oh, the terrible date spot.” Tom smirked at Harry’s involuntary shudder. “Speaking from personal experience, I assume. Who was the unlucky wizard or witch?”
“Other than myself? A Ravenclaw witch I had a massive crush on. It was her idea to come, not me.”
“Why didn’t it work out?” Tom was only curious. Absolutely not jealous.
“I witnessed Voldemort kill her boyfriend, so she kept asking me about his final moments, and that was the last thing I wanted to talk about. You might remember him, actually. It happened in the graveyard.”
The graveyard…yes, the young man on the ground. Tom had wondered who he was. “Was he a friend?”
“He could’ve been,” Harry said, and Tom sobered.
Bells chimed as they entered. The inside of the bookstore was cramped and shadowed. Extension Charms were primarily used to fit the bookshelves, leaving only narrow walkways for the customers, and the only source of light came from skull-shaped sconces placed at odd intervals along the walls. As was the case during Tom’s previous visits, there were no other customers. The proprietress Loretta gave Tom a curt nod of recognition from her place at the counter before returning to her magazine.
“No flying trolls, so I call this an upgrade,” Harry said as he glanced around. “Where should we start?”
“The books aren’t shelved in any sort of order, so we need to browse around. The older books tend to be found in the back of the shop, though.”
Tom headed in that direction and Harry followed. “Do you come here a lot?”
“I try to stop by a few times during the school year. It’s one of the few places to stock books on Hor —”
He stopped himself, but Harry narrowed his eyes. “Horcruxes.”
“Yes.” No point in denying it; Harry had been questioning Slughorn about this, so he knew.
“Figures you wouldn’t discover this place by chance.”
“Immortality is a perfectly legitimate field of study, and I’m far from the first wizard to want to live forever,” Tom said. “How many did Voldemort end up making? He must’ve succeeded in making some.”
“It doesn’t matter anymore. They’re gone. That’s what happens when you hide bits of your soul everywhere.”
Tom was impressed despite himself. “You actually managed to destroy Voldemort’s Horcruxes?”
“With help, yeah. He picked the flashiest objects and places for his Horcruxes, so they weren’t hard to find. If they’d been random trinkets hidden in random places, then he wouldn’t have lost them so easily to a bunch of teenagers.”
Tom frowned. He wanted his Horcruxes to have significant meaning, but he hadn’t considered the consequence that they’d be easier to find. Perhaps he needed to reconsider Operation Ravenclaw’s Diadem.
“Voldemort’s execution left something to be desired,” he acknowledged. “But the intention itself isn’t flawed. If you had a path to immortality, wouldn’t you take it?”
“Why would I? All my friends would be dead. I would be extremely lonely, and everyone would look at me and think, that’s Harry Potter, the sad old man who refuses to kick the bucket.”
“That’s only an issue if you’re sentimental and rely on others for fulfillment. And the avoidance of death is only one consequence of immortality. Imagine having unlimited time to further the field of magic without the constraint of a normal human lifespan.”
“We have unlimited time right now. You don’t seem to be enjoying it much.”
“Right now, we’re stuck on the same day. It’s not the same thing.”
“Still, I bet you’ll run out of things to do when you’re immortal. Also, fun fact from the 1990s: the sun will explode at some point and destroy us. So we can’t avoid dying no matter what.”
“I don’t believe in that Muggle science nonsense.”
“Suit yourself, but I still advise you against making Horcruxes.” Harry turned his attention to the shelves. “You were better off without them.”
“Ah yes, I recall you mentioning that I was pretty nice-looking before the whole Horcruxes business.”
“Yeah,” Harry said absently. He had pulled a book from the shelf and was squinting to make out its contents. “I thought you were the most handsome —”
He stopped, his red cheeks glowing in the dim lighting.
A smile crept onto Tom’s face, dissipating the gloom from their earlier exchange. “So you do think I’m handsome.”
“Comparatively. Your future self sets an extremely low bar. Look, can we please focus? Are you going to help me research or not?”
“Fine,” Tom said, but the smile refused to go away completely. He knew he was handsome — he checked the mirror every morning, of course — but he would never tire of Harry’s reluctant admission to finding him attractive.
They searched in silence for a while. A few handbound manuscripts initially seemed promising, but most of them ended up being unreliable secondhand accounts of time oddities, and the rest were too illegible to decipher even with the help of spells. The invention of Muggle printing presses had sent wizarding penmanship to the crups.
When Tom became Minister for Magic or someone equally powerful, he was going to make sure penmanship was part of Hogwarts’ curriculum.
Harry gasped.
Tom immediately reshelved the volume he was perusing. “What did you find?” he asked eagerly, craning over his shoulder. The book Harry held didn’t live up to his expectations. “That…looks like a children’s book.”
Indeed, the title read The Tales of Beedle the Bard, and the cover featured cartoon rendering of wizards and witches, highlighting its resemblance to the tattered volumes of Grimm’s fairytales in the orphanage library.
“It is. Beedle the Bard was someone who collected children’s stories, and wizarding families read them to their kids.”
Harry flipped through the book until he stopped at a story called The Tale of the Three Brothers. Tom frowned. “Does it talk about time travel or time loops?”
“Not exactly.” Harry closed the book and cradled against his chest. “But I have a theory. This book will be key to getting out of the time loop.”
“This book?”
“Yes.” Harry grabbed a handful of coins from his pocket and started towards the counter. “I’ll explain in the carriage.”
Ever the tease, Harry’s idea of explanation was having Tom read The Tale of the Three Brothers on the carriage ride back to Hogwarts.
There were once three brothers, the story began, who were traveling along a lonely, winding road at twilight.
It grew more fantastical from there. The brothers met Death, who was a corporeal being, and were each granted a magical artifact to subvert Death: a powerful wand that could defeat any enemy, a stone that could recall the dead, and a cloak that could hide from everyone and everything.
Unfortunately, Death was far more cunning and used those artifacts to take the brothers for his own, including the clever youngest brother who decided that he didn’t want to live forever.
In other words, the tale followed the structure of a typical Muggle fairy tale where it used flawed characters to drive home a moral. How dull. If Tom wanted storytime, he could get that at Wool’s.
“What do you think?” Harry asked, once they were back at their table in the library.
“Of the story? The matrons at Wool’s would enjoy it, but I don’t see how it has anything to do with our predicament.”
Harry scooted his chair closer, adopting the pose of someone about to divulge dark secrets. Despite Tom’s skepticism, he couldn’t help leaning towards him.
“This is where things get interesting,” Harry said, tapping on The Tale of Beedle the Bard. “First of all, it’s a real story. The brothers were actual historical figures. They came from the Peverell family.”
“I’ve never heard of them.” Tom had spent years looking up old wizarding families, so he would’ve remembered a name as distinctive as Peverell.
“Their male line went extinct hundreds of years ago, but they married into other families, so the bloodline is still here. We’re both descended from them.”
“We’re related?” Tom stared at Harry, half-amazed and half-horrified. “Is that why you speak Parseltongue?”
“No, don’t be daft. Our ancestors were, centuries and centuries ago. Your family came from the second brother Cadmus, and mine came from the third brother Ignotus.”
How convenient that Harry got to call the smartest brother ancestor, while Tom ended up with the lovesick fool.
At least, they weren’t that related. That was a relief.
“Okay, so the brothers exist,” Tom said. “Keep going.”
“Second of all, the three magical objects exist. The first brother invented the Elder Wand, the second brother invented the Resurrection Stone, and the third brother invented the Invisibility Cloak. Together, they are called the Deathly Hallows.”
“I’ve never seen any of the three come up in history books.”
“The Elder Wand definitely comes up in history books because it was used by many powerful dark wizards, but under different names. And the other two were passed to descendants who didn’t realize their significance. You’ve actually seen one yourself.”
Tom’s jaw dropped. “I have?“
“Yes. My Invisibility Cloak is the cloak from the story.”
“That cloak you lent to Warren belonged to Death?”
“Death, or my ancestor Ignotus. It’s been passed down in my family for generations.”
Tom wished he’d taken a better look at the cloak, which had seemed perfectly ordinary in the bathroom. Then another thought flitted through his mind.
“If you are descended from the third brother and have the cloak, then by that logic, someone in my family has the stone.”
“They do,” Harry replied. “Your mother’s family has a signet ring, and the stone inset is the Resurrection Stone.”
Head spinning, Tom leaned back against his seat. He’d imagined the Gaunts to be a powerful pure-blood family, given their ties to Salazar Slytherin. Having learned they also owned an artifact of Death, he desperately wanted to meet his surviving relatives.
Not only the living ones either. He could meet the dead, like his mother — no, she was too weak, he wouldn’t waste time on her. Rather, he could meet Salazar Slytherin and Cadmus Peverell —
“The stone isn’t as powerful as you think,” Harry said quietly, as if reading his mind. “The dead don’t come back.”
With some reluctance, Tom jerked himself back to reality. No matter, he could simply talk to the dead. If they could pass along their knowledge, nobody could stop him. Not even Dumbledore.
“All right, the Hallows exist,” he said, giving a curt nod. “Proceed.”
“Third of all,” Harry said, after giving Tom a last look, “a legend says that the person who gathers all three Deathly Hallows becomes the Master of Death.”
“What does that entail?”
“Nobody knows for sure, but one of the prevailing theories is that it grants immortality. As long as the three artifacts remain in their possession, the Master of Death can’t die unless they choose to.”
Tom folded his arms. “That sounds like wishful thinking. If there’s a better path to immortality than Horcruxes or the Elixir of Life, there would have been far more books written on the subject than a children’s story.”
“To know for sure whether that’s true or not, someone will have to unite the Hallows, and nobody has done that before.” Harry paused for dramatic effect. “You see what I’m getting at?”
“You’re about to suggest that the Master of Death is connected to the time loop.”
Tom meant his remark to be scathing, but Harry nodded eagerly. “Exactly! Remember my suggestion that we need to reverse-engineer how I got to limbo?”
“Which, if I recall correctly, we agreed was a ridiculous theory.”
“It wasn’t. I just hadn’t fully thought through the plan until now. Becoming the Master of Death is the key to me returning to limbo.”
“You must be joking.” Per usual, Harry’s leaps of logic made zero sense. “Why would that work?”
“I was the Master of Death in the future, and I ended up in limbo.”
Tom goggled. How many surprises did Harry have up his sleeve? “You? How?”
Harry spread out his hands, somewhat sheepish. “It’s a long story. I didn’t intend to and a lot of luck was involved. But yes, I did end up owning all the Hallows. I mean, there had to be a reason I survived Voldemort’s Killing Curse, right?”
Come to think of it, Tom had never stopped to question how Harry had survived that Killing Curse in the forest. He’d been too horrified by Harry’s memories of Voldemort, too swept along by events he couldn’t control.
And of course, of anyone, it would be Harry who ended up with this superior form of immortality, Harry who’d spent ten minutes lecturing Tom on the futility of living forever earlier. Mother Magic was utterly biased.
“Did you discuss this with Dumbledore?” Tom asked. “Does he agree?”
“Of course I have, with both mine and yours. My Dumbledore had a different theory” — Harry deflated a little — “but it can’t be replicated. I mean, it technically can, but I’d rather not. And your Dumbledore said he’d consult with some colleagues when the time loop happened.”
“So you might be wrong. You might die directly next time. And you could still take the wrong train and keep us trapped here.”
“That’s the other key, the train itself doesn’t matter,” Harry said, growing animated again and blurring together his words in a rush to share his thoughts. “Limbo is a means of getting back to the future, not a means of ending the time loop. The Master of Death is a means of ending up in limbo. My desire is to get back to the future and defeat Voldemort. So if we link everything together, becoming Master of Death again should satisfy the condition for ending the loop.”
There was a loophole in this plan, there had to be, but for now, Tom’s overstimulated brain drew a blank.
“Let’s assume you’re right,” he said. “How do you become the Master of Death? If it’s easy, plenty of people would’ve done it already.” Including Tom himself.
“I have an advantage, because I know where the other two Hallows are.”
Oh. That was interesting. “Where?”
“Like I mentioned before, the stone is with your family —”
Tom’s heart thudded. “You know where the Gaunts are.”
“Yes. They…well, your uncle lives in a small Muggle town called Little Hangleton. Your grandparents have already passed away.”
The deaths of the grandparents he’d never known left a twinge of regret without sadness. And Little Hangleton…yes, the name rang a bell. It had come up during his genealogy research, though he didn’t understand why the descendants of Slytherin would choose to live in a Muggle village.
“And the wand?”
“The Elder Wand…” Harry winced. “It’s currently with Grindelwald.”
His words took a moment to sink in.
“Are you out of your mind? Grindelwald? Do you actually believe that you can get the wand from him?”
More powerful wizards had tried for decades to defeat that crazy man, and every attempt had ended in outright death or Nurmengard.
“We have an advantage in future knowledge. And I’m not saying we need to kill him, or even duel him. Just, uh, steal the wand from him.”
“Splendid idea. Stealing the Elder Wand from Grindelwald is much easier. I wonder why nobody has ever attempted that before. In fact, it’s so easy that we’ll not only accomplish it, but accomplish it on the same day as robbing my family.”
Harry’s jaw set. “It’s not impossible. We have unlimited time. We just need a game plan, practice it, and eventually we’ll execute it perfectly.”
“We’re not talking about a Quidditch game, Harry. We’re talking about a powerful pure-blood family and a dangerous dark wizard.”
“Look, it really could work,” Harry insisted. “We know Grindelwald will be at the Malfoy Manor for the ball tonight. So during the day, we can go to Little Hangleton to get the stone, and in the evening, we will go to the ball to get the wand.”
“You’re not even invited to the ball.”
“I’ll impersonate one of my Potter relatives. We all look alike. Minor details that I can figure out later.”
Tom rubbed his face. Harry Potter was as stubborn as a hippogriff once he latched onto an idea.
“Why are you so reluctant to try?” Harry said. “This is better than being stuck on endless books, and I bet you’re curious whether this would work.”
Harry did have a point. Tom had grown bored of sitting in the library every day, and to be honest, going on adventures with Harry was fun, thanks to his unpredictability.
There were other benefits too. He could meet his family under the security of the time loop. He could assess Grindelwald for himself up close. And if he ever wanted the title of Master of Death for himself…well, helping Harry gather two Hallows would set him up quite nicely.
Finally, if Harry’s crazy plan actually worked, their remaining time in the loop was limited. They would finally be able to return to their normal lives.
Their normal and separate lives.
Something knotted in Tom’s stomach at the thought of Harry returning to his bright and colorful future, leaving him behind on his dazzling yet lonely throne in the Slytherin lair.
Focus, he reminded himself. Think of the Gaunts. Think of the Hallows.
“Riddle?” Harry tapped his sleeve with his forefinger. His face was too close again. “All right? You zoned out for a bit there.”
Blinking, Tom realized he’d been staring at Harry. “It’s the butterbeer,” he said, averting his eyes. “I told you they are too sweet.”
Harry’s furrowed forehead smoothed. “To thank you for helping me, I’ll show you the Hogwarts kitchen. The house-elves are very friendly and would be happy to cook us something different for dinner.”
“Bribery won’t — they would do that?”
“Definitely. They love to be useful.” Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t tell my friend Hermione though, she won’t be pleased.”
“Wait, if I understand correctly, you could’ve saved us from food monotony all along, and you’ve said nothing until now?”
“I forgot, okay? But now you’ll know for the future.”
Tom swallowed. With the potential end of the time loop in sight, the word future took on a different and ominous meaning.
“Very well. I consent to trying your crazy plan, though I reserve the right to judge.”
“Brilliant!” Harry jumped to his feet and started gathering his things. “If we hurry, we can get there before the dinner rush. Do you know what you want to eat? I think I could use a meat pie. Or sausage rolls. Or maybe a nice steak. Anything but peas and gravy, really.”
“Steak sounds like a decent idea,” Tom said primly.
As he followed a jabbering Harry out of the library, he tried to ignore the compressed feeling in his chest. Hopefully, some properly cooked steak would rid him of these odd sentimentalities.
Notes:
Harry makes a speech to Voldemort about being the master of the Elder Wand in canon, shortly after his “death,” so I’m assuming that he has also figured out the wand ownership by this point in Game.
For better or for worse, Harry usually comes up with plans and takes the rest of the golden trio for the ride. This time he has Tom, so let’s see where they go :D
Citation: direct quote from the opening of The Tale of the Three Brothers.
Chapter 11: Simon Says
Notes:
Welcome back everyone, thank you for hanging in there through the boys’ crazy adventures. We’re almost at the end: this chapter paves the way to the last act of the story.
Hope you enjoy the update!
Chapter Text
In preparation for Operation Stone and Wand, as Harry christened it, the Room of Hidden Things became a war room. Every morning, they reviewed the latest version of their battle plan. In other words, Harry acted out their movements by moving two Gobstones on crudely-drawn maps of Little Hangleton and Malfoy Manor, following an evolving schedule of what needed to happen when.
Tom couldn’t help twitching every time a Gobstone vibrated, but so far, no incident. In the meantime, he’d taken on the role of identifying flaws in Harry’s grand designs, something he’d taken to with great aplomb.
“I’ve got it,” Harry said, nudging forward the affectionately named Harry-Stone and Riddle-Stone. “We don’t need to go to Hogsmeade for the Knight Bus after all. We can use my cloak or Disillusion ourselves, go to Hogwarts’ Apparition point, and Apparate to Little Hangleton directly.”
“Are you good enough to Side-Along someone?” Apparition was one skill that Tom hadn’t yet mastered, given limited opportunities to practice at school.
“Uh, good enough,” Harry said, which didn’t ignite much confidence. “Morfin Gaunt lives over here, so we should land here so we can walk the rest of the way. That way we won’t alarm him by appearing right on the doorstep.” Harry-Stone and Riddle-Stone came to a rest on top of a lopsided house nestled in stick figure trees. “I estimate it will take us an hour at most to get the stone, and we should be able to get back to Hogwarts with a few hours to spare before dinnertime.”
“An hour at most? We’re stealing a treasured family artifact. My uncle is not going to hand it over.”
Harry’s nose scrunched. “I really doubt he can detain us for long, but if we need two or even three hours, we still have more than enough time to get ready for the ball. So far so good?”
Tom bit his lip. Ideally, he would’ve liked more time to talk to his uncle, but he supposed family bonding would be tricky if he planned on stealing from him. “Very well,” he acknowledged.
“All right, moving on to Malfoy Manor then.” Harry deposited Harry-Stone and Riddle-Stone on top of a poorly rendered manor house. “You said that your Portkey activates at seven o’clock in the evening with a window of an hour to use it, and the opening dance starts at half past eight. So that gives us an hour and a half to corner Grindelwald and steal his wand.”
Breath bated, Tom waited, but no more was forthcoming. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. If we can execute this sequence as I described, I’ll be the Master of Death.”
“You’re overlooking one major point.”
Harry clapped a hand to his forehead and sighed. “I know, I know, but I actually did think of a solution. We’ll kidnap a Potter and stash him somewhere.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe my great-uncle Charlus, he has an invitation. We need to knock him out until I get the wand, and then revive him. Hmm, that does make things far more complicated timing-wise…”
“No.” The way Harry talked, one could take him for a felon. Tom’s respect for Voldemort dropped a few more notches. In fact, he was currently regretting his own life choices in letting Harry lead the planning. “That’s not what I meant. You truly have the most ridiculous ideas.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve done this before, and the wizard I impersonated survived the ordeal just fine. And this time, we won’t even need Polyjuice Potion, because I already look like a Potter —”
“We are not kidnapping any Potters,” Tom said firmly.
“Now’s not the time for your unpredictable sensibilities. I need to get inside the Manor.” Harry paused. “I mean, I guess I could go with Walburga, she did offer.”
“No going with Walburga either! We can pick a Potter who’s not attending the ball and forge an invitation for him.”
“You can’t forge an invitation. They must be fancy and one-of-a-kind.”
Tom grabbed his invitation from his bag and shoved it in Harry’s face. “You can forge this one.”
Harry turned over Tom’s invitation, painstakingly handwritten by Abraxas on cream-colored stationery, and raised his eyebrows. “Wow, you can read this mess?” Chuckling, he handed it back. “No wonder you thought I wanted to ki —”
“ Moving on, because that was not what I was referring to.” Tom tapped the invitation, which doubled as a Portkey. “The Portkey is locked to work during specific time windows. It won’t take us back to Hogwarts until ten o’clock at the earliest. If we steal the wand from Grindelwald before the dance, we will have a livid Dark Lord breathing down our necks for the next hour and a half.”
“Ah. That would be inconvenient, yeah.”
“Not to mention, there will be too many people around him trying to curry favor during the opening reception and dinner. Someone will notice if we try anything, so we will have to wait until the dance starts distracting everyone.”
Harry worried his bottom lip. “What are we supposed to do until then? Stuff our faces? Canoodle with your minions?”
“We will dance and blend in. Haven’t you ever been to a proper ball?”
“As a matter of fact, I have, with dress robes and everything. And afterwards, my date refused to speak to me for a week.” Harry shrugged at Tom’s incredulous look. “Let’s just say I was a terrible date. And dancer.”
“That’s not acceptable. You will endanger us.”
“Me being a terrible date and dancer has zero bearing on this mission.”
“It absolutely does. You’ll give yourself away. All pure-bloods, even the most liberal-minded idiots like the Potters, are good dancers.”
Harry crossed his arms. “Then I won’t dance.”
“You can’t not dance at Grindelwald’s welcome ball. That’s a massive sign of disrespect.” Tom stood. “If you’re impersonating a Potter, you must act like you belong. You must act and breathe pure-blood —”
“Breathe pure-blood?”
“In addition, Gertrude Malfoy will be on you like a hawk if she catches you not enjoying her precious ballroom. Her house-elves probably spent the past month polishing those marble floors. No, I won’t allow you to make a bad impression.”
“What impression? They won’t remember us.”
“If the loop ends, they will.”
Harry groaned and sank against the wall. “The pure-bloods need to learn to mind their own business. You think there’s a spell that can make me a good dancer?”
“No need for spells. I shall teach you to dance.”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Not in the least. I’m well-versed in social dancing.”
“Of course you would be,” Harry muttered grimly. “Probably been arm candy for pure-bloods too many times.”
Tom shrugged. He understood only too well what Harry did not grasp: every social function was an opportunity to make an impression and invest in his future. Shedding his Muggle name alone wasn’t enough to lift him from the obscurity of being a Slytherin half-blood and transform him into Lord Voldemort.
If he had to adopt the mannerism of a snooty pure-blood, he would do it without a second thought. If he had to be arm candy to gain admittance, so be it. Especially when the said arm candy was as good-looking and charismatic as himself.
Harry raked his hair. “It’s going to take us weeks in the time loop to teach me all the dances.”
“Which is why I won’t even try. We’ll stick with the waltz. It’s easy enough, and if you can master the most common variations, we should be able to get through the ball without drawing unwelcome attention.”
Harry curled and uncurled his fingers, waging a clear battle against himself. Eventually, he slumped forward in defeat.
“Fine,” he acquiesced. “But you’re not allowed to twirl or dip me.”
“These are advanced moves, so I have no intention of doing that,” Tom said. Not today, anyway. “Shall we?”
“Now?” Harry sounded horrified.
“Would you rather postpone to a future loop and further delay your plan?”
Seeing the wisdom of Tom’s logic, Harry scowled and got to his feet. Hiding a smile of triumph, Tom flicked his wand, first to clear away their papers, and then to conjure a wizarding radio. In third year, Orion had introduced his dormmates to a station that blasted ballroom music all day long, in preparation for partnering Lucretia for her debutante ball.
Today, the station was in a Strauss mood. As the jaunty notes of Blue Danube filled the room, alarm filled Harry’s face. His eyes darted between the radio and the door.
“Is this necessary?” he said, turning off the radio. “You can teach me the steps without music.”
“Extremely necessary.” Tom turned the radio on again. “Dancing isn’t just movement. Anyone can move, but you aren’t dancing unless you’re moving with purpose and rhythm.”
“Music won’t do anything. I’m tone deaf.”
“All the more reason.” Tom took a few steps forward and Harry took a few steps backward, pressing back against the wall. “Stop being a wallflower, partners in a dance have to physically touch.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Feel free to be difficult, but the sooner we start, the sooner the pain ends.”
Harry glared. “Fine,” he spat. He didn’t retreat when Tom approached. “No more touching than necessary.”
“Put your hand on my right upper arm,” Tom said, slipping his own hand to Harry’s left shoulder blade, thrilling in Harry’s involuntary shiver. “Now give me your right hand.”
Harry curled his hand protectively towards himself. “Why?”
“Because I want to kiss it.” Tom snorted when Harry gaped. “Because I’m leading us, you dolt.”
“Wait. Why do you get to lead?”
“I’m teaching you.”
“But I’m older.”
“And shorter.”
Harry puffed up his chest, accomplishing little to close the height disparity. “I will have to dance with witches, you know. They will expect me to lead.”
“First, you need to learn to follow. Then we can talk about leading,” Tom said, ignoring the jab of jealousy at the image of Harry dancing with other people. He’d find some way to keep him out of the grasp of thirsty witches. “Now smile, you’re not at a funeral. Pretend at least you’re enjoying yourself.”
Harry arranged his face in what could pass for a smile; a tortured and painful one, in any case.
“And relax, you’re stiffer than a tree.”
With a long-suffering sigh, Harry leaned into Tom’s hold and even tentatively wove their fingers together.
“Like this?” he asked, his teeth still showing unnaturally.
Tom’s throat dried. He hadn’t thought this through, because now that Harry was in his arms — really in his arms, as pliant as a creature with his ferocity would ever be — he was the one who felt wrong-footed, like some giddy schoolgirl at her first dance.
“Uh, Riddle? Are you going to teach me, or what?”
Tom forced his attention back to the matter at hand. He was teaching Harry to dance to show off his superiority, not dancing with Harry. Totally different business, no reason to be flustered.
He elbowed Harry lightly. “Fix your posture. Lean back a little, don’t slouch. Look into my eyes, not at your shoes. Round out your elbows, don’t let them sag. And press your shoulders down to lengthen your neck.”
“I look like an idiot,” Harry grumbled as he scrambled to make those corrections with varying degrees of success.
“Yes, a very graceful idiot.”
“I’m never going to remember everything.”
“Then I’ll keep reminding you.” Tom took one last look at Harry and nodded in satisfaction. “Let’s start. Follow my lead.”
Harry stepped on his foot. “Oops, clumsy me.”
Tom felt much sympathy for Harry’s mysterious date from his previous ball. “A waltz is not that difficult, not even for you. Listen to the music. Can you hear the beat?”
“I told you, I’m tone deaf.”
“The music is in triple meter,” Tom said, ignoring his remark, “so the dance consists of only three basic steps. Mirror everything that I’m doing. I’m moving forward, so you move backward. I’m moving to the side, so you move to the side. Now I’m moving back, so you move forward.”
“Forward. Side. Backward.” Harry’s brows furrowed in concentration and hand tightened around Tom’s. “Okay.”
“Brilliant,” Tom said, as Blue Danube swelled to a close and Emperor Waltz took its place. “Let’s follow the music.”
Harry’s initial attempt was terrible. His steps were heavy and lumbering, displaying none of the grace he possessed while flying. Nerves spilled from every pore as he mouthed the steps out loud.
“You have to slow down,” Tom said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder blade. “Every movement has to be deliberate.”
“It is deliberate! I’m deliberately torturing myself.”
“Lengthen those steps. You’re gliding, not stomping. Match them to the beat of the music. Watch what I’m doing.”
“You look like a prat.”
“One admired for his prowess on the dance floor,” Tom returned, unperturbed. “Keep going.”
Harry puffed his cheeks, but he did pace himself and managed some semblance of following the music. “Better?”
“Yes,” Tom said.
His breath caught at the sight of Harry’s unconscious pleased smile. Harry was so different from Tom’s past dance partners. So angular and stiff and unrefined. Yet despite his reluctance, he was giving his all, and that was…endearing.
The music swirled on. With each song, Harry’s movement gained fluidity and assurance, and with each song, they moved closer, until they were too close to be in a proper waltz hold, chests practically pressed together such that they could hear each other’s erratic heartbeats.
They could dance forever, Tom thought, as he twirled Harry through a particularly fast waltz. Dance forever and forever, simply enjoying their synchronicity and connection forged from something deeper than magic.
What did Harry look like in his previous ball, decked out in his dress robes? Did he hold his date the way Tom was holding him? Did he hold her gaze the way he held Tom’s? Were his cheeks this flushed and his eyes this bright?
At some point, the music faded into the background, and they swayed to a beat they alone could hear, slow and sinuous. They seemed to have been dancing for hours when the music stopped for the radio station’s rare commercial break.
For a moment, neither moved. They watched each other, both breathing hard from the exertion. The room had become much too warm.
Harry was the first to recover. Reddening, he squeaked, “I — I think I got it. Basic steps, no problem.”
“I told you the dance was not difficult,” Tom said, his own voice high-pitched. “You did…passably.”
“Thank you.”
Harry’s words were followed by a curious pause. For a wild moment, Tom had the impulse to make some profound declaration or grand gesture, except his mind drew a blank.
A commercial for wizarding gramophones began, and the moment passed. Lowering his eyes to the floor, Harry untangled himself from Tom’s hold.
Reluctantly, Tom let him go. The moment wasn’t lost, he told himself. Merely…delayed. “That concludes the session for today,” he said, retreating a step. “Dancing, I mean.”
“Right. Back to business.” Was that a trace of disappointment in Harry’s voice? “Um, so I need to revise the ball part of the plan. Put Harry-Stone and Riddle-Stone somewhere else. Maybe, uh, you can tell me where all the Malfoy peacocks are. Just in case.”
“Peacocks. Absolutely,” Tom said, slipping back on his nonchalant mask and going along with the inanity of Harry’s suggestion. “Let me warn you about the albino ones.”
Despite the initial awkwardness, the dance lessons became an integral part of their preparation. At least one planning session each day would end in dance practice, and in spite of their combined hemming and hawing, Tom strongly suspected Harry enjoyed it as much as he did.
As the loops advanced, Harry improved steadily and even begrudgingly learned to dip. At this rate, Tom might let him have a go at leading. They also branched out to using their war room for other activities, such as dueling.
Harry was skeptical when Tom first made the suggestion. “I know how to duel.”
“You duel well enough, but you duel primarily by survival instinct. That won’t be enough for Voldemort in a formal setting. You need more substance in your repertoire, and you need to know how he thinks and reacts, both of which I can provide.”
His argument worked. “Fine, we should practice for Grindelwald anyway,” Harry said, then laughed and shook his head. “If your future self could see you now, helping me defeat Dark Lords.”
Tom chose not to respond.
Unlike dance practice, dueling practice was a two-way exchange. Even as Tom taught Harry to deflect and cast dark spells, Harry taught Tom to be more creative about using spells in combination and catching opponents by surprise. A spell used to summon fire could be repurposed to trigger heat-sensitive magic; a spell used to inflict cuts could be used to construct obstacles. Increasingly, Tom understood the limitations of his past training.
Over time, they started venturing outside their war room and the library to explore their respective favorite spots at Hogwarts. Harry introduced Tom to the kitchen, a true game-changer, and Tom repaid him by sharing his secret spot by Black Lake. As a result, meals were no longer taken in the Great Hall but at the lake, armed with custom-made sandwiches from the house-elves.
On those lazy afternoons, they conversed on topics that ranged from frivolous, such as Slughorn’s crystallized pineapples, to serious, such as Wool’s or Harry’s childhood with the Muggles. Once full and sated, they were content to lie on the grass, watching the clouds drift through the azure sky in a brief reprieve from reality.
Today was an especially drowsy day, thanks to a deliciously fatty smoked pork sandwich, and Tom was on the verge of dozing off when Harry spoke.
“Once you get out of the loop, what would you do?”
Tom opened his eyes. Harry was leaning on his elbow, one hand tucked under his cheek and green eyes bright with curiosity.
“Become a Dark Lord, obviously.”
Harry didn’t flinch at Tom’s flippant answer. “Aside from that?”
This time, Tom contemplated his answer. “Maybe I’ll go into the Ministry. I’ve always found politics fascinating.”
“I can see that. What are your policies going to be?”
“No Muggle orphanage for magical children. Either we establish wizarding orphanages, or some sort of a foster system for willing wizarding families to take in magical orphans.”
“I like that. What else?”
“More funding for Hogwarts. Our curriculum is too slim in comparison with the other European schools, which is why Hogwarts has one of the lower acceptance rates to magical universities and conservatories. In addition, I would make it possible for Hogwarts to host students over the summer. They could help the staff in exchange for food and lodgings.”
Tom wasn’t pulling these answers out of thin air. They were genuinely things he’d considered during his early years at Hogwarts, when he had simpler dreams and before he realized that enacting change through abiding by rules was foolish. Nevertheless, he didn’t mind sharing them, especially not when Harry was nodding so enthusiastically.
“Anything else?”
“More funding for the Department of Mysteries. We evidently have major knowledge gaps in certain areas of magic, like time magic. That would put us at a disadvantage in the event of another global war.”
“I’m impressed, Riddle. I like all of these ideas.”
Tom soaked up Harry’s praise. “What about you?” he asked. “What will you do once you get out of the loop?”
“Get back to my future and defeat Voldemort, obviously. If I manage that, I dunno, I’ll probably become an Auror, get married, and have three kids with sentimental names.” Harry turned pensive. “Honestly, I haven’t thought that far ahead. Mostly I imagine it’d be nice to live without death hanging over me for a change.”
“I know the feeling,” Tom said softly. “Sometimes you go to bed wondering whether you’d wake to see tomorrow, because death seems to be all around you and there’s no escape anywhere.”
“Exactly,” Harry said, after giving him a long look. “Too bad time travel can’t allow us to skip wars altogether. Maybe that’s something your Department of Mysteries could work on. I have faith in you.”
He offered a crooked smile.
Tom thought again of Harry back in his future, surrounded by Ginny and Hermione and whoever else.
“You know, you can stay here,” he said casually.
Harry snorted, as if Tom had told a bad joke. “Sure I could, but then who’s going to defeat Voldemort?”
“The other person in the prophecy. Trained Aurors and Hit Wizards. Hogwarts professors. Lots of possibilities other than an untrained seventeen-year-old.”
“Unfortunately, Voldemort picked me, so it has to be me.”
“Why? You already destroyed his Horcruxes. Someone else can finish the job.” Tom leaned in. “Actually, what if someone else already finished the job? Then you would go back to the future for nothing.”
“Not for nothing. I’d reunite with my friends and I like my old life. Besides, if I stay, I’ll keep messing up your world domination plans. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Tom opened and clamped shut his mouth. Yes, world domination. That was what he wanted.
“Most importantly,” Harry added, “the Potters in this timeline will be very confused, especially after their own Harry Potter is born. Am I going to be the weird uncle who has the same DNA?”
“That’s assuming the butterfly effect of you being here hasn’t prevented this timeline’s Harry Potter from being born,” Tom pointed out.
“I haven’t hurt his chances,” Harry said, though he sounded uncertain.
“You have and will be changing a lot of things. For instance, what if your grandmother falls in love with you at the ball?”
“That’s perfect, I’m impersonating my grandfather.”
“What if she wants certain demonstrations of affection? What if she wants her darling Fleamont to dance with her or snog —”
“Gah!” Harry buried his face in his hands. “I wish you hadn’t put that possibility in my head. I’m going to lose my lunch.”
“Just trying to be helpful.”
“Anyway,” Harry said, flopping back down on the grass, “I’m going to keep a low profile so I don’t mess this timeline up too badly. Although…if I can nudge you off the path to darkness, I call that a win.”
“That won’t happen.”
“No, probably not. Doesn’t hurt to try, right?”
The fondness in Harry’s grin caused warmth to pool in Tom’s stomach. He couldn’t quite manage a snide retort, so he did the very mature thing of sticking out his tongue, transforming Harry’s grin into outright laughter.
He would miss this when Harry was gone. The easy camaraderie, the way they could pivot from mutual sniping to laughing together. He’d never find this with anyone else.
Stay, Tom thought, but Legilimens though he was, he wasn’t able to nonverbally convey his message.
Silence settled between them again. Harry closed his eyes and appeared to nap, a half-smile lingering at his lips. Yawning, Tom closed his eyes as well. If their hands edged closer, there was no one else to witness it.
It came to Tom the night before their official practice run. He’d been soaking in the prefects’ bath, idly popping a particularly large bubble, when he sat up and splashed water everywhere.
His mother had grown up in Little Hangleton and left only to marry his father. Did that mean his father’s family hailed from the same Muggle village? Moreover, assuming his father hadn’t passed away, he could still be living there.
Tom’s blood thrummed with excitement. If they were going to be in Little Hangleton already for Morfin Gaunt, surely they could fit in a brief detour to see the Riddles.
After quickly drying and dressing himself, Tom went to find Harry, which turned out to be a more difficult feat than expected. Harry wasn’t in Gryffindor Tower, according to a suspicious first-year near the portrait hole. He wasn’t at their other haunts either; the library had closed for the night and the Room of Hidden Things was unoccupied.
The only other possibility was that Harry was somewhere in the grounds, adventuring with Hagrid, but that seemed unlikely given the importance of “tomorrow.”
So where could he —
Betrayal choked Tom as soon as the possibility occurred to him. Dumbledore. Harry probably wanted to get approval from his mentor, even though their plan was none of his business.
Dumbledore’s office was tightly shut and guarded by a privacy ward, all but confirming Tom’s suspicion. He reached for the doorknob, but his hand hesitated in mid-air. By charging inside, he would accomplish nothing other than compromise his rapport with Harry and embarrass himself in front of Dumbledore. Not worth it.
With curiosity gnawing at him, he remained determined to know what Harry and Dumbledore were talking about. To his mild surprise, the privacy ward was easily neutralized, and pressing his ear against the door, Tom could hear the faint drone of Dumbledore’s voice.
“While I am still not sure I concur with your interpretation of Master of Death, it indeed is an explanation for what happened to you in limbo. More believable, I would say, than my other self’s theory. Still, I can’t help but feel that we’re missing a rather important piece of the puzzle, so I recommend that you continue to explore alternate solutions. Time loops, as far as I understand, are very specific regarding their exit conditions.”
“I know it’s not a perfect plan, professor, but I’d like to at least see what happens. The risk is minimized anyway, since we’re in the loop.”
“Given your determination and my inability to remember this conversation, I won’t attempt to convince you otherwise. If it’s my blessing you want, you have it.”
“Thank you, professor.”
“However,” Dumbledore said, his tone turning grave, “I do implore you to reconsider your partnership with Mr. Riddle. Frankly, if I may be so bold, I’m surprised by your affiliation, given what you know of his future exploits.”
“He’s in the time loop because of me. I can’t abandon him.”
“I’m not asking you to abandon him. By ending the time loop for yourself, you automatically end it for him. Is it necessary to share so much information about the future with him? Is it necessary to tell him about the Deathly Hallows?”
“I can’t keep him in the dark when he’s helping me.”
“Is he truly helping you? You know as well as I do that Mr. Riddle has ulterior motives for everything he does.”
Tom gripped the doorknob tightly. How dare he. He should burst in and call out Dumbledore’s bigotry. With some difficulty, he restrained himself.
“Should you gather the Hallows and escape the loop,” Dumbledore continued, “that would mean we risk Mr. Riddle coming into possession of two of the three Hallows, as well as knowledge of where the third lies. You see why that would be a cause for concern.”
“I made him swear an Unbreakable Vow. He can’t use this knowledge for evil.”
“Every Unbreakable Vow has loopholes. You would be naïve to believe otherwise.”
“I’m not naïve, professor.” Harry’s tone was polite, but firm. “I know what type of person Tom Riddle is. But that’s the thing: he’s Tom Riddle right now, not Voldemort. If I can help him, I will.”
“Some people are beyond help.”
“That’s where we must differ, professor. He isn’t beyond help, and I trust him.”
Something nonverbal must’ve passed between the two men, because when Dumbledore next spoke, his tone was softer and almost held a note of approval.
“Very well, I have said my piece. I wish you two the best of luck. Do send Gellert my regards.”
As Harry and Dumbledore said their goodbyes and goodnights, Tom considered taking the opportunity to Disillusion himself and leave, so Harry would be none the wiser that he was here.
Instead, he stayed, only moving far enough away from the office door that he’d be out of Dumbledore’s eyeshot.
The door opened. Harry’s eyes widened upon seeing Tom, but fortunately didn’t give him away to Dumbledore. He tugged at Tom’s arm and led him down the corridor, neither speaking until they turned the corner. Then he rounded on Tom.
“Were you eavesdropping the whole time?”
“Not the entire time. I was looking for you to ask you something, but instead, I found you telling Dumbledore everything. Without consulting me beforehand.”
Tom didn’t need to fake his injured tone. Harry winced and rubbed the top of his right arm.
“I wanted to get some advice from Professor Dumbledore because he knows Grindelwald and the Hallows,” he explained. “I didn’t think you’d approve.”
“I don’t. Well, what did Dumbledore say?”
“You heard him. He’s fine with us going ahead with our plan and gave me some pointers on Grindelwald.” Harry peered at him and cocked his head. “You’re not upset, are you? I was going to tell you everything tomorrow.”
“There’s little Dumbledore can do to upset me these days.” That wasn’t the part of the conversation that lingered in Tom’s mind.
“Are you feeling okay though? You’re staring at me funny.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Like I’m about to go poof or something. C’mon, my plan isn’t that bad, right? I haven’t led you astray yet?” Harry nudged his shoulder playfully. Tom glanced away. “By the way, what did you want to ask me?”
“It’s not that important. We should go to bed. We have a long day ahead.”
“You’re right, we both need to rest well tonight. First day of Operation Stone and Wand tomorrow. You sure you’re feeling all right, Riddle?”
“Yes. Stop fussing.”
Harry’s forehead wrinkled, but nodded when Tom faked a large yawn.
“Fine, good night then. See you in the entrance hall after breakfast.” His voice hardened with determination. “First stop: Little Hangleton.”
“Good night,” Tom echoed.
With a wave, Harry turned in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. Tom stayed rooted in place until he had completely disappeared. Then he swallowed in a failed attempt to dislodge the word in his throat.
Stay.
Chapter 12: Poker
Notes:
Thank you everyone as always for your support :D
After reviewing HBP, I made some tweaks to previous chapters to fix canon noncompliance. The major change is that Tom suspects (rather than knows for certain) his father also lives in Little Hangleton. There will be some canon-level swearing and violence.
Hope you enjoy the update!
Chapter Text
Despite his misgivings, Tom buzzed with excitement for the debut of Operation Stone and Wand. Rationally, he understood that today was a practice run, another day in an endless loop, but it was nonetheless a milestone.
Harry was waiting in the entrance hall. “The coast is clear, but we should still be careful,” he said, by way of greeting. “My cloak or Disillusionment Charm?”
“Your cloak,” Tom replied immediately. Technically, Disillusionment Charms would be more practical, given they must crouch to both fit under the cloak, but he didn’t mind the forced proximity to Harry.
The trip to the entrance gates went without incident. For some reason, Harry kept stealing glances at him, opening his mouth multiple times only to abort at the last minute, which was quite uncharacteristic of someone who normally lacked a filter. Tom was about to call him out when Harry halted and shed the cloak.
“All right, we should be able to Apparate now.”
Tom held out his hand. “Shall we?”
Harry didn’t take it. “Remember the Vow you made about not hurting other people.” Tom nodded with a roll of his eyes. “And remember Dumbledore told us that our souls are carried from loop to loop, so you can still splinter yours permanently.”
“You care about my soul? How sweet.”
Harry’s grave expression didn’t waver. “I’m serious, Riddle. Your uncle is a very unpleasant man.”
“You’ve been saying that ad nauseum.” Why would Tom hurt his own family anyway? “I know old pure-blood families can be eccentric. Have I not mentioned old dowager Selwyn’s crups and Gertrude Malfoy’s peacocks?”
“That’s not the type of unpleasant I mean.”
“Is it because he only speaks Parseltongue? That’s understandable. It’s a family gift.”
And frankly, Tom found that charming. It was convenient for having private conversations in public and unsettling eavesdroppers.
“That’s also not — never mind.” Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and took Tom’s hand. “Hang on tight.”
The actual Apparition was unpleasant but brief. When Tom reopened his eyes, they were on top of a hill that overlooked a small village. Ornately wrought gates stood in front of them, guarding a grand mansion surrounded by an expanse of manicured green lawn, replete with colorful spring blooms. In fact, a gardener was currently tending to a rose bush, so absorbed in his work that he didn’t notice the sudden appearance of two strangers a few yards away.
Tom studied the mansion with appreciation. It did not resemble Harry’s lopsided drawing of the Gaunt house in the least. Everything about it spoke of grandeur, from the vaulted windows to the red-bricked façade. Then again, he didn’t expect anything less of the pedigreed Gaunts. He refused to be intimidated, of course. He had commanded respect at other pure-blood mansions; he would certainly do so on his own turf.
He coughed to disguise any uncertainty in his tone. “Should we go inside?”
Harry didn’t answer right away. To Tom’s alarm, the other boy had paled and was gazing upon the mansion with something like horror. “I made a mistake.”
“Mistake?” Tom repeated, heart skipping a beat. “Are we not in Little Hangleton?”
“We are, but the wrong part of town. We should go.”
Tom had no time to protest. A Disillusion Charm washed over him, and then an invisible Harry was tugging him away from the house and down the hillside. Before it disappeared out of sight, Tom turned to catch one last glance of the house. Something told him that Harry hadn’t made a mistake. This place felt familiar, in the same way that migratory birds recognized their ancestral land. Someone of his blood lived here, he was sure of that. Maybe a distant cousin, he’d check later.
At the bottom of the hill, Little Hangleton was bustling with activity. An open market had been set up along the main street, drawing the attention and wallets of locals. Harry tried to lead them to a side street to avoid the crowd, but relented when Tom insisted on passing through. What harm could they do, so long as they avoided bumping into unsuspecting Muggles?
The market was filled with rustic charm and a balm for the senses, with the sweet smell of fruits, clinking of stoneware, and brightly colored homemade textiles. Perhaps in a future loop, once they acclimated to the plan and village, they could explore the merchandise at leisure. Tom’s mouth was watering at the sight of homemade pasties, in spite of a very filling breakfast.
As they wove through the crowd, they caught stray snatches of gossip.
“...got into another fight at The Hanged Man…”
“...must ask Frank Bryce how he raises those beautiful roses…”
“...still a hermit in that Riddle house…”
Tom stiffened and jerked to a stop, barely avoiding a collision with an unsuspecting villager. Over Harry’s quiet protest, he searched and located the villager who’d spoken the name Riddle. The woman and her companion were perusing vegetables at a neighboring stall.
“Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?” said her companion. “It’s been almost twenty years.”
“According to Gladys, Mary and Thomas are at the end of their rope. Serves them right, I say, but poor Cecilia.”
“Surely she’s still not holding a torch for someone who ran away with the tramp’s daughter.”
“You know Cecilia, as gullible as they come…”
“Let’s keep going,” Harry said, his voice strained. “We don’t want to be late.”
Tom followed, but he was certain now: he hadn’t misheard. The first woman had definitely said Riddle, and the ensuing conversation suggested that they were talking about the Riddle family. His father did live here, quite possibly still alive. Would they recognize each other if they came face to face?
The chatter of the village square began to fade, and soon they’d reached the outskirts of Little Hangleton, which was deserted and surrounded by trees. To Tom’s surprise, Harry directed them into the nearby woods.
“Are you sure this is the right way?”
“Yes, I’ve been here before.”
The feeling of foreboding accompanied Tom as they headed deeper into the tangle of trees. If there had once been a footpath, it was now covered with brambles and fallen branches from disuse. Eventually, they came upon a shack so nestled in surrounding trees that the inhabitants must’ve been plagued by perpetual darkness. The shack itself appeared to be centuries-old and on the verge of falling apart. A dead snake was nailed to the front door. Tom stared at it.
Harry ended the Disillusionment Charms. He, too, stared at the dead snake. “Are you ready?”
Tom took a deep breath and nodded. This was merely an illusion, of course. Slytherin was a very secretive person, so his descendants must’ve charmed the outside of their home to dissuade visitors.
Harry pushed the door open. The shack looked even less presentable inside. Decades of filth covered everything in sight. The windows were caked with layers of grime, negating any benefit of natural light even if sunlight could pierce through. In the main room, which seemed to serve as a kitchen and living room, was a man sprawled over a table.
Or he appeared to be a man, because he was practically indistinguishable from a feral animal. Most of his face was hidden behind unkempt hair and beard, and his robes were as filthy as the rest of the house. He also appeared to be in a drunken stupor, judging by the beer bottle clutched in his outstretched hand.
“This is a mistake,” Harry muttered. “Maybe we should go —”
Without warning, the man’s head snapped up, revealing wild dark eyes that pointed in opposite directions. Both Tom and Harry jumped, but Tom recovered first.
“Hello,” he said.
The man didn’t respond, and Tom almost expected him to slip back into unconsciousness when he hissed in Parseltongue, “Who are you?”
The sound of Parseltongue was a blow, a confirmation that Tom did not want. This pathetic creature couldn’t be Morfin Gaunt, because this unpleasantness went way beyond eccentricity.
“Speak, boy! You dumb?”
All of Tom’s prepared remarks lodged in his throat. He could only stand, frozen in place, as the man — his uncle — staggered to his feet with the aid of the table. He came closer, his unfocused eyes scrutinizing Tom’s face with curiosity, his breath stinking of alcohol.
“You look familiar.”
“Mr. Gaunt —”
The man paid no attention to Harry. “Yes, just like that Muggle my foolish sister took a fancy to, but you’re too young. Who are you?”
Tom moved his facial muscles into what he hoped was a mocking, ugly smile. “Hello, Uncle.”
“Uncle?” Morfin ran his hand through his scraggly locks, revealing a black-stoned ring glinting on his middle finger. “So my sister and that Muggle spawned a dirty half-blood after all.”
He cackled, revealing several missing teeth. Harry twitched and half-raised his wand, though it was unclear whether he intended to protect or restrain. “Mr. Gaunt, we came to see you —”
“Why do you speak our tongue? Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m — a friend.” Harry’s Parseltongue was hesitant. “A long-lost — cousin.”
“Cousin, eh? A Boot, a Selwyn? You don’t look much like either.” Morfin turned back to Tom. “You don’t look much like one of us either. You look like your worthless father. What a pity.”
“Tell me about him. Tell me about my father.”
“Not much to say. He fancied himself high and mighty because he lived in that big house on the hill and had all that money. But Merope never had any sense. Always waited by the window for him, not that he ever gave her a second look.”
Merope. His mother had a name.
“Then one day, she ran off without a word. Robbed us too, mind. Neither my father nor I ever heard from her again. Dunno where she is now. Serves her right for degrading herself with a Muggle.”
“What about my father?”
“He left her and came back. We all knew he would. Apparently she begged him to stay and told him she was pregnant.” Morfin barked out a laugh. “Looks like she didn’t lie after all. First half-blood in the family. How Salazar would turn in his grave. What a disgrace to his bloodline, you should’ve died in the cradle —”
Tom punched Morfin, bruising his cheek. He hadn’t brawled since his admission to Hogwarts, but it was satisfying hearing the crack against his knuckles, even though he was as stunned as his uncle by the impact.
Morfin stumbled and managed to right himself. “How dare you?” he screamed, baring his teeth. “A filthy half-blood like you has no right —”
“Shut up!” Tom snapped and punched him again, ignoring the fact that his knuckles still throbbed from the initial punch.
“You little shit!”
Morfin lunged, beer bottle in hand. Cursing himself for forgetting about the stupid bottle, and knowing there was not enough time to deflect, Tom shielded his head with his arms and braced for impact.
It never came. “Accio!”
Tom dropped his arms to find a visibly shaken Harry holding the bottle. “Stop this. We’re not here to fight.”
“I’ll teach you a lesson, both of you!” Morfin growled. He dug out his wand from his rags. “Confringo!”
His Blasting Curse went wide and fizzled, barely leaving a dent in the wall.
Tom scoffed. “Pathetic. Confringo!”
His aim was true and knocked a groaning Morfin to his knees. That probably hurt quite a bit, since the Blasting Curse was not advised for human targets outside of high-stake duels, but his uncle brought it upon himself.
“Impedi —”
“Expelliarmus!” Morfin’s wand sailed into Tom’s hand. After a brief examination, he tossed it aside. It might as well be a twig for the weak magic it exuded. Not even worth snapping.
Morfin gave a baleful glare as Tom approached. “You half-blood brat.”
Tom kicked him in the nose, delighting in the resulting howl and blood dribbling down his chin. “You call me a half-blood, when you’re little more than a Squib. You should’ve died before you sullied Slytherin’s name.”
“Fucking Mudblood,” Morfin rasped, clutching his nose.
“Don’t call me that,” Tom said, kicking him in the chest and forcing him to curl up into a ball. He trained his wand on the man and steadied his arm. It was normally beneath him to waste time on vermin, but occasionally vermin could be useful. Before the time loop, Tom had wanted to practice the Unforgivables on human subjects. “Crucio!”
For someone so battered and drunk, Morfin had surprisingly fast reflexes. He rolled to the side, evading the jet of red light. Unfortunately, he rolled towards the wall, literally backing himself into a corner.
Smirking, Tom repeated, “Crucio!”
This time, Morfin would’ve been struck, had the curse not been intercepted by a Shield Charm. Tom spun around, furious to see Harry’s wand raised.
“Don’t interfere, Potter, this is family business.”
“You’re making a mistake!”
“I ’m making a mistake? Haven’t you done enough?” Tom hadn’t meant to speak so harshly, but his annoyance with Harry was genuine. Harry had no right to withhold information on Tom’s family, and he certainly had no right to interfere now.
Seizing advantage of the distraction, Morfin scrambled to his knees in a bid to either escape or retrieve his weapon. However, he didn’t get far before Tom noticed, and another kick later, the man slumped back to the ground in a boneless heap. Only the occasional muscle twitches gave away the fact that he was still conscious.
Tom patted his hair back in place. Harry had estimated an hour. Subduing this man had barely taken fifteen minutes.
Morfin blinked up at the two boys. “What do you want?” he demanded, clutching the tattered remains of his pride.
“Where should I start, Uncle? We’d be here all night. But for starters, I’d like that ring. After all, it’s my heirloom, and you’re not fit to wear it.”
“No, never! My father would never let it fall into Mudblood hands.”
“I don’t think either you or Grandfather are in any position to refuse. I will give you one more chance: give me the ring.”
“Never — ARGHHH!”
Tom ground his shoe into Morfin’s wrist, wishing he’d worn something with a heavier sole. The man screamed bloody murder as his bones crunched beneath Tom’s feet. Oh, inflicting this pain and humiliation felt so good, so good, and the stench of blood was delightful. Morfin was completely at his mercy and he was capable of more, so much more. The possibilities were endless, and the world was exploding in a haze of bright red and —
“Stop. Don’t. He’s not worth it!”
Something latched onto his arm to drag him off. Tom tried to dislodge the nuisance.
“Riddle. Tom. Tom.”
The appeal to his first name cut through the red haze, and Tom blinked as the world regained its normal palette. Harry’s fingers were digging into his arm.
“Remember the Vow. You promised you won’t hurt anyone.”
“I meant humans, not pigs. Get off, Potter.”
“He’s not worth it. Please.”
They stared at each other. Tom knew he looked a sight — even Walburga shied away during his brief lapses in control, claiming his eyes burned red — but Harry’s face was fearless and determined. Tom had no doubt that if he continued to hurt Morfin, Harry would jump to his defense, a realization that filled Tom with frustration and reluctant admiration.
Tom removed his foot, relishing in the sickening crunch as he did so. Blood seeped from the wound and blended into the dirty ground. Over Morfin’s whimpers, he bent and plucked the ring off his broken hand.
He weighed it. The family ring. The Resurrection Stone. He expected the Hallow to feel powerful or to acknowledge him as master. Instead, it lay on his palm, unresponsive and cold and tainted. A reminder that centuries of Slytherin superiority had deteriorated until the one remaining male heir was the creature on the ground.
“Take it,” Tom said, thrusting it at Harry. He shook it when Harry didn’t reach for it. “You want the Hallow, don’t you? Take it before I chuck it far away.” Biting his lip, Harry pocketed the ring. “Now let’s get out of this hellhole.”
“I think we should first heal that wrist. Otherwise your uncle’s going to bleed to death. And we should also Obliviate him.”
“Why bother?” Tom wouldn’t mind Morifn dying, and failing that, he would prefer his uncle to remember this humiliation for as long as possible. And when the loop reset, he would come and humiliate him again.
“He could call the Aurors before the day’s up.”
“He won’t dare.”
“I can do it,” Harry said, squatting beside the prone man. “It shouldn’t take too long.”
“Suit yourself.” Tom opened the front door. “I need to get some fresh air.”
Eyes widening as he guessed Tom’s destination, Harry made a grab for his arm as he passed. “Tom, wait!”
This time, Tom successfully twisted away. Without a second glance, he slammed the door shut, adding a weak Locking Charm, which should delay Harry for long enough.
Then he started making his way out of the woods. He had a father to meet.
Tom walked in a fog of fury and humiliation. He wished he could sear away the image of his drunken uncle slumped on the ground of his lopsided shack. The Gaunts were magical; they descended from Slytherin and Peverell. How had they come to this?
So much for the esteemed bloodlines. So much for the hope that he could gain equal footing to his pure-blood classmates. Fate had spat upon him yet again, and he remained a half-blood orphan with nothing to his name but desperate ambition, just as the older Slytherins had taunted in his early years. No achievement and sophisticated mannerisms could change that.
As the trees thinned, the fine house on the hilltop returned to view. A tremor passed through Tom upon recalling the tall gates standing guard to Riddle Manor. Inside that beautiful house, his father and grandparents lived in luxury, tucked safely from the heart of war. Meanwhile, he lived in the East End, with few possessions to call his own and a room barely large enough to stretch his legs.
Magic buzzed under his skin, echoing his desire for revenge. And he could do it. He could march up that hill, blast through the front door, and confront his father for abandoning him. He could scream at him, torture him, even kill him. Tied up with his useless uncle, Harry wouldn’t be able to stop him in time, not that real consequences existed in the time loop.
Nothing would count. It would be so easy.
Halfway up the hill, Tom stopped, the adrenaline cooling off and restoring some lucidity. True, nothing would count, yet that was also the problem. He could punish his father however he wanted, but as soon as the day reset, his father would again be alive and kicking. He could kill his father a thousand times, and his father would simply resurrect a thousand times. Eventually, the futility of it all would corrupt any satisfaction to disappointment.
Tom clenched his hands, recalibrating. Instead of continuing the climb, he descended in the direction opposite the main village square, without any destination in mind other than to be as far from the Riddles as possible. He could’ve walked to the next town, for all he cared, when he came upon a stone wall. It marked the perimeter of a graveyard, which was situated behind a drab-looking church partially hidden by a large yew tree.
Figuring a graveyard fit his morbid mood, he went inside. The place had neither been constructed nor maintained with care. The ground was uneven and most of the gravestones half-obscured by overgrown grass. In a few decades, the whole place would be buried under moss and weeds, assuming enough villagers would be left by then to care. On the other hand, the presence of trees provided welcome shade from the midday sun.
Tom ambled through the sprawling graveyard, a sense of déjà vu intensifying with every step. Many generations of Riddles rested here, as were the occasional Gaunts. He found no headstone for his mother, not that one was expected for a runaway daughter who’d died faraway, friendless and penniless. There wasn’t enough left of her to grieve, even if he wanted to.
The strange feeling of familiarity continued to grow and came to a head when Tom stopped at a space that felt oddly empty. No one was buried here, yet, but a small sign indicated that this plot of land was reserved for the current Riddles. He’d visited this place in Harry’s memories. A large marble headstone erected in Harry’s future had served as his temporary prison while Voldemort was reborn.
How poetic of Voldemort to choose this location, creating his new body over the corpses of his family.
In that moment, Tom came to a new understanding of his alternate self. Just like him, the Voldemort of Harry’s timeline had come to Little Hangleton, and just like him, he had been sorely disappointed. That was the point of no return: by renouncing his families, he’d cut off his past and wholly committed to the future, even if that resulted in a descent into madness as ambition transformed into something darker, something dangerous. One risked going to the extreme when he had no one to rely on but himself. For all of the respect accorded to Lord Voldemort, his followers would drop him for a new master should the chinks in his armor ever become apparent.
He wasn’t sure whether to envy or pity his alternate self.
The grass rustled. Tom didn’t need to turn to recognize Harry’s reassuring presence.
“I Obliviated Morfin.” Harry was panting, as if he’d been running. “If I did it correctly, he thinks he lost the ring in a drunken brawl. And I also fixed his wrist.”
Tom didn’t care in the least about his uncle’s fate. “How’d you find me?”
“I didn’t at first, because I thought you’d gone to see your father.” Harry paused. “I’m very glad you didn’t.”
“I don’t fancy being rejected.”
“Tom —”
“Why the hell didn’t you warn me?”
“I didn’t — I didn’t know how.”
“It can’t be that difficult to tell me that my uncle is a violent drunkard and my father abandoned my mother.”
It hurt to speak the truth out loud, and each syllable fanned the flames of betrayal burning in his chest.
Harry winced. “Look, I didn’t want to upset you —”
“Upset me? Don’t fucking lie.” Tom’s voice rose, despite his best attempt to keep his tone even. “It was amusing for you, wasn’t it? It was all a game. Did you enjoy keeping those secrets from me? Did you enjoy knowing that my family — both my families — would humiliate me?”
“Do you really think I’m that sort of person? Don’t you think that I understand more than anyone how important family is to you?”
The hurt in Harry’s tone finally made Tom turn. The other boy was glaring at him, jaw set, breathing hard, and eyes shining too brightly. The anger receded somewhat, joined by a few tendrils of remorse. His accusations hadn’t been completely fair. Harry had tried to warn him, however clumsily, and lost in dreams of grandeur, Tom had not parsed the subtext.
Nevertheless, Tom quenched the ridiculous urge to apologize. For a while, silence reigned until, with a loud exhale, Harry plopped down on the ground and drew his knees to his chest. He looked exhausted. Their adventures today hadn’t exactly been a cakewalk, and he’d had to clean up the mess.
Remorse stirred again, more insistently this time. Swallowing, Tom sank down beside him, their shoulders grazing. The two of them stared at the same point straight ahead. Tom wondered if the phantom tombstone looked as real to Harry; he wondered if Harry still saw Voldemort in him.
He cleared his throat, but Harry beat him to speech. “I only know what Dumbledore told me,” he said quietly. “The Gaunts used to be a well-respected family, but they took too much pride in their Slytherin blood. They lived outside their means, so they squandered away their family wealth, and they would only marry their cousins, so they ended up with a streak of insanity and violence.”
Remembering his uncle’s unfocused eyes, Tom’s mouth twitched in distaste. A family that could point to nothing but the accomplishments of ancestors was a house built on eroding foundations. A house of cards that inevitably crumbled as soon as reality dealt a blow.
“And my parents?”
“Your uncle wasn’t lying. Your mum was in love with your dad, but he didn’t return her feelings, so she fed him Love Potion and they ran off to London together. After she became pregnant, she told him the truth and hoped he would stay.”
“But he didn’t.” Tom’s wand emitted a few sparks.
Harry touched his sleeve lightly. “No, but he might not have known about you. He might’ve thought she was lying about being pregnant.” He shook his head. “Never mind. I probably just made everything worse.”
Tom raised his head and glanced again at the fine house on the hill. It should’ve been part of his heritage, like Parseltongue and the Resurrection Stone. He asked, without inflection, “I — the other me — killed my father, didn’t I.”
“Yes. Voldemort killed his father and grandparents. He also used Morfin’s wand, so Morfin was convicted and died in Azkaban.”
Tom turned his wand over in his hand. He had to admit that was a cleverly efficient way to get revenge on his entire family. “This is why you kept my father a secret. You don’t trust me.”
“Tom,” Harry said, shifting so they were face to face, knees to knees. “I don’t condone what Voldemort did, but I also don’t condone what your parents did. I wish your mother didn’t bewitch your father into marrying her, and I wish your father didn’t abandon you. I wish you had a proper childhood with people who cared.”
Tom’s throat tightened. A younger him, too, wished for a proper childhood. He imagined it: running through those beautiful rose bushes, taking high tea with doting grandparents, exploring every nook and cranny of the manor house. He had to avert his face and squeeze his eyes shut, refusing to let Harry see him upset.
“But that doesn’t have to define you, and you don’t have to become Voldemort. Back there, back in the shack, you stopped before you really hurt Morfin.”
“I wish I didn’t,” Tom said, but his hand dropped to the ground and relaxed its hold on the wand.
“Tom.” Harry nudged his knees with his own until their eyes met once more. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier. I thought I was sparing your feelings, but I was wrong.”
Feeling more vulnerable than he would like, Tom tinged his response with more sarcasm than he intended. “How funny, you sound as though you actually care about my feelings.”
“I do care —”
Harry stopped, leaving the rest of his sentence suspended. This time, he was the one to avert his face.
Warmth slowly spread through Tom, reminiscent of the first time he tasted hot chocolate, that moment of rich sweetness he still savored. Nobody had ever come close to offering Tom empathy, and Tom had never expected to crave it as much as he did now.
Finish the sentence, he wanted to demand. Finish it.
Nothing was forthcoming. Harry busied himself with the Resurrection Stone, tracing the symbol of the Deathly Hallows with delicate fingertips. No ghost materialized to disturb the peacefulness of the graveyard.
Time inched forward and the sun moved lazily overhead. It must be late afternoon. If they didn’t return to Hogwarts soon, they wouldn’t have enough time to get ready for Grindelwald’s ball.
Harry squinted at the sky and then at his beat-up watch, clearly thinking the same thing. “It’s almost four o’clock. We should head back to the castle and get some rest.”
“Rest? We need to get to Malfoy Manor in three hours.”
“I don’t think we should go through with the rest of the plan tonight.”
Tom sat up. “That makes no sense. Why are you giving up when we’re already halfway through?”
“I mean, I figured you might want some time alone to, uh —”
“Sulk?” Tom scoffed. “No, a fancy evening at the Malfoys’ is exactly what I need. In fact, seeing you embarrass yourself on the dance floor would greatly improve my mood.”
Brows furrowed and lips pursed, Harry searched his face. Hesitantly, he gave a tentative smile. Tom couldn’t smile back, not yet, but he felt his expression soften, enough so that Harry’s smile brightened. Harry hopped to his feet first and stretched out his hand. Tom took it.
“We have no time to waste then. Come on,” Harry said, pulling Tom to his feet, “you owe me the opening dance.”
Chapter 13: Charades
Notes:
Welcome back everyone. After being tagged since the very beginning, Grindelwald makes his appearance at last.
Note that while I’m drawing some inspiration from Fantastic Beasts, particularly around Grindelwald’s characterization, I’m not treating its events as canon.
Hope you enjoy the update!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
They skipped dinner to prepare for the ball. The war room transformed into a changing room, replete with private stalls and mirrors arranged to capture every angle.
After putting the finishing touches on his outfit, Tom studied his appearance. A long, scorching shower had washed off the filth from Little Hangleton, and the wizard staring back at him bore no resemblance to a Gaunt. His stature was tall and his carriage proud. His dress robes, dark gray and trimmed with blue, had been tailored for him at Twilfitt and Tattings, courtesy of Abraxas’ wallet. Combined with looks inherited from a Muggle father — not that anybody needed to know — no one could mistake him for a fallen heir of Slytherin.
He was putting the gloom of Little Hangleton behind him. Tonight, and every night after, he was going to dazzle Grindelwald and the other guests at Malfoy Manor.
The door to the adjacent stall slid open, igniting a spark of anticipation. Harry had been reticent about his outfit, having borrowed the dress robes from an amused Dumbledore. Tom couldn’t entirely blame him, based on what he’d seen of the man’s fashion sense.
His breath caught. Dumbledore’s robes became Harry well. The solemn navy color accentuated his dark hair and pale skin, while the golden stars twinkling on the dark fabric brought out the shine of his eyes.
There was some hope for Dumbledore after all.
“You look, um, you look —”
Harry slumped. “I know, I know, I look like a brunet Abraxas. Hope it’s enough to pass for a pure-blood.”
More than pass, in Tom’s opinion. He tore his eyes away and pretended to be busy with the clasps of his own robes, which had long been fastened. “I suppose so. You can pass for Fleamont Potter, in any case.”
“Dumbledore’s dress robes are still way too big on me.” Harry compared his reflection against his grandfather’s picture in a Potions magazine. “And something still feels off.”
“First of all, your Shrinking Charms are terrible.” Tom circled behind Harry to tap his wand against Harry’s shoulders, then his waist. The fabric tightened, highlighting his petite frame and curves —
Okay, now was not the time to think about Harry’s curves.
“For another, Fleamont is nearly two decades older than you, so you’re missing a few gray hairs and wrinkles, which might not be a bad look actually.”
Harry shot him a withering glare. “At least I’m not going to lose all my hair and my nose in my old age.”
Tom ignored him. “Finally, and most obviously, Fleamont had brown eyes. No Potter, as far as I know, has green eyes.”
“Sod it, you’re right.” Harry grabbed his wand. “I’m no good at disguises. What’s the spell for changing eye color again?”
“I’ll do it, so you don’t poke out your own eyes.”
Tom was leaning close and touching Harry’s cheek before he remembered to ask for permission. Harry stiffened at their newfound proximity and their eyes met in a silent question.
Slowly, Harry nodded.
Glamor spells required finesse, as human transfiguration gone awry was difficult to reverse. However, Tom knew Harry’s face so well by now that making minor modifications was easy. Or rather, should be easy, if he could stop thinking about the fact that Harry’s mouth was merely inches away.
“Stop moving,” Tom snapped, even though it was his hand that was trembling.
“I’m not,” Harry muttered, his burning cheeks betraying his own discomfort.
Tom took a deep breath and steadied his hand. Focus. A concealment spell took care of Harry’s scar, and a few cosmetic spells added fine lines on his forehead and the corner of his eyes. Then, switching to a coloring spell, he added gray hairs to Harry’s temples. Finally, and most carefully, he aimed his wand at Harry’s eyes, changing bright green irises to hazel.
Stepping back, Tom studied his handiwork. Height and vapid expression aside, Harry could be a dead ringer for Fleamont Potter. His chest gave a twinge; he felt as though he was getting a preview of the man Harry would one day become, the man he would never get a chance to meet.
“What do you think?”
Harry turned back to the mirror and touched his face gingerly. “Wow. Not bad.”
“Maybe we should do something about your hair too.” Tom ruffled the top of Harry’s head. The hair was softer than he’d expected, and he longed to run his hand through them, to rub the silky strands between his fingers.
“Lost cause. Whole family is cursed with this mop. Doubt even Sleakeazy can do anything.”
Tom withdrew his hand. “Then we’re ready. The spells should last until midnight.”
“Why only midnight? Because I’m Cinderella and you’re my fairy godmother?”
“No, because that’s when the loop resets. Honestly.”
Chuckling at his exasperation, Harry checked his watch. “It’s almost time. Are you ready, o fairy godmother?”
Tom patted the two invitations in his pocket. “Let’s go.”
The Portkey landed them at the end of a wide driveway, guarded by a pair of iron gates that evoked unpleasant memories of Riddle Manor. Harry similarly looked grim. From what little he’d shared, his previous visit to Malfoy Manor had included time spent in the infamous dungeons and witnessing the torture of his friends. Tom hoped that good food and dancing would exorcize both their demons.
They joined the sea of guests waiting to be admitted. Most had arrived by Portkey, while a flamboyant few had chosen magical carriages. Some had taken the peacock theme seriously, giving Druella serious competition for the title of Most Feathered Ensemble. Others opted for feathered hats or peacock-shaped ornaments for a more understated homage. The rest, like them, dressed in normal dress robes.
“Big party tonight,” Harry commented, as he narrowly dodged an overeager Caractacus Burke.
“Every proper pure-blood family in Britain and continental Europe was invited.” Proper was the operative word here, resulting in the exclusion of embarrassments like the Gaunts and the inclusion of nouveau riche like the Goyles or Muggle-lovers like the Potters.
“So this ball will be full of stuffy old coots. Sounds appealing.”
“Like I said before, if you’ve been to one of these balls, you’ve been to a hundred. They make Slug Parties look positively exhilarating.” Tom lowered his voice. “Have you ever noticed that every pure-blood looks exactly like their parents? I don’t know how they manage it.”
“Reminds me of this cloning business,” Harry mused out loud. “In my timeline, Muggle scientists figured out how to recreate someone’s DNA exactly, but they’ve only succeeded on animals so far. I wish I had a picture to show you. Dolly the Sheep is very cute.”
“There we go, more evidence that wizards are superior,” Tom deadpanned. “We mastered this cloning business decades before the Muggles, and we didn’t even need to practice on sheep first.”
Harry’s answering guffaw drew scandalized frowns from the Parkinson matrons passing by. He tried and failed to rearrange his face back into respectability.
“Behave, will you?” Tom said, even though his own mouth was twitching. “You’re ruining your grandfather’s reputation.”
“Doubt it. I bet Grandpa knows how to have fun.”
The crowd moved smoothly through the gates, as each guest only needed to brandish their invitation to gain admittance. To be on the safe side, Tom and Harry waited until the very end. Then, like a man walking to the executioner’s block, Harry stepped up to the gate and raised the forged invitation. Tom held his breath.
Nothing happened.
More hesitantly, Harry raised the invitation again. This time, the iron contorted into a face. “State your purpose, intruder!” it boomed in a clanging voice.
Harry didn’t flinch, though Tom noted the clenching of his hands. “You’re mistaken. I’m here to attend Lord Grindelwald’s welcome ball. This is my invitation.”
The face squinted at the parchment. “This says…”
“Fleamont Potter. Surely you can recognize your young master’s handwriting.”
Puzzlement overcame the face, who had evidently never learned to decipher Abraxas’ handwriting. This was an oversight, Tom realized. Something else in the invitation must prove its authenticity beyond the invitee’s name. He should’ve contacted Abraxas via the two-way parchment for a proper invitation.
Fortunately, he had a solution for the situation at hand. “Summon Abraxas Malfoy,” he told the gate in his most imperious tone. “Tell him that Tom Riddle requires his presence immediately.”
“I’m not sure —”
“Trust me, Abraxas will be most displeased to learn I’ve been kept waiting. It’s not a risk you want to take.”
To be fair, Tom had no idea how Abraxas would discipline an iron gate, but the threat worked. The face disappeared and the iron twisted again, this time into a head sporting familiar blonde hair.
“My Lord, you came. What a pleasant surprise.” Abraxas seemed to be impaled on his own gate, a rather gruesome look. “How can I be of assistance?”
“Good evening,” Harry said in a gruffer voice than usual. “I’m Fleamont. I’m here for Lord Grindelwald’s party at your invitation, but ran into some trouble at the gate.”
Abraxas squinted at him. “Good evening, Mr. Potter. Didn’t you turn down Mother’s invitation because of a Potions conference?”
“Er yes, I did, but I am taking a brief leave to pay my respects to Lord Grindelwald.”
“Oh, I see.” Abraxas glanced at Tom, clearly unconvinced. “How do you know each other?”
“Surely we can continue this conversation elsewhere,” Tom cut in. “It’s rude to keep your guests waiting outside.”
“Sorry. Of course. Please go on, Mr. Potter, the gate should be open now.”
“Thank you, young man,” Harry said, before passing through the gate in a cloud of smoke.
Abraxas frowned after him. “Is he really Fleamont Potter? Something looks off about him.” His eyes widened. “Wait, that’s — Evans.”
“You need your vision checked, Abraxas. That is obviously Fleamont. Why would I associate myself with Evans?”
Looking confused, Abraxas craned his head, or as much as he could with limited mobility. “That’s true, I don’t see why Evans would want to go through all the trouble to spend time with you.”
Tom bristled. “I appreciate your assistance, but your mother likely needs your help to help the guests settle in. You should run along now.”
Abraxas winced. “You’re right, Mother will be displeased. I hope you and, um, Fleamont enjoy your evening.”
“Thank you, I’m sure we will.”
Head held high, Tom stepped through the gate and caught up to Harry just as they rounded the final bend of the driveway. The manor house came into view, resplendent under the fiery glow of sunset. The ancient stone façade almost reflected the orange and red of the sky. Windows were thrown wide open on the ground floor, letting out the blaze of candlelight and the hum of classical music.
They were apparently the final two guests to arrive, as the front doors slammed shut behind them. In the grand entryway, portraits of Malfoy ancestors — all boasting the same silvery blonde hair and gray eyes — leered. A particularly sour-looking woman hid her face behind a fan emblazoned with cherry blossoms.
“Half-bloods,” she muttered to her neighboring portrait.
“Inbred,” Harry shot back, closing his hand around Tom’s wrist to drag him along.
“Actually,” Tom said, “there were plenty of half-bloods in the Malfoy lineage. Avoided the whole going insane business.”
“Then they are hypocrites,” Harry said loudly, over the titters of the woman with the fan.
In the drawing room, the opening reception was in full swing. Overheard, the crystal chandeliers sparkled, casting peacock-shaped kaleidoscopes of light on the gleaming marble floors. In the corner, a small orchestra of enchanted instruments played background music. Human servers dressed in stiff peacock-patterned robes roamed around with silver trays holding a vast selection of hors d’œuvres.
A familiar voice called Tom’s name. Lucretia was waving from the table she shared with Walburga and Orion, along with a tall, dark-haired woman who was presumably another Black cousin.
Tom turned to consult Harry, only to find that he had disappeared in search of food. Good riddance. At least, that settled his decision. Grabbing a flute of champagne off a nearby server, he joined his schoolmates.
“You came after all,” Lucretia said. “Druella was saying you wouldn’t.”
“I decided to support Abraxas,” Tom said. He held out his hand to the unfamiliar Black cousin. “Good evening, my name is Tom Riddle. A pleasure to meet you.”
She gave him an assessing look before shaking it firmly. “I’m Dorea Potter. Was that a Potter with you earlier?”
“Yes. That was Fleamont.”
“Oh? Charlus did not mention that his brother would be attending the ball. In fact, we were both under the impression that Fleamont scheduled his Potions conference specifically to miss it.”
“Perhaps there was a crossed wire. Fleamont and I made our acquaintance through my head of house, Horace Slughorn. Professor Slughorn cannot attend the ball tonight, but asked me to pass along his regards to Fleamont.”
Dorea folded her arms and gave Tom a long stare, which he returned evenly. “Perhaps,” she finally allowed. “I will make a note of this to Charlus. No doubt we can clear up the misunderstanding over dinner. It was good meeting you, Mr. Riddle.”
She rose to her feet and, after a nod to her family, left, presumably in search of her husband.
More schoolmates joined, giving Tom the impression that he was back in the Slytherin common room. Nobody had changed. Linus complained about the lack of sommeliers present. Ethan and Orion argued over the outcome of the latest Falmouth Falcons match. Lucretia and Wablurga discussed family drama. Druella boasted about the triumph of her peacock dress, so the sacrifice of twenty de-tailed peacocks had not been in vain. Everyone gossiped about Abraxas and Elina Greengrass, whom he’d been following around like a lovesick puppy, despite his parents’ entreaties to help entertain the guests.
He certainly moved on from Melinda quickly, though Tom couldn’t muster genuine interest in Abraxas’ new paramor. Or really, in any of the ongoing discussions. Were his schoolmates always so dull? Were they always this predictable? The idea that they were having the very same conversations they’d had for the past three hundred loops was extremely depressing.
At some point, the banality of his schoolmates’ company proved to be too much. Under the guise of refilling his plate, Tom excused himself to search for the one bearable person in Malfoy Manor. Eventually, he managed to find Harry cross-legged on a windowsill behind heavy drapes, an overflowing plate teetering precariously on his lap.
For a moment, Tom simply watched. Harry made for a peaceful picture, half-hidden in his makeshift alcove and his glasses reflecting the darkening sky outside. Then Harry noticed his presence, breaking the spell.
“A nice spot you’ve got here.” Tom slipped behind the drapes to join him. The cool evening breeze provided a reprieve from the stuffiness of the room. “Enjoying yourself?”
“Compared to the last time I was here, definitely. Turns out torture put on a damper on things. How was your evening?”
“Great reunion with my minions. Learned more gossip than I ever needed. Also met your sister-in-law, who’s very interested to know why you’re here instead of avoiding Grindelwald.”
Harry groaned. “Guess I picked the wrong Potter to impersonate.”
He didn’t seem too bothered, however, as he dug into his plate with aplomb. Tom wrinkled his nose.
“Is it wise to eat so much? You’ll ruin your appetite.”
“I’ve already polished off one plate.” Harry patted his stomach. “Don’t underestimate me.”
“I’m sure Mrs. Malfoy will be delighted to learn how much money is being spent on feeding you.”
“Why does it matter? Her coffers are going to replenish in a few hours anyway.” Harry picked out a skewer. “What do you think this is?”
Tom took a delicate whiff. “Quail egg wrapped in bacon topped with some sort of relish.”
“Delicious.” After stuffing the rest in his mouth, Harry grabbed an overfilled tartine. “What about this?”
“Lobster with ricotta cheese on toasted brioche.” Tom winced when Harry ate it in one loud bite. “You could at least chew with your mouth closed, barbarian.”
“Relax, spoilsport, it’s okay to enjoy ourselves.” Harry let out a contented sigh. “Brilliant stuff. You weren’t kidding about the Malfoys’ house-elves. I hope we’ll get to try all the hors d’œuvres.”
“Always the right priorities,” Tom said, trying to ignore the constriction in his chest at the looming possibility of the loop ending.
How ridiculously sentimental of him.
The lights dimmed. A hush stole over the guests and, as one, they turned to the entrance of the drawing room. The guest of honor was here.
Gellert Grindelwald was a handsome man. Blue-eyed and blonde-curled, he had a boyish charm without losing the distinction unlocked by age. His dress robes also fit the evening’s theme, featuring the signature patterns of peacock tail feathers emblazoned on fluorescent teal material. Although the Elder Wand was nowhere to be seen, powerful magic emanated from him, a greeting as well as a warning.
No wonder Dumbledore had been in love with him. They made a striking pair, between the contrast of golden and auburn hair, and the matching blue eyes. Personally, however, Tom felt that he and Harry were more aesthetically pleasing.
Beside Grindelwald stood a tall, slender woman with dark hair and sultry eyes, who gave the drawing room a careless onceover, as if neither it nor its occupants were fit for her tastes. Then, curling a hand around Grindelwald’s arm in a gesture at once graceful and possessive, she led him forward.
“Who’s that?” Harry asked, spraying Tom with food crumbs.
“Vinda Rosier,” Tom said, wiping his cheek with a grimace. “Grindelwald’s second-in-command.”
“Seems kind of obsessed with him. Reminds me of one of Voldemort’s Death Eaters.”
“Rumors say she’s in love with him, but he’s supposed to be in love with Dumbledore.”
Instead of being scandalized by his mentor’s inappropriate lover, as Tom had expected, Harry nodded thoughtfully. “That makes sense. I think Dumbledore and Grindelwald make a good couple, aside from the whole good vs. evil bit.”
Inside, Vinda dropped Grindelwald’s arm to take her place beside the elder Malfoys. Meanwhile, Grindelwald stepped to stand before the marble fireplace, positioning himself so that his face was illuminated by the firelight. If nothing else, he knew how to make an entrance.
“How wonderful it is to see you gathered here,” Grindelwald said, his voice loud and clear without the need for Sonorous. Despite having been raised in Germany, he spoke flawless English. “How wonderful it is to be back in Britain, a place that I recall most fondly for the friendships I have cultivated.”
The pure-blood patriarchs, Julius Malfoy chief among them, beamed. Harry shook his head. “He obviously means Dumbledore.”
Tom pinched his arm to shush him.
“Some of you, I know, distrust the incentive behind my visit, thinking that I want to embroil your country in war. I assure you that it cannot be further from the truth. We have seen the pain that the Muggle war has wrought on its population, and I desire nothing of the sort. In fact, I come for peace, and it is my goal that we should achieve it together, even in face of adversity.”
A few high-ranking Ministry officials stirred; everyone knew Grindelwald himself was delaying the negotiations. Still, he lived up to his reputation as a captivating orator, and in the moment, nobody could doubt the sincerity of his words.
“Tonight, however, I do not wish to speak of politics. Tonight, I want to partake in the camaraderie we have in this wonderful house. My most heartfelt gratitude to Gertrude for being the darling hostess who made this possible.” Grindelwald bowed in Gertrude’s direction, to which she returned with a modest incline of her head. A few yards away, Corinne Rosier and Melania Black assumed sour expressions. “And now, without further ado, I wish everyone a wonderful evening. I hope to make your acquaintance very soon.”
The crowd applauded. On cue, the small reception tables disappeared, replaced by full-sized dining tables arranged in a large circle to surround what would become the dance floor. The guests began to take their seats.
Harry hopped off the windowsill. “Where should we —” He winced. Charlus was heading in their direction. “I’m going to the loo.”
He spun around, only to be confronted by a dangerously smiling Dorea coming from the opposite direction. “Hello, Flea darling,” she said, seizing his arm in a death grip. “Charlus and I have been meaning to talk to you. Won’t you join us for dinner?”
“That’s right, big brother,” Charlus said, slinging an arm around Harry’s shoulders. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen each other.” He followed Harry’s panicked gaze to Tom. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Not at all,” Tom said, amused. “I will see you later, Fleamont.”
In truth, even if he did mind, there was nothing he could do. Orion and Lucretia had appeared to escort him to their table. He and Harry would have to fend for themselves separately through dinner.
There was always the chance that Harry’s Potions knowledge would be enough to maintain this charade.
Not that Tom was counting on it.
The five-course dinner lived up to the expectation set by the hors d’œuvres. Unfortunately, the conversation was even duller. Part of that was due to Grindelwald. Instead of staying put at the table he shared with Vinda and the Malfoys, he paid respects to each table and set the guests on edge. Everyone knew that his small talk was less socialization and more an examination of loyalties.
Since Arcturus and Pollux Black monopolized Grindelwald’s attention at the Black table, Tom slipped under the radar and took the opportunity to observe the Dark Lord in action. Grindelwald exuded charisma and instinctively knew the right word to say to make the Blacks preen. Nevertheless, his affability couldn’t fully hide his scorn for his company. It became clear to Tom that, despite being courted by many, Grindelwald considered no one a friend. Not even Vinda.
When Grindelwald finally walked away, with one last teasing remark to Pollux about the renovation of Grimmauld Place, Tom snuck a look at Harry’s table. To his surprise, the three Potters were conversing happily. What an interesting development; maybe he should give Harry more credit.
An hour into dinner, the soft background music took on a lively beat. In turn, the drawing room expanded to extend the center dance floor. Anticipation swelled to welcome the main event of the night.
Grindelwald gave a sweeping bow and extended a hand to Gertrude, who accepted with a gracious smile. The guest of honor and his hostess made a beautiful pair, her petite frame a nice contrast against his stately height, and their movement fluid with years of practice. They finished the opening dance to grand applause. However, Tom caught Vinda’s tight-lipped smile and the Rosiers’ ill-concealed scowl.
The music changed to a fast-paced foxtrot, and more couples joined Grindelwald and Gertrude on the dance floor. Tom glanced around, but Harry was nowhere in sight. His relatives, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying themselves immensely.
Refusing to be a wallflower, Tom accepted dance invitations from his housemates. First Walburga, followed by Lucretia, and then Druella. He wanted Harry to be sorry for forgetting his promise to dance together.
Unfortunately, though the witches were fine dancers and followed his lead perfectly, they didn’t feel right in his arms after loops of dancing with Harry. Too often, Tom had to push aside the ache of something missing.
After finishing a polka with Druella, whose feathers posed a logistical nightmare, Tom returned to his seat. By this point, his annoyance with Harry had faded in favor of concern. Given Harry’s brand of chaos, he could’ve gotten into trouble, and Tom might need to rescue him.
A hand clapped his shoulder. Tom turned, ready to scowl, and froze.
“Good evening,” Grindelwald said, smiling. “Would you allow me the honor of your next dance?”
Heat crept up Tom’s neck. Grindelwald had spent the past thirty minutes dancing with the various matriarchs of the Sacred Twenty-Eight; a sixteen-year-old Slytherin half-blood did not fit the mold in the least.
“I’m flattered by your invitation,” he said, “but I’m afraid I cannot at the moment.”
“I apologize, I did not realize you were spoken for.” Grindelwald made a show of looking around. “You were sitting alone without a partner.”
Tom internally cursed Harry once more. “My partner is indisposed. Delicate stomach.”
“Surely they will forgive me for stealing you for one dance. I promise I will return you as soon as they make their reappearance.”
Grindelwald winked, sealing off any further protest. And thus, face burning, Tom followed Europe’s premier dark lord back onto the dance floor in time for a slow, romantic tango.
Notes:
I had wanted to cover the ball in one chapter, but it became unwieldy, so the chapter count has been incremented by 1.
To address a concern raised in the comments, we're not heading towards a Grindelwald / Tom ship. Their dance together was previewed as a snippet back in July, and I promise that it serves a plot purpose.
I’m currently focusing on my Tomarry Big Bang fic. If it goes well, I will post another chapter of Game by the end of the month. Otherwise, see you in November :)
Chapter 14: I Spy
Notes:
Thank you everyone as always for your support. I’ve been looking forward to writing chapter 14 since I first plotted the story, and I’m glad I finally get to share it with everyone.
Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
As they fell into the opening steps of the tango, Tom was keenly aware of the attention they garnered from other dancers. Some, like Vinda, were probably plotting his premature death. Others, like Lucretia and Ethan, were never going to stop teasing him.
At least midnight was only a few hours away. He could survive four minutes in Grindelwald’s arms without embarrassing himself. Just clear his mind, focus on the pattern, and wear a big smile. Nothing to it.
Grindelwald turned out to be a chatty partner. “I’ve been meaning to meet you all evening, Mr. Riddle,” he said. “Your schoolmates and their parents speak highly of you. You have accomplished much for someone so young.”
“They exaggerate,” Tom said cautiously, uncertain whether their dance was in reality a recruitment campaign.
“Quite the contrary, they were very truthful. For starters, they told me that you grew up in a Muggle orphanage.”
Tom’s face tightened. Both Gertrude and Melania loved sharing that nugget, as if they were performing marvelous feats of charity by allowing their children to associate with a no-name orphan.
One day, they would rue looking down upon the heir of Slytherin.
“I meant no offense,” Grindelwald said, leading Tom from a cruzada. “You should know that I harbor no prejudice against Muggle-borns. Furthermore, a man who rises above his humble beginnings impresses me far more than those born with silver spoons with weak ambitions.”
That, Tom concurred with. It was part of the reason he treated his Knights with so little respect. They deserved none when they were born with so much yet achieved so little.
“Thank you, Mr. Grindelwald.”
“No need to thank me. Your accomplishment is your own.”
A new set of eight-counts began. Tom allowed Grindelwald to guide him backward, all the while avoiding the other man’s scrutinizing gaze and Occluding his mind.
“Yes, I find you most interesting, though I cannot place a finger on the reason,” Grindelwald said. “Perhaps it is that your soul appears precocious beyond its years. Or perhaps it is that I see a crossroad of sorts in your future. In your very near future, as a matter of fact.”
Tom had no response. Grindelwald was known for unsettling remarks, though whether he actually possessed the Sight was up to debate even among his supporters.
Grindelwald smiled gently. “I do apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable, Mr. Riddle. Let us move on to more pleasant topics. I recall a fine-looking young man at your side earlier. Is he your missing dance partner?”
“Yes. That was Fleamont Potter.”
“Ah, the Potters. A pedigreed pure-blood family, certainly worthy of…alliances.” Grindelwald winked. “Though I’m under the strong impression Fleamont Potter has different inclinations, if I may be so forward.”
Tom’s face burned as the other man’s meaning dawned on him. “You misunderstand, Lord Grindelwald. Fleamont and I are merely acquaintances.”
“Intimately close acquaintances, it would appear, given he’s skipping an important Potions conference to spend the evening with you.”
“We’re not what you think.”
“Ah, but I see the way you look at each other.” Grindelwald’s expression grew dreamy. “Reminds me of better, simpler times.”
“Professor Slughorn asked me —”
Grindelwald halted Tom’s excuse with a jerk of his head. “Please don’t insult my intelligence. Our eyes and hearts do not lie. I assure you that I do not judge how you choose to spend your time. Pure-blood heirs often keep, how should I say, certain interests on the sidelines without plans of legitimizing.”
Tom had never wanted to throttle another human being more. How dare Grindelwald? If he was seducing a pure-blood, he would be the only consort, not some fling. The stupid Dark Lord should back off and stop foisting baggage from his failed love affair with Dumbledore on others.
A powerful violin cadenza ended the tango and concluded four painful minutes. To Tom’s chagrin, Grindelwald did not relinquish his hold.
“You’re a fine dancer, Mr. Riddle. Will you humor me with another number?”
Gritting his teeth, Tom ran through possible excuses in his head. Assisting Abraxas? No, Abraxas was useless. A prior engagement? No, Grindelwald knew he was waiting for the so-called Fleamont. The loo because he had a stomachache? Humiliating, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
“Shall we swap partners?”
A thrill swept through Tom at the familiar voice. Harry had cut between him and Grindelwald with the grace of a bumbling hippogriff to place a possessive hand on his elbow. Beside him, Vinda twitched her lips in amusement.
“Why, good evening again, Mr. Potter. We were just talking about you.” Grindelwald raised his eyebrows at Vinda and his tone assumed a hint of wariness. “Is something the matter?”
“Nothing is the matter, Gellert,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Potter and I had a lovely tango together, but he missed the company of his friend.”
“Boyfriend, actually,” Harry corrected, unabashed.
“We’re not —”
“Your boyfriend,” Grindelwald repeated. “Rather possessive, aren’t you?”
“Oh, very. You should see us when we’re alone. We Potter men live up to our reputation.”
To emphasize, Harry dropped his hand to Tom’s waist, holding firm when Tom tried to wrestle away.
Grindelwald exchanged a look of amusement with Vinda. “Is Euphemia aware of this reputation?” Grindelwald asked.
“Of course, my darling wife is the greatest beneficiary,” Harry replied, smiling. “And what she doesn’t know about my extracurricular interests won’t hurt her.”
Vinda covered her smirk with her hand and Grindelwald boomed with laughter. Tom was certain a house-elf could currently fry an egg on his face.
“In that case,” said Grindelwald, “I will not delay your evening together any further.” He took Vinda’s hand. “Enjoy your dance, boys.”
And with an irritatingly familiar twinkle in his blue eyes, Grindelwald twirled away.
“Where have you been?” Tom demanded as soon as Grindelwald and Vinda were out of earshot.
“The loo.”
“For thirty minutes?”
“I got lost because this place is bloody huge. Why does anyone’s house need to be so big?”
Tom shared the sentiment. What was the point of maintaining such a large property when over half the rooms were off-limits, family members included?
“But I did find the guest bathroom, and it’s really nice. It even has a comfy sitting area with the latest magazines.” Harry chuckled. “Did you know that there’s a renaissance of French-styled corsets among upper-class witches?”
Tom fixed Harry with a deathly glare. “You left me to fend for myself because you were busy reading a witches’ fashion magazine?”
“Bit dramatic of you. I saved your arse, didn’t I?”
“Did you? I’m pretty sure Grindelwald thinks you’re doing other things with my arse.”
Harry blinked and tilted his head. “What other things am I doing to your arse?” Then, as he figured out his own question, he turned a charming shade of red. “Oh. That.”
“Gryffindor boys must have the dullest dorm conversations,” Tom said snidely.
“In case you forgot, my lot was a bit too preoccupied by the murderous Lord Voldemort to talk about, er, you know what.”
“And yet, my lot managed to balance our own Dark Lord with a healthy understanding of the birds and the bees.”
Harry scowled. “Whatever, at least Grindelwald thinks I’m on top.” He tilted his head. “Who do you think was on top between Grindelwald and Dumbledore?”
Tom’s brain short-circuited. He did not want to imagine Grindelwald and Dumbledore engaging in any type of intimate activities.
“I bet it was Dumbledore, or they took turns,” Harry mused aloud. “Or they dueled every night to decide. Think Dumbledore would tell me if I ask?”
“No, and can you please change the subject?”
“Who’s the prude now? Don’t pretend you aren’t at least a little curious.”
“I’m not curious at all. We’re trying to get out of a time loop, not snoop into other people’s private lives.”
In response, Harry jerked Tom into an out-of-place dip. “Fine. How was your tango with Grindelwald? Got any intel on that Elder Wand?”
“No, he was too busy making me uncomfortable about being your Muggle-born side piece.”
“Yeah, that man is a nosy one,” Harry said, after a quick glance around to ensure no eavesdroppers. “At dinner, he came over to our table and asked a lot of questions about our Potions business, like he wanted to trick us into some revelation. Thank goodness Charlus and Dorea fielded the most difficult questions.”
“How did dinner go with your relatives, anyway? You seemed to be having fun. Did you convince them that you’re Fleamont?”
“Nope, they saw through me immediately and threatened to report me to Mrs. Malfoy. So I told them everything.”
“Everything?” Tom was aghast.
“Not about the time travel, obviously. I said I was a long-lost half-blood cousin, since Walburga’s already been asking about a Potter bastard. And that I’m impersonating Fleamont to come to the party.”
“How did they take that?”
“They both thought it was a laugh and invited me to stay with them sometime. Such nice folks.” Harry brightened. “Maybe I could do that after the loop to get to know them. I’ve only ever seen them in a mirror before today.”
Trust Harry to charm his relatives. Tom imagined Harry spending time with the Potters post-loop, instead of with him, and grimaced. In retaliation, as a new song began, he tried to wrestle away the lead.
“Hey, I’m leading,” Harry protested.
“But you’re a rubbish dancer. You’re embarrassing both of us.”
Tom was lying. Harry was dancing competently, thanks to Tom’s tireless instruction, and the two of them had settled into a natural, enjoyable rhythm, even though it wasn’t always in sync with the music.
Harry was unruffled by his insult. “I’m the pure-blood heir to a successful Potions business and funding the luxuries of my underaged Muggle-born side piece. And Grindelwald thinks I’m on top. Ergo, I get to lead.” His hand tightened around Tom’s. “You might want to pretend you’re enjoying yourself.”
“I hate you, Potter.”
“And I love you, darling.”
“Trouble in paradise, boys?” Grindelwald and Vinda had waltzed nearby. “I certainly hope my dance with Mr. Riddle didn’t sow any chaos.”
“Oh no, don’t worry, Mr. Grindelwald,” Harry replied, as he dipped a scowling Tom and almost dropped him in the process. “Just a little domestic spat. Nothing we can’t settle in the bedroom later.”
“Ah, enviable youth,” Grindelwald said. “Isn’t that right, Vinda?”
Vinda only sniffed, unimpressed. As Erik Satie’s Je Te Veux launched into its refrain, they disappeared again into the throng of dancers.
Harry stared after Grindelwald with a pensive expression. “I think he’s interested in you.”
“I think he’s this creepy with everyone.” The last thing Tom needed was unwanted attention from Grindelwald.
“No, he’s especially interested in you for some reason. He’s been looking at you a lot.” Harry wrinkled his nose. “Are Dark Lords innately attracted to each other?”
“What, are you jealous?”
To his surprise, Harry pulled him flush. “Of course. You’re mine tonight.”
Tom fought to avoid being distracted by the heat radiating from Harry’s body. “You’re fueling gossip about Fleamont Potter and his half-blood lover,” he said, even though he made no attempt to move away.
Harry scoffed. “No one will even remember, and if anything, scandals will only help his Potions business.”
“You’re hopeless.” Tom’s words were half-hearted. After all, he didn’t mind the gossip that much.
Or at all, really.
As a result, he didn’t shy away when Harry dropped his hand once again to his waist. Nor did he complain when Harry led them into a new waltz.
The ball continued. Courtesy technically stipulated they should switch partners every couple of dances, and in the past, Tom did to maximize the number of partners to meet. However, the time loop rendered those efforts futile, and he much preferred dancing with Harry. Thus, unless Harry insisted on switching partners, Tom was not going to bring it up.
In any case, Harry seemed content with the status quo, and as they twirled around the room, they gossiped about the other ball attendees. To start, there was much romantic intrigue among their schoolmates. Unbeknownst to her parents, Lucretia was involved with Prewett, so she coordinated her dance card to spend the longest and most romantic dances in his arms. Abraxas and Melinda partnered for one awkward mazurka, which served to deepen their mutual enmity. And Orion and Walburga previewed their marriage by fighting for dominance in every dance they shared, until a fed-up Melania Black dragged both of them to their table for a good scolding.
Then there was the political intrigue. Julius Malfoy and Pollux Black were on the opposing sides of a Wizengamot case on Welsh dragon reserves. Corinne Rosier disliked the influence that Vinda had over her husband. Old dowagers Selwyn and Parkinson were sworn rivals in crup shows.
Finally, there was Grindelwald, who was in a league of his own. He’d been in full spirits the whole night, flowing between partners with charm and smoothness. He even danced with Minister Spencer-Moon, who’d shown up towards the end of dinner to pay his respects. Witnessing the minister twirl around the dark lord around like a dainty lady was quite the experience.
The more Tom watched him, the more he came to the conclusion that Grindelwald was a showman. In spite of his personable exterior, he put himself on an unreachable pedestal. As a result, his phoniness seeped through his every smile and gesture. It surprised Tom that so few others noticed.
No, that wasn’t quite true. Others did see it, only they chose to court Grindelwald anyway in hopes of landing in his good graces or becoming that elusive exception. The charade seemed pathetic all around.
As the evening wore on, dancers began taking breaks or reviewing cribs of more complicated patterns. Though Harry tried his best to keep up, he eventually reached the limits of his abilities. The onset of a quickstep was the final death knell of his dancing aspirations.
“I think that’s enough for today,” Harry said. “Why don’t we go explore a bit?”
Tom narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “You mean trespass.”
“Nah, this whole wing of the manor is open for visitors. At least, no one told me off earlier. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”
“What if we miss Mr. Elder Wand?”
“Put a Tracking Spell on him while you were distracting him with your dancing,” Harry puffed out his chest. “See? I plan ahead.”
Tom refused to show that he was impressed. Although he still believed leaving Grindelwald behind was a stupid idea, Ibrahim Shafiq was eyeing Harry with too much interest, and he had no intention of losing track of Harry again.
“Fine,” he said. “Lead the way.”
Despite having spent holidays at Malfoy Manor, Tom had limited opportunities to wander around under Gertrude’s watch, so he was unfamiliar with the mansion’s meandering corridors. On the other hand, leveraging knowledge from his bathroom search, Harry navigated with ease. Eventually, he led them through a set of nondescript doors into a small enclosed veranda featuring a round table, two plush chairs, and a panoramic view of Gertrude’s rose garden. Fairy lights hovered near the ceiling, adding a coziness to the otherwise austere decor.
“Are we allowed to be here?” Tom asked, certain they were encroaching on the Malfoys’ romantic hideaway.
In response, Harry sat down and clapped his hands. Almost immediately, a house-elf with exceptionally large eyes appeared, bearing a large tray and a happy grin.
“Wobby is very happy to see Mr. Harry with his friend, sir!” he squeaked. “Wobby has been waiting!”
He set down a lemon tart, two sets of sparkling cutleries, and in the center of the table, a pink candle whose scent was reminiscent of Tom’s favorite bath bubbles. Then, before Tom could react, he found himself plopped into the vacant chair.
“Please enjoy, Mr. Harry and Mr. Harry’s friend!” Wobby shouted, and with a bow, he disappeared with a crack.
Tom turned to Harry in question. Unlike him, Harry had taken everything in stride and was busy cutting each of them a slice of the tart.
“Care to explain?”
“I met Wobby and his buddies earlier when I found the kitchen instead of the loo. He promised leftover desserts if we stop by later.” Harry nudged Tom’s plate forward. “Come on, try it.”
“How can you still eat?”
“I told you, never underestimate a Gryffindor’s stomach.” Harry took a huge bite and sighed in bliss. “Amazing. Best lemon meringue pie I’ve had.”
“It’s not lemon meringue pie. It’s a tarte au citron topped with meringue.” Tom jabbed at his slice. “See? The crust is shallower and the curd is thickened with yolks, not cornstarch, so the texture —”
Harry shoved a forkful of tart in his mouth, stemming Tom’s exposition.
“Just enjoy the bloody pie, Riddle,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Giving yourself French airs doesn’t impress me.”
Since the tart was already in his mouth, Tom obliged and shivered in satisfaction as he savored the flavor. The tart was indeed delicious, with a crumbly and buttery crust, and a rich sweet filling that kept the lemon’s signature tartness. Its only imperfection was the slightly burnt meringue topping, likely the reason it was nearly binned.
“What do you think?”
“It’s passable,” Tom said, picking up his own fork for more. He hadn’t gotten a chance to ingest much dessert before the dances began, and appreciated this injection of sugar and butter.
For a while, the quietness of the veranda was broken only by the scraping of forks against china plates and the sound of their chewing. Halfway through his slice, Tom noticed that movement had ceased on Harry’s side of the table. He glanced up to find the other boy studying him intently.
His heart skipped a beat and his stomach fluttered. Sometimes, he resented the way these perceptive eyes brought out his self-consciousness.
“What now?” he demanded.
“You seem happier,” Harry observed.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“At dinner, you were hunched and miserable-looking, especially when Grindelwald was talking to the two Mr. Blacks. It was so obvious you didn’t want to be there. Now you’re much more relaxed.”
“I don’t slouch, and I was not miserable-looking. I’m very at ease in the company of pure-bloods.”
“Look, I get it. It’s a game you must play.” Harry dug his fork into a stray piece of crust, shattering it into crumbs. “I just wonder whether it’s worth it.”
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Tom’s defensive hackles were raised. “Not everyone is born rich or famous. Some of us have to work to build our network. Even if it means suffering through boring social events. Even if it means pretending to be someone else to ingratiate yourself.”
“Like Grindelwald.”
Tom scowled, disliking the insinuation. “So what if I am?” he demanded. “Sometimes, putting on a mark is necessary to accomplish your objectives.”
“You’re not giving plain old Tom Riddle enough credit. It’s like…well, you are like a white peacock.”
“A white peacock,” Tom repeated, bemused. “Because I’m flamboyant and arrogant?”
“Because you’re different,” Harry said. “Regular peacocks are colorful and theoretically more eye-catching, but you’re the one who will always stand out wherever you go. You don’t have to be a mass murderer to be special.”
Tom tried to gauge whether this was a sincere compliment, but the champagne and wine had muddled his brain.
“Anyway, all I’m saying is that it’s nice when you’re not trying to be all Lord Voldemort,” Harry said. “You’re more likable.”
Tom’s heart gave another leap as they locked eyes. Harry was staring at him with such intensity that he suddenly wished he could preserve this moment of comfortable companionship. Just the two of them hidden from the world on their starlit veranda.
Harry flicked his nose. Tom blinked.
“You got some lemon curd,” Harry explained. “And you say I am the barbaric eater.”
Tom remained still, unable to muster any annoyance, as Harry thumbed the tip of his nose to get the rest of the curd off. Once done, Harry didn’t move away. It wasn’t merely Tom’s imagination that Harry’s eyes had wandered to his lips, or that expectancy had crept up his face. Or that their hands were inching together.
It was as if they were starring in one of those black-and-white films that Mrs. Cole played on Friday evenings to entertain the orphans. The ones featuring brooding heroes and glamorous heroines. The ones where lovers stared longingly at each other’s lips that they couldn’t help leaning in and —
Harry’s wand sparkled.
“My Tracking Spell,” Harry said, his voice a little hoarse. “Grindelwald is on the move.”
With that, their romantic epic faded. Instead, they were now the heroes of a film noir, prepared to avert villains and save the day. Operation Stone and Wand had reached its final mission.
Tom stood. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”
Disillusioned, they followed Harry’s Tracking Spell up a grand staircase and through two sets of corridors. At last, they stopped in front of an arched doorway. Instead of doorknobs, the metal door featured peacock-shaped clappers.
“The guest bathroom, that makes sense,” said Harry’s disembodied voice. “Even Grindelwald needs to go to the loo.”
Sensing Harry shift beside him, Tom grabbed his invisible arm before he could open the door. “Wait. What if he’s relieving himself?”
“He probably is. That’s why people go to bathrooms.”
“And you don’t see a problem with bursting on him mid — well, mid-whatever-he’s-doing?”
“You have such odd sensibilities.” Harry sounded amused, but also a little fond. The door opened. “You coming?”
Heaving a sigh, Tom had no choice but to follow Harry inside. When did the noble Harry Potter transform into someone who had no qualms about kidnapping his own relatives and ambushing random dark lords in bathrooms?
As soon as they crossed the threshold, their Disillusionment Charms disappeared. Evidently, the Malfoys had the foresight to ward their bathrooms against invisible ambushers. That, however, wasn’t what caught Tom’s attention.
“This is a bathroom?”
Harry nodded, smug. “Told you it’s amazing.”
True to his name, Julius Malfoy had designed the guest bathroom in the style of a Roman bathhouse, except with a Malfoy flair and, fortunately, modern conveniences. From the antechamber, Tom could see that the bathroom was divided into three areas. To the left was the latrines, where individual toilet stalls were granted privacy by wooden doors carved with runes, possibly ones for privacy and soundproofing to help the guests concentrate on their bodily needs.
To the right was the powder room, featuring coffered ceilings, white marble floors inlaid with the Malfoy insignia, and sparkling ceramic sinks outfitted with golden taps. In the far corner, there was a large leather couch nestled between a small magazine stand and a harp playing soft baroque music.
Most impressive was what lay directly in front: a huge pool several times the size of the tub in the prefects’ bathroom, flanked by stone columns. Tom had read about Roman baths, but no illustration, Muggle or wizarding, came close to matching this bath’s grandeur. Not to mention, unlike ancient baths, the water was clear and perfectly reflected his incredulous expression.
“Why would the guest bathroom need a bathtub?”
“You tell me, you’re the one taking bubble baths every day.” Harry knelt to poke the water, briefly distorting their reflections. “Oh, it’s nice and warm too. Makes me want to take a bubble bath.”
Tom didn’t blame Harry. He could spend endless loops lounging in this luxurious bath. If Harry wanted to join, that was a bonus.
Unfortunately, this was no time to fantasize.
Tom gestured at the latrines. “So Grindelwald is somewhere in there?”
“That’s what the Tracking Spell says.”
“What’s the plan then? Burst in on him? Knock him out over the toilet and steal the wand?”
“We’re not that crude,” Harry said, ignoring Tom’s sarcasm. “The plan is, when he comes out, you distract him and I disarm him. Then we’ll be out of here with the Elder Wand in time to Portkey back to Hogwarts.”
“Why not the other way around? Why can’t you be the distraction?”
“I need to be the Master of Death, so I should get the wand.”
Tom folded his arms. “So I’m the sacrifice?”
“You’ll be fine, and if you aren’t, we’ll try again tomorrow.”
“But we’ll be —”
Footsteps sounded from the direction of the latrines. Grindelwald was done doing — well, whatever he had been doing for the past ten minutes. Both boys tensed. Tom gripped his wand, the incantation for a Jelly-Brain Jinx at his lips.
However, Harry threw a wrench in their plan. The instant Grindelwald emerged, he launched himself at Tom.
“Wait — mmph!”
Tom was so shocked that he didn’t fully register what was happening until Harry had pushed him against the nearest column and crushed their mouths together.
All coherent thoughts fled Tom’s mind, replaced by a dizzying euphoria. Harry’s lips felt nicer than he remembered, just as soft and less chapped. Most importantly, he was actively kissing this time.
Tom wound his arms around Harry’s shoulders, and in turn, Harry inserted one of his legs between Tom’s to slot their bodies more closely together. One calloused hand rose to cradle Tom’s face, while the other carded through his hair, sending shivers of pleasure down Tom’s spine.
The lack of air soon made its effects known, but Tom didn’t want the kiss to end, didn’t want to let Harry go when he was so pliant in Tom’s arms. Gently, he nipped at Harry’s lips until his tongue gained entry. Harry’s mouth tasted absolutely sinful, like the most decadent mixture of dessert and fine wine. His hands dropped to Harry’s waist, slipping under his dress robes in search of bare skin, and Harry let out a soft whine.
Somewhere in his haze of pleasure, Tom heard a polite cough.
“Why, I do hope I’m not intruding,” said Grindelwald.
Awareness returned slowly. They were trying to escape a time loop. They were in a bathroom in Malfoy Manor. They were tracking down Grindelwald for his wand.
Reluctantly, Tom dropped his arms, and equally reluctantly, Harry pulled away, glasses askew and cheeks flushed.
“You don’t mind if I pass through to wash my hands, do you?” Grindelwald held out his hands for emphasis.
“Not at all, Mr. Grindelwald,” Harry said. “Please go ahead.”
Grindelwald didn’t move.
“Er, the powder room is that way?”
Grindelwald continued to watch them, something dangerous lurking behind his jovial blue eyes. “I regret that we could not spend more time together, Mr. Riddle, Mr. Potter,” he said. “It was wonderful meeting you this evening. The two of you make a fine pair.”
“Likewise,” Tom said. “It was our privilege to meet you.”
“You won’t tell Euphemia anything, will you?” Harry added.
Grindelwald laughed, though it was more a shifting of facial muscles than an expression of genuine mirth. “I will be the picture of discretion. Do send my best to her.”
“Thank you, she’ll be delighted that you thought of her.”
Grindelwald inclined his head and, without another word, walked towards the powder room. As soon as he was out of sight, Tom grabbed Harry’s wrist and dragged him out of the bathroom. He didn’t let Harry go until they were halfway down the staircase. Then he whirled around.
“What,” he demanded, “was that?”
Harry let out a weak chuckle. “That was a close call, wasn’t it?”
“Whatever happened to your grand plan? I was prepared to distract him, not be attacked by you.”
“I panicked, okay?”
“So much for Gryffindor courage.” Tom paused. “You didn’t panic. You wanted to kiss me.”
Harry turned pink. “I did panic because we needed an excuse for sneaking around, and I couldn't think of anything else! Besides, why are you so annoyed? You enjoyed it.”
“I did not. I was simply playing along.”
“You mean, you would mind if I kiss you again?”
“No, I — that’s not the point!” Tom hissed. “The point is that we failed to get the Elder Wand and now the evening is over.”
To accentuate his point, his pocket buzzed. The Portkey was active again. Two hours left before the day reset.
“We’ll try again,” Harry said. “We came pretty close —”
“No thanks to you.”
“— so it will go better tomorrow, especially now that we know what the pitfalls are.”
“The pitfalls are you going off-script.”
“Oh, lighten up,” Harry said, reprising his descent down the stairs. “Stop pretending you didn’t have any fun today.”
Tom couldn’t think of a good comeback. The truth was, despite the scuffle at Little Hangleton and the awkward dance in the drawing room, today had been memorable and rewarding. The best loop he’d had since their Gobstones tournament, in fact. And he was looking forward to what the next loop would bring.
With a light heart, he hurried down the stairs to join Harry.
Back in the drawing room, they said their farewells: Tom to his schoolmates and hosts, and Harry to his family. Over Harry’s head, Tom caught Dorea and Charlus winking at him.
Harry’s relatives approved. He tucked that away for later.
By the time the Portkey deposited them back at Hogwarts’ entrance gates, the giddiness from their earlier adventures was fading and exhaustion was creeping up. The idea of repeating everything tomorrow was somewhat overwhelming. They trekked towards the castle in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.
Harry stopped abruptly.
A hooded figure stood in their path. That was inconvenient, especially if it were Slughorn or, worse, Dippet.
It was neither.
“Hello boys,” said Gellert Grindelwald. “As it turns out, I’m not ready for our evening together to end just yet.”
Chapter 15: Tug of War
Notes:
Hello, welcome back, and thank you for your support. I didn’t mean to leave everyone on the cliffhanger for so long. Real life has been a tad rough, including coming down with Covid despite multiple vaccinations, which ate into valuable writing time.
On a happier note, I’m excited that we’re almost at the end. Please enjoy.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Harry recovered first and stepped closer to Tom. “What a lovely surprise to encounter you here, Mr. Grindelwald.”
“Likewise, Mr. Potter. I was under the impression you aged out of Hogwarts years ago.”
“I’m escorting my boyfriend back to Hogwarts. I want to ensure he returns to his dorm safely.”
To accentuate his point, Harry grabbed and squeezed Tom’s hand. Tom responded with a smile that was hopefully fond without being sappy.
“How romantic and considerate.” Grindelwald tilted his head. “I must say, you two make an impeccable pair. A half-blood rumored to descend from Salazar Slytherin…and an impostor who played the role of Fleamont Potter with aplomb.”
Both Tom and Harry stiffened. Grindelwald smiled.
“Your little charade has been over for some time. The Malfoys’ bathroom removed your disguise, though I suppose you were both too preoccupied to notice.”
With a start, Tom realized Grindelwald was right. He’d been too distracted in the bathroom to notice that Harry no longer sported gray hairs or hazel eyes. Even his scar was back, pink and proud on his forehead.
“I have to admit, I admire your efforts. I was even briefly fooled.” Grindelwald circled around them with the prowl of a predator. “But I should’ve realized as soon as I saw your robes, my so-called Mr. Potter.” His gaze sharpened. “Who are you, and why has Albus sent you to spy on me?”
“Dumbledore?” Harry repeated with a forced laugh. “Surely you don’t mean —”
“I can recognize the marksmanship of Albus Dumbledore’s favorite robemaker from a single button. Does it have to do with the Hallows?”
Harry remained silent, but something in his expression or posture gave him away. Grindelwald nodded in satisfaction.
“As I thought. That explains the unusual presence of magic I’ve been sensing from you.” He took a step closer, greed twisting his features as he took an exaggerated sniff. “In fact, if I’m not mistaken, one of you is currently carrying a Hallow.”
Harry’s hand flew to his pocket, which held the Resurrection Stone.
Tom steadied his voice. “You’re mistaken, Lord Grindelwald. We are here on Dumbledore’s orders” — Harry shot him an incredulous glare — “but it has nothing to do with the Hallows.”
“Then what, pray tell, does Albus hope to accomplish?”
“An apology. Dumbledore is terribly sorry for what happened between you and wants to give your love another try.”
Shock washed over Grindelwald’s face, accompanied by — if Tom wasn’t mistaken — a smidgen of vulnerability. That was all the distraction that Tom needed. He grabbed Harry’s hand, cast Disillusionment Charms over them both, and took off running.
“‘Give your love another try?’” Harry wheezed. “Playing matchmaker, are we?”
“Oh shut up and keep running!”
Running hand-in-hand in a life-or-death situation was not practical. However, as soon as Tom released Harry’s hand, he realized he’d made two tactical errors. First of all, while Disillusionment Charms hid him and Harry from Grindelwald, they also hid them from each other. He soon lost track of Harry’s whereabouts, and he couldn’t call him without drawing unwelcome attention from Grindelwald.
Secondly and more gravely, they should have been running towards the castle, where they had a greater probability of arousing the professors’ attention. Instead, they had been running towards the Forbidden Forest, whose inhabitants weren’t any less dangerous than a livid Grindelwald.
At the edge of the forest, Tom hesitated. Maybe he should loop around Grindelwald and return to the castle from Black Lake, but before he could further contemplate that idea, Grindelwald’s ominous magic flooded the area. The man had caught up.
Just two hours, he told himself. Just survive for two hours, and this loop would be over.
Adrenaline thrumming through his veins, Tom headed inside.
Hogwarts students had always been deterred from going into the Forbidden Forest at night, and it was a rule that Tom respected for good reason. The ancient trees had grown so thick that the forest had no illumination aside from the occasional luminescent plant or stray moonbeams. Hazards abound in the darkness, from gnarled roots threatening to trip visitors to nocturnal creatures that varied in viciousness.
Tom treaded carefully, relying on his mental map of the forest to avoid known hotspots, such as snargaluff clumps or centaur colonies. At one point, he saw a glimmer of silver up ahead and hastily adjusted his trajectory, not wanting to deal with dementors or lethifolds.
All of sudden, the path brightened as it led into an overgrown hollow. Tom stepped onto the grassy slope, every fiber in his body trembling with an eerie sense of déjà vu. He’d been here before.
Then, with a jolt, he remembered. This was where his future — rather, alternate — self had waited for Harry to come to sacrifice himself. This was where Harry had died. As Tom looked around, he almost expected to face the specter of Voldemort with his burning red eyes.
“It’s time to end this game of hide-and-seek, Mr. Riddle.”
Tom spun around. Grindelwald’s silhouette, lengthened and distorted, loomed over the clearing. Remembering he was Disillusioned, he forced himself to be still.
Fallen branches crunched under heeled boots. “Hiding will accomplish nothing other than exhaust my patience,” Grindelwald said. “I know that you’re here. As Mr. Potter demonstrated, Tracking Spells can be quite handy.” He twirled his wand lazily. “I can end your Disillusionment, but I’ll give you the opportunity to reveal yourself and show me you’re not a coward.”
Self-preservation warred with pride, a lifelong battle for Tom, but the latter inevitably won out. He ended the Disillusionment and drew himself up. He’d always prided himself on his height, but he still had to tilt his head to level his eyes with Grindelwald’s.
“That’s more proper,” Grindelwald said. “Face me as Albus would have done.”
“Do not compare me to Dumbledore.”
Grindelwald’s lips curved into a pleased smile. “So proud, so full of fire. I like that. It’s a shame someone so young must martyr himself for Albus. What did he promise you? The nobility of the greater good? The promise of eternal glory? The mentorship of a powerful man?” His smile faded. “Let me tell you that those are but beautiful lies. They are not worth your sacrifice, as I’ve learned from experience.”
Tom scoffed. “He promised me nothing. Truth be told, I’ve never liked the man much.”
“How interesting. Perhaps your lover dragged you into this whole affair.” Grindelwald lowered his wand slightly. “Allow me then to offer you a better choice. Join me, Mr. Riddle.”
“Join you?”
“There’s no need for such incredulity. You are aware that I appreciate true talent. You may not be pure-blood, but you demonstrate greater magical strength than wizards who draw fulfillment from reciting family trees. You lack only training, but if you join me, I can and will unlock your potential.”
Tom clenched his jaw. The heir of Slytherin could never be content being another man’s lackey. Not even Grindelwald’s.
“And if I don’t?”
“If you refuse, then tomorrow morning, your groundskeeper will find the body of an unfortunate student who lost his way. That will warn Dippet and Albus to be more careful about the Forbidden Forest.”
Grindelwald’s tone was conversational, even friendly, but Tom didn’t miss the fact that he’d again trained the Elder Wand on him. Under the soft glow of moonlight, the infamous wand glinted, enticing and threatening.
He swallowed. Saying no clearly wasn’t an option, whereas saying yes would buy him time. Grindelwald wasn’t going to remember his assent tomorrow anyway.
As he prepared to answer, something rustled behind Grindelwald, despite the lack of passing breeze, and a familiar tendril of magic brushed Tom’s cheek. His spirit rose. A Disillusioned Harry was in the vicinity. If he could distract Grindelwald, they still had a chance at capturing the Elder Wand.
“Well, Mr. Riddle?” Grindelwald did not notice Tom’s lapse in attention. “What is your answer?”
“I want to learn more about my recruitment,” Tom said. “What would my training look like? Where would I live? How is the food? What would I wear?”
“I don’t appreciate being mocked.”
“I’m not mocking you. If you’ve done your research, then you know that by nature I like to weigh my options.”
Grindelwald seemed to accept this excuse. “All of my new acolytes start their training in Nurmengard,” he said. “Have you ever been to the Alps? I imagine not, given your background. The views from the mountains are unparalleled, as are the creature comforts. I commission the finest chefs and tailors in the world to provide for me and mine. Any cuisine and clothing you want will be at your fingertips.”
Harry was edging closer. Tom kept his gaze focused on Grindelwald and continued to feign interest.
“You are free to stay at Nurmengard for as long as you need to acclimate to your new position, and it shall remain your home after you become a full-fledged member of the Alliance. As for your training, Vinda takes on only the best and will find you a delight to teach. Moreover, I will personally instruct you, as we all know that Hogwarts is not as progressive as Durmstrang in the education of the Dark Arts.”
Grindelwald was an amazing salesperson, no doubt about that. A few hundred loops ago, Tom might’ve even been enticed. He continued nodding politely, all the while waiting for Harry’s next move.
“Finally, I will establish connections for you, not only with the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but with prominent families across continental Europe and parts of Asia and Africa. You have large ambitions, and when you one day outgrow my Alliance, I will be happy to support you in your next steps.”
Harry threw himself forward. “Expelliarmus!”
A non-verbal Disarming Spell would’ve been better-suited for a sneak attack, but Harry’s stolen blackthorn wand had proved itself finicky even with verbal spells. Unfortunately, Harry’s shout alerted Grindelwald in time to sidestep, and the spell narrowly grazed him.
With a slash of the Elder Wand, Harry’s Disillusionment Charm was ripped away. With another, the ground by Harry’s feet cratered, forcing him to retreat. Tom clenched his hands.
“I don’t appreciate this little trick,” Grindelwald said. “Albus should have taught you better manners.”
“At least he isn’t a phony,” Harry retorted. He threw a Stunning Spell, which Grindelwald easily repelled. “And he’s much better looking!”
Grindelwald’s handsome face twisted in rage. “You will rue your impertinence!”
Under normal circumstances, Tom and Harry would’ve had no chance against Grindelwald. Whether it was two-on-one or ten-on-one, Grindelwald had decades of experience that no amount of Dueling Club practice could match, a deep knowledge of Dark Arts that far exceeded Tom’s own, and the legendary Deathstick that honed his magical prowess. As a result, his spellwork left no opportunity for counters.
Bushes were blasted into smithereens, their burning remains drawing the attention of fire-dwelling salamanders. Entire trees were uprooted and thrown aside, leaving earthquakes in their wake. Leaves were transformed into sharp, deadly discs, forcing Tom and Harry to abort any attempt to get closer to Grindelwald. This wasn’t even Grindelwald at his most dangerous, Tom realized. This was Grindelwald testing them, teasing out their weaknesses, so he could later obliterate them in one fell swoop.
At the same time, Tom and Harry were not without merits of their own. Tom had raw magical strength and years of outdueling his Slytherin housemates under his belt, whereas Harry had speed, unpredictability, and Gryffindor bravery. In addition, they didn’t need to defeat Grindelwald; they only needed to delay him. Every second of survival was another second towards the salvation of midnight.
As the forest scorched around them, their strategy distilled into one simple principle: chain together as many spells as possible, even if they were silly schoolboy jinxes, to prevent Grindelwald from chaining together his own spells and causing greater damage.
“Expelliarmus!”
“Furnuculus!”
“Locomotor mortis!”
“Wingardium leviosa!” Grindelwald shouted, levitating the closest tree stump. His movement was languid, almost lazy. “Geminio!”
The tree stump multiplied, each copy blocking one of Tom and Harry’s spells. Grindelwald shook his head.
“Schoolboy tricks cannot stop me. Albus should have trained you better before sending you to face me.”
His wand blurred as he barked out spell after spell in an ancient Germanic tongue. One conjured a series of tornadoes, which forced Tom and Harry apart. Another conjured three whips lined with sharp teeth, which he sent after Harry.
Harry dodged the whips with impressive nimbleness. One missed and slammed into a burning stump, incinerating itself in the process. Another tangled itself around fallen branches. The third was caught and dismantled by Harry’s well-aimed Bombarda.
“Come on now, Gellert,” Harry taunted. “Is this how you dueled Dumbledore? No wonder he —”
“Avada kedavra!”
The green light froze Harry’s grin.
Tom’s heart stuttered and his mind blanked. He tried to rush toward Harry, but the tornado sent him crashing to the ground instead. Time crawled at an excruciating pace, and he regained awareness to the sound of his own scream.
“Harry!”
Harry lay crumpled like a broken doll. He didn’t respond.
Tom stumbled to his feet and ran over to his side. He sank to his knees, ignoring Grindelwald’s watchful gaze.
“Harry! Get up!” he shouted, shaking Harry’s shoulders.
Still no response.
Tom’s head spun and his breathing came in short, panicked bursts. This could not be happening. Harry could not be dead.
The loop would reset if Harry was dead. Wasn’t that how time loops worked?
Unless it’s not Harry’s loop, said a snide voice in his head that sounded awfully like Grindelwald. Unless this has been your loop all along, and now you are truly on your own.
“No!” Tom screamed. “Get up!”
“Do stop the hysterics, you’re embarrassing yourself,” Grindelwald said. “Everyone dies, some sooner and less wisely than others.” Tom raised his head and threw a baleful glare. Grindelwald only shrugged. “Let your lover’s death be a lesson to you. I am untouchable.”
With a flick of the Elder Wand, Grindelwald knocked Tom from Harry’s body as if he were nothing but a feather. He approached the body himself and cast a diagnostic charm.
“As I thought, he is carrying a Hallow,” he said, satisfied. “Foolish boy. Someone so weak can never be the Master of Death.”
As Grindelwald bent and reached inside the pocket of Harry’s robes, Tom snarled, “Don’t you dare. Reducto!”
Though the Reductor Curse was blocked, it did succeed in distracting Grindelwald from rummaging for the Resurrection Stone.
It also succeeded in enraging him.
“Have you not learned your lesson, Tom Riddle?” Grindelwald’s voice was cold. “I was prepared to spare you, in recognition that you were merely following your lover. If you continue to stand against me, you will join your lover in the afterlife.” He smirked. “Assuming an afterlife exists for my victims.”
“Fuck you. Confringo!”
Grindelwald jerked his head and snapped his fingers. The Blasting Curse stopped right before it reached him and swerved around to aim for its caster. Tom barely dodged in time and flinched as a nearby boulder exploded from the impact of the curse.
“Unfocused rage doesn’t help, my boy,” Grindelwald said. “But I suppose most fools learn their lesson too late. Crucio! ”
Dueling Grindelwald with Harry at his side had already been impossible. Dueling Grindelwald on his own was a lost cause. Tom threw the darkest spells he had in his arsenal — Entrails-Expelling, Head-Exploding, Blood-Boiling — but before long, he found himself cornered against a tree. This part of the forest was all but burning now. Smoke filled the air and flames lapped at his feet. This was inferno brought to life, and if he survived this, he was going to tell Mrs. Cole that hell no longer terrified him.
“You’ve lost,” Grindelwald said. “Any final words?”
“No,” Tom said. “I haven’t lost. I will never lose, because Lord Voldemort never gives up.”
“Lord Voldemort?” Grindelwald’s mouth twisted in distaste. “You might grant yourself fancy titles, but you can never change who you are. Slytherin’s spawn or not, you’re but a dirty half-blood.”
“You claimed to not care about blood status.”
“I believe in magical supremacy, and with that, a distaste for impurities. It is not your blood that makes you impure, Mr. Riddle. It is your beliefs, your blind faith, and what a shame.” Grindelwald sighed in mock pity. “Look at you, once so proud and charming, now slumped and exhausted.”
Tom straightened. Grindelwald was wrong. He wasn’t slumping and his magic wasn’t exhausted. It was churning in his blood, rearing to attack, to consume.
“One last chance, Mr. Riddle. Do you join me, or do you join your lover?”
“Here’s my answer,” Tom said, and proceeded to pour every ounce of magic and fury he could summon into his next spell. “Incendio!”
Fire burst from his wand, but rather than a simple jet, it was a volcanic explosion. Flames fanned out in every direction, burning at such high heat that streaks of blue and white appeared amidst the red and orange.
Even more impressively, the flames were taking on lives of their own, morphing into small sentient beasts. A manticore. A runespoor. A thunderbird. They spread their limbs and bared their teeth as they hunted for new fuel for their fire. Even the fallen cinders were transforming into miniature creatures, scaring away the fire-eating salamanders and chasing the triumph from Grindelwald’s face.
And that was when Tom realized. This wasn’t Incendio.
He’d cast Fiendfyre.
And he was controlling it.
A thrill surged through him. He’d first read about Fiendfyre in the Black family library and been enamored with the idea of controlling fire — controlling nature — but had relegated it to a longer-term goal because he understood he wasn’t ready to master such a dangerous spell. And now, without even trying, he’d managed it.
“Impressive,” Grindelwald murmured. “Controlling Fiendfyre at such a young age. Imagine what we can accomplish together.”
Tom didn’t deign to answer, only forced the fire creatures to encircle Grindelwald more tightly.
“Nevertheless,” Grindelwald continued, “ everyone gets burned if he’s not careful.”
He generated another powerful tornado, which forced the flames away from him and towards Tom. Some of the smaller creatures were blown away, whereas the larger ones struggled, losing sight of who was the enemy and who was their creator.
Tom bit his lips and tried to regain control of the fire, but Grindelwald’s magic was relentless. Wincing, he hung onto his buckling wand.
“You came very close, Mr. Riddle. I’ll give you that. But now… Ventus maximus!”
The tornado strengthened and combined with Fiendfyre into a fiery hurricane that surrounded Tom. The heat and pressure of Grindelwald’s magic overwhelmed him. As Tom’s wand clattered to the ground, he dropped to his knees, panting. Grindelwald’s Incarcerous almost came as a relief, because in conjunction, the hurricane receded.
“I’ll allow you a quick death,” Grindelwald said. “The same death that I allowed your lover.”
Panic rose — what if the time loop did not revive him? — but Tom refused to show fear. He bit down hard on his bottom lip so he wouldn’t make a sound as Grindelwald uttered his final curse.
“Avada kedavra!”
This was it, Tom thought, watching the green light rush towards him. This was Death coming for him, centuries before he was ready.
A dark shape darted in front of him and the Killing Curse fizzled out.
“Oh good,” Harry said. “I was afraid it wouldn’t work the second time.”
Tom gaped. So did Grindelwald. Harry was covered in soot, but very much alive and solid.
“How did you — Avada kedavra!”
Tom’s eyes did not lie. The green light surged towards Harry, but as soon as it came within one feet, it faltered. For whatever miraculous reason, the Elder Wand refused to act against Harry.
How was that possible? Harry wasn’t the Master of Death in this timeline.
Not that Tom was about to look a gift thestral in the mouth.
“This cannot be possible,” Grindelwald said.
“I’m not that very easy to kill,” Harry mocked. “Multiple Dark Lords have failed to do so. It’s what I’m known for, actually. The Boy Who Lived.”
“This must be a trick, an illusion.”
“It’s not,” Harry said, stepping closer. “Try to kill me ten times, and you’ll fail ten times. Do you want to know the truth?”
“Harry, no —”
Whatever Tom expected to happen, he wasn’t prepared for the earsplitting screech from Grindelwald.
Or the fact that Grindelwald’s face was splattered with —
Gobstone gunk?
“Now’s our chance,” Harry said. He transferred the Incarcerous to the screaming Grindelwald and handed Tom his fallen wand. “Let’s go.”
“How — how did you —”
“Harry-Stone and Riddle-Stone.”
“That’s not what I —” Tom stared at Harry. “You brought Gobstones?”
If the situation hadn’t been so dire, he would’ve burst into hysterics. The mighty Grindelwald, felled by Eileen Prince’s favorite game.
Harry laughed as they scrambled back up the slopes to their original path. “I thought they’d be good luck charms. And I was right!” He tugged at Tom’s hand. “Now come on, let’s get out of this hellhole.”
They dove back into the forest, Harry’s hand clasping Tom’s wrist in a tight and reassuring hold. Tom shifted to grasp Harry’s hand in his. This time, he was not letting him go.
About a mile into their run, the darkness encased them once more, and curiosity got the better of Tom.
“Why didn’t the Killing Curse kill you?” he asked.
“To be honest, I’m not sure. Maybe the owner of the time loop can’t die or something.” A stray Killing Curse sailed over their heads, forcing them to duck in unison. “But I’m pretty sure you can still die and we can both get badly injured, so let’s do more running and less talking.”
Harry had a point. If Grindelwald had been furious, he was incandescent with rage now. Having cleaned the Gobstones gunk from his face, he was hot on their tails, sending Killing Curse after Killing Curse after them. Some missed their marks, the others were deflected by Harry, a phenomenon that hadn’t stopped being surreal.
“Keep going!” Harry shouted.
The trek out of the forest felt even more endless than the trek in. On the one hand, Grindelwald had left a path of destruction, so the way back was clearly delineated and mostly undisrupted by forest creatures. On the other hand, escaping the forest wasn’t their final obstacle, because they still had to deal with Grindelwald. The groundskeeper was hardly powerful enough to last a single exchange against the Dark Lord.
But Tom didn’t have the presence of mind to worry about that. He could only urge his aching legs to keep running, keep moving.
As they forged ahead, they shot back obstructions whenever the opportunity arose to slow down Grindelwald’s progress. Nothing fancy, mostly quick jinxes and hexes that conjured vines or thickened branches. Tom wished he’d thought to bring Gobstones; they made for pretty convenient mini-bombs.
A glimmer of silver appeared in the distance, reminiscent of the glimmer Tom had seen earlier. He tensed. “We should go a different way,” he told Harry. “That might be a dementor.”
Harry didn’t alter course. “That’s not a dementor. That’s a friend.”
What friend? Tom didn’t get a chance to ask, so he had no choice but to follow. The silver silhouette grew larger until it assumed the shape of a stag.
“Prongs!” Harry called. “We’re here!”
To Tom’s surprise, the majestic animal bowed its antlered head in acknowledgement and cantered over. Harry slowed down so it could touch its snout against his cheek.
“Did you deliver my message?” It nodded. “Are we almost out of the forest?” It nodded again. “Grindelwald is right behind us. Can you distract him for us?”
With one final nod, the stag leapt in the direction they’d come from. Soon, its silvery shadow faded from sight.
“Come on,” Harry said, urging Tom on again. “You heard Prongs. We’re almost out of here.”
“You…know each other?”
“Yes, it’s my Patronus. I fired it off earlier to fetch Dumbledore, so having it come back is a good sign.”
Tom almost tripped. “You can cast a Patronus?”
Not only a Patronus either. Harry had cast a corporeal Patronus that delivered a message and came back to help distract a powerful wizard. Tom couldn’t think of any schoolmate, past or present, who had accomplished a similar feat. Walburga could barely produce a silvery wisp and Linus’ best attempt was a laughably tiny squirrel.
“Oh, I guess I never mentioned. I didn’t have the best experience with dementors during my third year, so my Defense professor taught me.”
“ Third year?”
“Your awe is truly flattering,” Harry said, huffing, “but the full story will have to wait.”
He had a point. Tom’s lungs were hurting from the smoke inhalation and prolonged exertion, and every single muscle in his legs cramped. Determination could carry them only so far before their bodies physically collapsed.
Ogg’s hut was coming into view. Heartened, Tom found a final burst of energy, just as another one of Grindelwald’s attempts to subdue them whizzed by his ear, much too close for comfort.
The Stunning Spell collided against a shimmering golden shield and dissipated into harmless sparks.
“It appears I arrived in the nick of time,” said Albus Dumbledore.
Tom nearly fell in relief. He would’ve never expected to be so thrilled to see that tiresome man. He and Harry immediately took shelter behind Dumbledore seconds before Grindelwald emerged from the forest himself. His disheveled appearance contrasted sharply with the débonair guest of honor who commanded an audience at Malfoy Manor, but rather than undermining him, it highlighted his savagery.
“Come now, Gellert,” Dumbledore said with a shake of his head. “Have you stooped so low as to chase schoolboys?”
“Schoolboys?” Grindelwald spat. “They’re your spies. That Riddle boy cast Fiendfyre and almost burned down the forest.”
“A simple misunderstanding, I’m sure. You’ve always been too suspicious, my dear. Always so convinced that the whole world is out to undermine you. This is why we never could’ve lasted.”
“Do not rewrite history, Albus. The only reason you left me is because I know you. I see you for who you are. And because of your inability to recognize your flaws, you paint me as a villain.”
“I did not make you into a villain. You did that by yourself.”
“Come on,” Harry muttered. “Let’s hide in the pumpkin patch. We’re going to be in the way otherwise.”
Tom reluctantly tore his eyes away. It wasn’t everyday that two of the greatest wizards of the twentieth century aired their dirty laundry in public.
“Why are we hiding among the pumpkins?” he demanded. “If we want to get out of the way, we should get back to the castle.”
“The other professors aren’t here yet. What if Dumbledore needs backup? Also, if we stay and observe, we could give pointers to tomorrow’s Dumbledore for his duel with Grindelwald.”
Tom sighed. Harry and his bleeding heart. “I still don’t understand why you chose pumpkins.”
“Because they will shield us. Watch this. Egorgio!”
The nearest pumpkins glowed and expanded to ten times their original sizes. Soon, the patch was bursting with oversized pumpkins.
Harry grinned. “Looks like we are Cinderella after all.”
Tom rolled his eyes, but allowed Harry to drag him behind a carriage-sized pumpkin.
The pumpkin patch turned out to be the perfect, if ridiculous, arena from which to watch the most exciting duel Tom had ever witnessed. Dumbledore and Grindelwald dueled on an entirely different level with their creativity, prowess, and most of all, synchronicity. They seamlessly blended together light charms and dark curses, and manipulated and transformed their surroundings to suit their own needs.
First came a downpour of acid rain, draining the colors from nearby bushes, before it was repelled by weeds transfigured into umbrellas. Then a tornado ripped by, sending up a flurry of deadly leaves that became dancing butterflies. Following that, a tongue of fire and a wreath of ice collided in the air, resulting in brightly colorful fireworks that illuminated the night sky.
Their duel was a beautiful showcase of magic’s possibilities and, more than that, it was a dance more romantic than any witnessed in the Malfoys’ drawing room. And somehow, in spite of the exertion of exchanging these powerful spells, Dumbledore and Grindelwald managed to banter.
No, not just bantering. They were flirting while engaging in a life-or-death duel with his former lover. Tom’s respect for both men reluctantly shot up.
“That was close, Albus,” Grindelwald said, as a series of feathered arrows clipped Dumbledore’s shoulder. “Age has caught up to you, I see.”
“To you as well, Gellert,” Dumbledore returned, as he shot back a shower of purple stars that temporarily blinded Grindelwald. “Those arrows have lost their erstwhile luster. Have you not had enough practice? I don’t suppose dear Vinda has my flair.”
“Whatever Vinda lacks in flair, she makes up for in loyalty.”
“Ah yes, loyalty is an admirable trait. Forgive me.”
“If I don’t know any better, Albus, I’d say that you’re jealous.”
“You read me so well, Gellert. I am indeed remembering how we used to duel every night. It always led to pleasant activities afterwards in the bedroom.”
Tom choked and tried to ignore Harry’s muffled laughter. Harry’s stupid theory about Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s bedroom positions was correct. For Salazar’s sake, he would never hear the end of this.
Flirting and innuendo aside, the duel was increasing in intensity. Occasionally, a stray spell would find its way to the pumpkin patch, teaching Tom the valuable lesson that giant pumpkins made for nice shields and reeked when exploded. As the two men blurred in and out of sight, an idea occurred to him.
“I have a plan,” he announced.
“What is it?” Harry asked, without looking away from Dumbledore.
“We Disarm whoever wins and get the Elder Wand.”
Harry turned to stare. “What?”
“Don’t look at me like I’m crazy. You need to be the Master of Death, don’t you? So neither Grindelwald nor Dumbledore can keep the wand, and if they’re distracted by each other, we can Disarm them more easily.”
“I can simply ask Dumbledore for the wand if he wins. That would be polite after he saved our lives.”
“And if he loses?”
Harry chewed his bottom lip. “Fine, Disarming Grindelwald is fair game.”
Though the plan was straightforward in theory, actually finding an opening to Disarm Grindelwald was challenging. Additionally, by then, professors had arrived on scene under Headmaster Dippet’s lead. By unspoken agreement, everyone stayed back to give Dumbledore and Grindelwald a wide berth.
The two duellists seemed unaware of their growing audience as they continued trying to outsmart each other. Rocks and pebbles were transfigured into knights and horses to engage in an aerial joust. Felled trees became autonomous bows and arrows. Damaged pumpkin carriages clashed and crashed, spilling seeds everywhere.
“Just like our summers,” Grindelwald said. “I can still see those sunlit fields. Our duels would go on for hours and hours, because neither of us would give up first. Your mother and my great-aunt used to get so frustrated.”
“I remember those golden summer days,” Dumbledore agreed. “Regrettably, they were a long time ago, and we’ve both changed.”
“We certainly have. I, perhaps, most of all.”
To underline his statement, the Elder Wand trembled and unleashed a wave of magic that shattered the last of Dumbledore’s rock knights, spraying everyone in the vicinity with dust.
For the first time, Dumbledore lost his composure, which gave Grindelwald the opening to gain on him.
“I’m sorry, Albus,” Grindelwald said, as his wand sparked with the beginnings of another curse. “Our last dance ends here. I shall miss you dearly.”
Tom dug his nails into Harry’s hand, possibilities racing through his head. Dumbledore needed help, but what could they do?
They could try to deflect the curse, but they were physically too far away.
They could try to distract Grindelwald, but that might also become a liability to Dumbledore.
They could wait for the professors to intervene, but even experienced duellists like Flitwick and Merrythought stood no chance against Grindelwald.
They could —
A dog-sized spider rammed into Grindelwald. It wasn’t large enough to knock Grindelwald over, but his stumble was all that Dumbledore needed.
“Expelliarmus!”
Grindelwald cried in helpless rage, but like Walburga during Harry’s first Dueling Club, he couldn’t resist the Disarming Spell. The Elder Wand sailed into his new master’s hand, and immediately, Grindelwald’s enchantments collapsed. The tornadoes subsided, leaves and branches returned to their original forms, and the pebble army stilled.
Ignoring Hagrid’s anguished “Aragog!”, the acromantula scampered into the Forbidden Forest.
— or that.
Tom shared a look of amazement with Harry. He’d forgotten that Harry and Hagrid had planned to release his pet acromantula tonight. The timing couldn’t be more opportune.
“Game’s up, my dear Gellert,” Dumbledore said, pointing his newly obtained weapon at its former master. “I have won.”
“As you always insist on doing,” Grindelwald said, his expression so full of acrimony that Tom found himself wondering how their relationship had originally ruptured.
“Would you care for some tea and sweets while we wait for our Aurors friends? I still stock your favorite brew.”
Grindelwald seemed to seriously consider the proposal. Two pairs of blue eyes held each other in a long stare. Then, very slowly, he shook his head.
“As lovely as that sounds, I must disappoint you.”
Before anyone could react, Grindelwald grabbed something from his sleeve and flung it to the ground. White smoke rose to obscure him, and when it was dispelled, he’d disappeared.
Onlookers erupted into whispers.
“How did he escape?”
“How did he get here in the first place? You can’t Apparate into Hogwarts.”
“Was that an acromantula?”
Dumbledore pocketed the Elder Wand and turned to the crowd, his expression serene. “Knowing Gellert, Armando, he would not have come to Hogwarts without multiple escape mechanisms. He likely had several Portkeys prepared. Indeed, Galatea, the fact that he was here at all necessitates a review of the security of our wards, lest Gellert brings his acolytes next visit. And yes, Filius, that appeared to be an adolescent acromantula who came to my aid.”
All eyes turned to a sheepish-looking Hagrid, clutching a shredded cardboard box to his chest. “His name is Aragog,” he offered meekly.
Dippet heaved a sigh. “Rubeus, my dear boy, you must revisit your definition of ‘school-appropriate pets.’”
“We need to alert the Ministry to catch that monster,” Flitwick piped up, “before it reproduces and takes over the forest.”
“Given its contribution to Gellert’s defeat,” Dumbledore said, “perhaps we could find an alternate and more mutually beneficial arrangement. There has been a shortage of acromantula venom in Potions circles and I know a Magizoologist who will be interested in obtaining a live specimen.”
Dippet pursed his lips, but nodded. “Very well, I will retain the services of Mr. Scamander to capture and move it to a more appropriate environment. Ten points from Gryffindor for stowing a dangerous pet, Mr. Hagrid. We will still have our conversation later.”
Hagrid sagged in relief. “Thank you, sir.”
“But first, I would like to speak with Mr. Evans and Tom. If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me to my office, boys.”
“Allow me to handle this, Armando. I am the Deputy Headmaster, after all.” Dumbledore sent a quick wink in Tom’s direction. “The Aurors should be arriving on scene shortly and will need your guidance. Galatea, Filius, it would be a good idea to secure the school and alert the head students before curious young friends join our fun. Ogg, please accompany Rubeus back to Gryffindor Tower. He can meet Armando tomorrow after classes.”
Though Dumbledore’s colleagues sensed they were being dismissed for unknown reasons, they followed his directives. Even Dippet relinquished custody of Tom and Harry without much protest.
The boys found themselves back in Dumbledore’s now too-familiar office. For once, Tom was too exhausted to refuse Dumbledore’s sweets. Rather, the sour-sweetness of sherbet lemons was refreshing and reminded him pleasantly of Harry’s lemon tart.
Dumbledore clasped his hands together and beamed. “I am looking forward to hearing you recount your adventure today,” he remarked. “First, however, I must apologize to you both. I should have anticipated the possibility of Gellert tailing you back here, given his naturally suspicious self. You could have been gravely injured or worse.”
“Apology accepted,” Tom said, reveling in his graciousness.
“You don’t need to apologize, professor,” Harry said. “You saved us and even got the Elder Wand. But I do have one favor to ask.”
Dumbledore gestured for him to continue.
“I would like the Elder Wand.”
“Oh?” Dumbledore peered over his spectacles. “And what use do you have for such a wand?”
“I mentioned that we’re in a time loop. One of your past selves and I agreed that I need to become the Master of Death to end it. Otherwise, once the loop resets, Grindelwald will get his wand back, and all of our efforts will be erased.”
“Ah, I see what you mean. I agree, that would be quite inconvenient.”
Curiously, Dumbledore made no move to hand over the Elder Wand. Instead, his mouth was twitching in repressed laughter. Maybe dueling and defeating his ex-lover had finally pushed him over the edge. Maybe their true obstacle of the night was Disarming Dumbledore.
Frowning, Harry leaned forward. “You’re hiding something from us, professor. You don’t believe me about the Master of Death, do you?”
Dumbledore broke into a huge grin. “Well observed, Harry, but you misread my source of amusement. I won’t sustain the suspense. Check your watch.”
Still wearing a puzzled expression, Harry glanced down at his wrist. He gasped aloud.
Immediately, Tom craned over his shoulder. The realization similarly staggered him.
Harry’s watch read fifteen minutes past midnight.
In the past, they would have ended back in their beds, poised to wake up to a brand new loop, but here they were, still in Dumbledore’s office and covered in the grime of tonight’s adventures.
Monday, the 31st of May, had finally arrived.
Notes:
As some of you already expected from the chapter count, we are (finally) out of the loop. It hasn’t been an easy road, but I hope you’ll find the resolution of the story satisfying.
2025 edit: I also received a great question from a reader who wondered why Harry's disguise wasn't removed by the Malfoy bathroom the first time around. I imagine that the bathroom removes someone's disguise with some trigger -- e.g. they had to have stayed in the bathroom for a long enough time, or that they had to interact with certain hidden spells in the bathroom -- since there may be legitimate reasons for disguises, such as costume balls. This is also why Tom didn't notice Harry's appearance change until Grindelwald called it out: Harry still looked like Fleamont when they first entered the bathroom and poked around.
Thanks for asking!
Chapter 16: Bingo
Notes:
Thank you everyone as always for your patience and support. We’re so close to the end, and now we can start tying up loose ends.
Please enjoy!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I suspected this may be the case,” Dumbledore said. “Congratulations. You have accomplished your mission.”
Tom and Harry glanced at each other, stumped by the same question: how did they escape the time loop? Harry didn’t become the Master of Death.
“Let’s debrief on your eventful day,” Dumbledore suggested. “I am interested in learning what happened between the borrowing of my dress robes and the appearance of Gellert at Hogwarts. It may help to unravel the mystery of how the time loop ended.”
Thus, they took turns recounting their final loop, starting from the acquisition of the Resurrection Stone in Little Hangleton, to Malfoy Manor and Tom’s tango with Grindelwald, to their ill-fated meeting in the guest bathroom, and finally to Grindelwald’s surprise appearance. By unspoken agreement, they glossed over their confrontation with Morfin and omitted their bathroom snogging.
Dumbledore listened attentively, interrupting occasionally to ask clarifying questions, his eyes shining more brightly with every answer. It was past one o’clock when they finished.
“Thank you for sharing this remarkable tale,” he said, stroking his beard. “You’ve accomplished an incredible amount within the span of one day, and I have no doubt Gellert greatly regrets underestimating you.”
“It’s too bad he got away,” Harry said. “You almost ended this war earlier than you did in my timeline.”
“I’m not too concerned. Without the Elder Wand, Gellert will be easier to apprehend. I already look forward to our next duel.” Dumbledore popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth. “Now, to return to the matter at hand. What do you think ended the time loop?”
“Well, I initially thought that I needed to become the Master of Death, because that would take me back to the train station in limbo. But that theory was clearly wrong.” Dumbledore hummed. “Now I think the loop ended because I died in the same clearing where Voldemort killed me. And like Voldemort, Grindelwald is a Dark Lord who cast the Killing Curse with the Elder Wand. So I’m replicating the conditions that got me here in the first place, which meant I sort of found a way to return to the future.” He frowned. “I didn’t end up in limbo when I died though.”
“A compelling theory nevertheless. What do you think, Mr. Riddle?”
Tom crossed his arms, refusing to fall into Dumbledore’s trap. “It could be any number of things, professor, and I have the feeling that you already have the answer.”
Dumbledore chuckled. “I wouldn’t say I have the answer. A mere inkling would be more accurate.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense,” Tom said scathingly, ignoring Harry’s disapproving frown.
“A time loop, from my albeit limited understanding, is generally literal in how it defines its initiation and completion conditions. Therefore, as interesting as Harry’s second theory is, the recreation of his death in his original timeline is likely too subtle to register.”
Harry tilted his head. “What do you think it is, then?”
“Perhaps we should attempt a simpler view. Think back to the night you triggered the loop. What were you doing, and what were you doing yesterday that could’ve been construed as a response?”
Tom thought back. The night they triggered the loop, he had come across Harry and Myrtle Warren in the second-floor girls’ bathroom. After Warren had departed, he’d confronted Harry regarding his attraction to Tom — Tom shuddered in embarrassment — and kissed him. Harry had not appreciated the kiss, and in the ensuing skirmish, The Magick of Tyme had been damaged.
What did they do today that could — oh. Tom’s cheeks burned in remembrance.
Judging from Harry’s expression, he’d come to the same conclusion. “You mean, this whole time, all we needed to do was —”
He stopped himself, but judging by Dumbledore’s twitching lips, he might as well have said, snog in a bathroom.
“Indeed, the correct solution is often simple, though as is often the case with magic, we can never know for sure.”
Harry groaned and clapped a hand to his forehead. “I can’t believe we wasted so much time.”
“I imagine your actions would need to be sincere to be recognized as a legitimate condition, and who are we to argue with the whimsies of time?” Dumbledore smiled. “What’s more, your efforts to bring the Hallows together are certainly not wasted. Having them in our possession, rather than Gellert’s, would make a difference in the outcome of the war.”
“That mostly benefits you,” Tom muttered, earning himself another frown.
“True, but that does remind me. There’s something else that I want to discuss with you.” Dumbledore picked up the Elder Wand and rolled it between his fingers. “As you know, I’ve been consulting with my colleagues in the Department of Mysteries about Harry’s predicament.”
“The Unspeakables?” Harry said, and Tom recalled that Dumbledore in past loops mentioning afternoon meetings.
“Yes, they have been researching methods of returning you to your timeline, but as you can imagine, looping the same day isn’t conducive to progress. In our previous conversations, they mentioned they were blocked on establishing a stable link to your dimension. Given the plethora of parallel universes, an incorrect or unstable link can be costly.”
“That makes sense. I mean, I ended up here because I took the wrong train.”
Dumbledore nodded. “To avoid a similar mistake, we should ideally have an anchor in your timeline to ensure our portal is creating a link to the right destination.”
“And you think that the Hallows could be that anchor?”
“Not quite. Many timelines have their own versions of the Hallows, so they aren’t unique enough to serve as anchor. However, the Master of Death is.”
Tom’s breath hitched. Was Dumbledore suggesting —
“Are you saying that I’m the Master of Death?” Harry blurted.
“It is obvious that you are, Harry, given you survived Gellert’s Killing Curse.”
“But I don’t have all the Hallows in this timeline.”
“That is true, and my theory is that your ownership in your timeline is enough. The Hallows are attuned to their master, and to them, time and space are meaningless. In conjunction with other facts that you’ve shared, such as your date of birth and the timing of Voldemort’s war, we should be able to identify the right universe.”
Harry seemed overwhelmed. “I still don’t understand. How can I be both the time traveler and the anchor?”
“Quite simple, as a matter of fact. You, as you are in the current timeline, will be the time traveler, while you, as the Master of Death in your original timeline, will be the anchor.”
Though Dumbledore’s logic sounded convoluted, it made sense. One core tenet of parallel universes was that multiple versions of the same person existed, defining a precise point in time and space.
“I can go home,” Harry said, lighting up. “I can see everyone again.” All of a sudden, his face fell and took on so much vulnerability that Tom clenched his hands. “But I’ve already been here a month. If I go back, will I be too late?”
“No. Remember that the progression of time in this timeline is orthogonal to the progression of time in yours. In your case, we are targeting the exact moment in your timeline that you became the Master of Death.”
“So the portal will send me to the Forbidden Forest, to when I used the Resurrection Stone for the first time.”
“Precisely. As a result, it means you should not show yourself until your past — er, future? — self dies.” Dumbledore popped another sherbet lemon in his mouth. “Time travel is mind-boggling, isn’t it?”
Harry exhaled. “This whole time, I was already in the forest, watching myself die.” A brilliant smile spread across his face. “But Voldemort can’t kill me anymore. I will be able to defeat him and save everyone.”
“I would still be cautious, as you can still be injured or incapacitated through other means. However, I agree there is a high likelihood that Voldemort’s Elder Wand will be unable to act against you, which will afford you a great advantage.”
Harry nodded eagerly. Tom’s gut twisted.
“I will be speaking with the Unspeakables as soon as I can, so please expect updates on that front in the coming weeks,” Dumbledore added. “In the meantime, I recommend that you attend classes as usual. A good education is a privilege, and I’ve heard multiple professors complain about your truancy.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, but now that I no longer have to research time travel, I promise I’ll be better about going to class.”
“Wonderful. And similarly for you, Mr. Riddle, I recommend focusing on school rather than extracurricular research next month. O.W.L.s are coming up, and after so many loops, old class material will warrant review. All the professors expect highly of you.”
“I appreciate your concern,” Tom said, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
“My pleasure. Now, it is very late, and both of you have classes in the morning. I propose that you return to your dorms to rest and we can reconvene as needed. Unless there’s anything else that I can do for you?”
“No, thank you,” Harry said. “You’ve been very helpful, professor.”
“It is I who should thank you. I’m very proud of you. Both of you.” Dumbledore’s gaze rested on Tom with rare approval. “Rest well tonight. I will see you in class later today.”
After Harry left the office, Tom lingered, an impulsive question at his lips. Before Dumbledore could probe further, however, he thought better of it and departed with a hurried good night.
Harry was waiting outside. They stared at each other.
“Well,” Harry said. “That was that.”
“I suppose so,” Tom said, at a loss for anything eloquent to say. The victory from escaping the time loop and Grindelwald was fading, replaced by a vague foreboding.
“Guess I should’ve done my homework. Oops.” Harry took off his glasses to rub his eyes, then forced a laugh. “At least the menus will finally change.”
“Yes. That would be — nice.”
An awkward silence descended, mercifully broken by a huge yawn from Harry.
“I should head back to Gryffindor Tower now. You take care. See you around.”
“See you around,” Tom echoed, and tried to ignore the twinge in his chest as he and Harry went their separate ways.
Waking up to Monday was awful, not least of which was due to Abraxas’ morning chatter. He’d returned from his overnight stay at his parents’ house to catch Tom getting dressed.
“Good morning, my Lord. How did you enjoy the ball? I apologize I didn’t see you before you left.”
“That’s all right,” Tom said, shrugging on his robes. “I left on the earlier side as we have classes today, but I had an enjoyable time. Please extend my gratitude to your parents for inviting me.”
“Of course, they’re always delighted to host you.” Abraxas glanced around the dorm to ensure they were alone. “And how was, er, Fleamont?”
“I presume he had an enjoyable time as well.”
“You know what was odd? Mother asked Dorea why Fleamont changed his mind and attended the ball, and Dorea just laughed. Wasn’t that rude? Mother was a bit offended.”
Tom hummed and began to knot his tie.
“Do you know what else was odd? Grindelwald was supposed to make a toast to end the night, but he disappeared and didn’t return until this morning. The house-elves said he was in a foul mood. I hope the ball didn’t offend him.”
“I highly doubt that the ball did anything of the sort,” Tom said, reassuring Abraxas due to his penchant for inane fretting. “Perhaps business came up related to the treaty negotiations.”
“That’s true. That’s probably it. Thank you, my Lord.”
“Of course,” Tom said generously. “Your ball was a grand success.”
“It was, wasn’t it? We had such amazing turnout, and I got to meet Elina!” Abraxas sighed in rapture. “What a revelation she is. So lovely, so wonderful, even if she’s a Hufflepuff. I should’ve paid more attention to the Greengrasses all along instead of focusing on the Macmillans. She and Melinda had an awkward moment when both of them thought they were going to dance with me. I’ve never had two girls almost get into a duel over me, it was quite flattering…”
Tom bit back a sigh as Abraxas prattled away. Monday was shaping up to be a long day.
The day dragged on. Indeed, the entire week dragged on.
In earlier loops, Tom had missed the structure and normalcy of school. Now, everything felt dull. Class material was boring and homework pointless. His Knights were vapid and grooming them was a chore. He even lost interest in researching the Chamber of Secrets and Ravenclaw’s diadem, their mystique having paled in comparison to time loops and the Deathly Hallows.
Most of all, he missed the constancy of Harry’s company. He missed sauntering together into the library after breakfast to snipe at each other over research; he missed reviewing ridiculous diagrams and practicing waltzes in the war room; he missed the quiet moments shared in the Hogwarts kitchen and their spot by the lake.
However, like him, Harry had settled back into his pre-loop routine, a routine that left only fleeting glances for Tom.
Sunday came around. Restless and lacking a better option, Tom agreed to stroll with Abraxas, which turned out to be a mistake. Abraxas had not stopped worrying about Grindelwald since the ball, and Grindelwald’s untimely departure for Germany intensified his anxiety.
“Mother is beside herself,” Abraxas said. “She spent so much time and money making sure everything was perfect for Grindelwald’s stay, and that was excluding the peacocks we specifically imported. Now everyone thinks we somehow offended Grindelwald and sent him away, and blames us for the lack of peace treaties. Can you believe the nerve? After they came to the ball and benefitted from our hospitality? Honestly, if anything, it was Corinne Rosier’s fault. She and Vinda had a tense moment during the ball, and that probably put Grindelwald off negotiations.”
Tom stopped listening. Harry was cutting across the lawn, accompanied by Hagrid and Myrtle. When he saw Tom, he waved.
“Hi Tom, hi Malfoy!”
Abraxas stopped mid-sentence and stared. Tom’s cheeks warmed.
“Hello Harry,” he said, keeping an even and casual tone. “Hello Rubeus, hello Myrtle. Lovely day, isn’t it?”
Hagrid smiled, uncertain, while Warren giggled, starstruck. Harry, on the other hand, showed no trace of discomfort.
“Yes, it is. We are on our way to the pumpkin patch. Myrtle and I want to help Hagrid replant some of his pumpkins after — you know. What about you?”
Abraxas opened his mouth soundlessly, as dependable as ever.
“We’re on our way to the lake,” Tom said. “I know a nice and quiet spot.”
If he’d hoped for some sign of jealousy, he was sorely disappointed. Harry’s friendly expression didn’t waver. “That sounds fun. I hope you enjoy yourselves. C’mon, Hagrid, Myrtle, Ogg is waiting for us.”
As Harry led the way to Ogg’s hut, Warren kept pace beside him, her hand drifting to brush his from time to time. Tom gritted his teeth. She was technically not covered under Harry’s Unbreakable Vow. Would Harry mind terribly if something were to happen to her?
Abraxas’ eyes were darting between Tom and Harry. “My Lord,” he squeaked, “when did you and Evans become friends?”
“Since last Sunday,” Tom replied, and took much satisfaction in Abraxas’ amazement.
Despite Harry’s friendliness, which had the amusing effect of confusing Tom’s housemates, he didn’t spend time with Tom. During school hours, he studied or played Quidditch with Shafiq, Longbottom, and Prewett. Outside school hours, he helped Hagrid rehabilitate the pumpkin patch or took walks with Warren. He even continued co-running Prince’s Gobstones team. Now that sunset was later, they took to practicing on the lawn, and Tom boiled with betrayal every time he watched Harry play with random schoolmates.
Didn’t any of these people realize Harry was Tom’s? They didn’t deserve his company. They shouldn’t take up his time.
As the days wore on, doubt crept up. Maybe the problem was Harry. Maybe Harry didn’t want to see Tom. They had been forced into each other’s company during the time loop, after all. Maybe Tom had never been his first choice.
Tom seethed.
“You should come back to Gobstones team, Tom,” Prince said one evening in the common room. “You have potential to be a star.”
“I have to focus on my O.W.L.s.” Tom jiggled his Potions book for emphasis, even though he’d been staring at the chapter for Amortentia for the past hour without registering a single sentence.
“Everyone knows your O.W.L.s will be fine.” Prince plopped beside him on the couch. “You need to try my new Gobstones set. Papa got me a limited edition set last week and everyone loves playing with it.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. She didn’t and would never understand. He and Harry christened that stupid Gobstones set with a legendary game. Even though it was lost to one of their many loops, he could still remember the thrill that surged through him as he and Harry grinned at each other in triumph and basked in the admiration of their audience.
“There’s a lot to study,” he said, and flipped the page. Why was the chapter on Amortentia so long?
“Don’t you want to see Harry? He’s still coming.”
“Good for him.”
“And I know Harry is disappointed you stopped coming.”
Good. If that was true, Harry should seek Tom out. It wasn’t difficult to send a message, whether through school owls or otherwise.
On the flip side, Tom could do the same, except what excuse did he have, now that the time loop was over and Dumbledore was helping Harry research time travel once more?
Hey Harry, dancing and snogging have been fun, let’s do it again sometime?
This was ridiculous. And pathetic. He didn’t need Gobstones. He didn’t need Harry. He was better off detaching himself and re-focus on what he needed to do to become Lord Voldemort.
Even if he felt bereft.
Tom laid down his book. “Some other time, perhaps.”
Prince had already left.
“Evans isn’t at dinner today,” Abraxas said.
“Great observation,” Tom said drily, even though he’d noticed as well. In fact, whenever he went to the Great Hall, his eyes always first sought the Gryffindor table.
“He’s missed quite a few dinners lately, have you noticed?”
Tom had, but he didn’t consider it noteworthy. Harry probably wanted to spend time with the house-elves or Ogg or someone else who wasn’t Tom.
“Abraxas,” he drawled, grabbing a forkful of pork-and-stilton pie, “I’d appreciate it if you stop poking into Harry’s business.”
“But my Lord,” Abraxas said, drooping, “you asked me to investigate him, and I have new developments to share.”
Tom swallowed the bite of pie, which tasted blander than its time loop counterparts.
Abraxas took Tom’s silence as encouragement. He leaned in. “Evans has been meeting the Potters for dinner.”
Tom’s plate screeched in protest as cutlery scraped against china. “The Potters?”
“Yes, Fleamont, Charlus and their families, although they’re tight-lipped whenever Mother tries to learn more. Still, doesn’t that prove he’s related to them?”
“I’m surprised the Potters are all but recognizing his legitimacy,” Ethan commented, overhearing. “That has implications for the Potions business. It’s difficult enough splitting the family fortune between two sons without a bastard getting in the fold.”
“Sounds like Evans is about to become popular with unbetrothed witches,” Orion said, chuckling.
That was the last straw. Tom rose abruptly.
“My Lord, is everything all right?” Abraxas asked anxiously.
“Perfectly, but I need to patrol.”
“It’s dinnertime,” Ethan pointed out, though Tom was already on his way out of the Great Hall.
As luck would have it, he ran into Harry in the entrance hall. Harry must’ve recently returned from a trip, because he was still wearing his cloak and his cheeks were flushed from the evening air, rendering him alive and beautiful.
Despite his annoyance, Tom’s heart stuttered.
“Tom!” Harry said, breaking into a happy smile. “I was hoping I would run into you.”
“Why?” Tom practically spat. “Did you want to tell me about your wonderful dinner with the Potters? Have they started setting you up with children of their pure-blood friends?”
Harry blinked. “I didn’t realize news travels so fast in Slytherin, but if you want to know, I can tell you another time. I actually just visited the Ministry.”
“Why the Ministry?”
“Dumbledore took me to meet the Unspeakables. They’re really close to establishing the link to my timeline. I can return home soon.”
Tom’s heart plunged into ice-cold water. Dumbledore’s research with the Department of Mysteries had been taking so long that he’d convinced himself the plan would fail. He should’ve known Dumbledore would foil his hope.
Harry’s unbridled giddiness made everything worse.
“I didn’t believe it until they showed me the portal,” he continued, hopping from foot to foot in excitement. “I wish you could’ve seen it. It looks a little like the door to the Malfoys’ guest bathroom, except there are runes to leverage magic from the Elder Wand and Resurrection Stone to —”
“Shut up.” Tom couldn’t stand another second of Harry’s rambling. “I don’t want to hear it.”
Harry’s face filled with hurt. “I thought you’d be interested, after our research together.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I don’t care in the least.”
“You’re in a mood. What’s wrong?”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Tom snarled. “Come with me.”
Without waiting for assent, he grabbed Harry’s arm and dragged him roughly into the first open room he found. Harry jerked away and wrapped his arms around himself.
“What is with you and girls’ bathrooms?” he muttered.
In the heat of the moment, Tom hadn’t noticed he’d picked the second-floor girls’ bathroom. Well, so be it, he didn’t plan on being embarrassed or interrupted. With a flick of his wand, the bathroom door slammed shut and the lock clicked into place.
“Well, Riddle?” Harry demanded, face darkening. “Why are we in a bathroom?”
“It’s apparently the only place where we can have an honest conversation.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
A jumble of words came out, but Tom was beyond caring about coherence and tact. “What it means is this is the first time we’re talking in two weeks, and you just want to rub in the fact that you’re leaving!”
“What are you talking about? This is not the first time we’re talking. I greet you all the time.”
“How kind of you to spare me a hello in your busy schedule with other people.”
“We spent several hundred loops together. Isn’t it natural that we want to see other friends for a change? Besides, if you want to see me, you could’ve asked.”
Tom clenched his hands. Why didn’t Harry understand? Tom shouldn’t have to ask. Tom shouldn’t have been so easily set aside in the first place.
As if their loops didn’t matter.
As if Tom didn’t matter.
“I didn’t realize I have to beg for your attention after everything we’ve gone through together,” Tom said. “I didn’t expect to be tossed aside like yesterday’s rubbish as soon as you found a way home.”
Harry stilled.
“Why so quiet?” Tom taunted. “Have I come too close to the truth?”
He edged forward until he was crowding Harry against the sink. Harry’s scent was intoxicating and Tom wanted to breathe him in.
Harry shoved him. “Is this what you think?” he shouted. The expression that overcame his face was not of guilt, but of fury. “For a Legilimens, you’re awful at understanding people.”
“Do enlighten me.”
“Has it ever occurred to your self-centered brain that this is difficult for me? That I kind of miss being in the loop with you? That I’m sad about leaving this timeline behind?” Harry was trembling, his green eyes unnaturally bright. “That I feel guilty because of all the people I’d miss, the one I’d miss most will grow up to murder my parents?”
Tom was afraid to breathe. “Do you mean — me?”
“Yes, you dolt, I bloody well mean you! For Merlin’s sake, I’m supposed to kill Voldemort, I’m supposed to hate you, not — not —”
Harry choked, and the rest of his sentence dissolved into a strangled grunt.
“Then stay,” Tom croaked.
“What?”
“Stay.” Such a simple word, yet he’d had to summon every available scrap of courage. “Stay here. Stay with me.”
Harry studied him, and gradually, achingly, his anger and confusion softened into sorrow.
“I’m sorry I’ve neglected you, Tom,” he whispered. “But I can’t stay. You know I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Tom insisted. “Don’t go through the portal. Tell them you’ve changed your mind.”
“Have you forgotten? Voldemort’s waiting for me.”
“Let someone else finish the job. You’ve done so much already.” Tom curled desperate fingers into Harry’s robes. “Stay with me. I’ll keep you safe.”
Harry’s hands rose to cover his. Beneath the thin fabric, he could feel the dull thuds of Harry’s heartbeat. “Even if Lord Voldemort didn’t exist, I would still go back. My friends are waiting for me.”
He’d spoken without a trace of hesitation. Tom dug his fingers deeper, wondering whether Harry would later see his marks.
“You have friends here,” Tom said.
You have me.
“I do, and I will miss them. I’ll miss you. But I owe everything to my friends’ love and kindness. I won’t abandon them.”
“They’ll be born in this timeline. You’ll see them again. All the time. Whenever you want.” Tom was babbling, spilling wild promises he might later regret. “I’ll protect their families so they’ll have the best childhoods and opportunities. We can visit them and watch them grow up. Read them bedtime stories and teach them magic and play Quidditch with them. Anything you want.”
“They won’t be the same.”
“Why not? They’ll have the same name, same blood, same magic.”
“Tom.” Harry’s tone was firm. “You know that’s not enough. They won’t be the same as my friends, just as you aren’t the same as Voldemort.”
Desperation flared into fury.
“If you don’t stay, I will be worse than Lord Voldemort,” Tom threatened. “I’ll kill every single Potter. I’ll kill every single Weasley. I’ll kill everyone you love. The world would burn to ashes. All because of you.”
Harry watched him wordlessly. Then he shook his head, waves of melancholy rolling off him.
“You can’t. Remember the Vow?”
“I will find a way around it.”
As soon as he said the words, Tom knew he was bluffing. With or without the Vow, he could never bring himself to hurt the Potters, because sometime in this future, a different Harry would be born.
Not his Harry, but the closest replacement.
If his Harry didn’t stay.
“Please,” Tom said. “Don’t leave.”
He hated the way his voice had taken on the texture of sandpaper, rough and scratchy. He hated the way he was all but groveling. But the plea had been building for months, and now it craved being heard.
“Give me a chance.”
Give us a chance.
“Tom, I —”
Not waiting for him to finish, Tom surged forward and pressed their lips together. Harry made a funny sound in the back of his throat, but didn’t struggle as Tom maneuvered him against the wall. Rather, as Tom’s hands slipped under his shirt to press against bare skin, he let out a moan and pulled Tom closer.
Driven by the urge to claim, Tom angled Harry’s chin with a bruising grip and plundered the inside of his mouth with his tongue, chasing that distinctly Harry taste and searing it into his memories. He’d kissed plenty of people, and he could kiss plenty more, yet enjoyable though those kisses might be, they would never be the same. This kiss only solidified what he’d known since the beginning: there would never be anyone like Harry.
Already, he could envision the emptiness of Hogwarts without Harry; he could envision returning to a life of posturing schoolmates and sycophantic professors, leaving him with scattered memories. Meanwhile, Harry would resume his place in his world; he would defeat Voldemort and get married and become an Auror, and Tom would be relegated to a series of fond but faded anecdotes.
The more Tom envisioned this future, the more he crushed Harry to his chest, to destroy any remaining distance between them. The kiss could last for an eternity and it wouldn’t be nearly long enough.
In contrast to his violence, Harry kissed so sweetly, so carefully, as if he was memorizing the outline of Tom’s lips, cataloguing the flavor of Tom’s mouth. Even as Tom’s hands roamed possessively over his body, he remained patient and pliant in his arms, cradling Tom’s face with one hand and carding gentle fingers through Tom’s hair with the other.
And that surrender, more than anything else, told Tom what he’d feared: Harry had made up his mind.
Eventually, Harry’s hands closed around Tom’s wrists and gently pushed him away. Anguished brown eyes met regretful green. For a moment, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said. “But I must go. I’m ready.”
But I’m not.
Tom sagged against the cold tiles, sapped of energy and not trusting himself to speak. Harry moved to lean against him. While Tom was tempted to move away to make a point, he remained to revel in the heat of Harry’s body.
“What if you — what if you come to the future with me?” Harry’s question was low and hesitant, as if he already expected the answer but had to ask, just in case. “You might like it. The wizarding world hasn’t changed much. Hogwarts is still there, and Slughorn is still teaching Potions. I can also show you the Muggle world. We can explore London and play video games and —”
Tom shook his head. His life was here. His Knights, his ambitions, the connections he’d invested much effort cultivating. Leaving everything behind to take on a sullied identity elsewhere was unthinkable.
He caught sight of Harry’s downcast yet understanding face.
“I see,” he said, because he finally did see. They were both too stubborn, too entrenched in their respective timelines to compromise.
Only one outcome was possible, no matter how much it hurt.
A hand slipped into his, calloused and a little sweaty. Fingers interwove. Tom clung.
“Well, you never know,” Harry said. “Maybe we’ll find each other again someday. That’s the magic about time, isn’t it? Everything is possible.”
At that moment, Tom made a vow of his own. He and Harry would find each other again. Someday, when his empire was flourishing and the world bowed to his feet, when he’d mastered every branch of magic and amassed every rare artifact, he would make it happen. He would extend the Unspeakables’ research, find that train station in limbo, and try every bloody train until he found the one that led to Harry’s world. To Harry.
Someday.
As for today…
The doorknob twisted. Some poor sod was trying to enter the bathroom, but wasn’t competent enough to undo Tom’s Locking Charm.
“We should leave,” Harry said. “It wouldn’t look good if the caretaker or prefect finds us.”
“If we could fool Grindelwald, we can come up with an excuse.”
“Even so, I don’t want to spend the rest of the night in a girls’ bathroom when we can do something more enjoyable.” Harry turned towards him, a wobbliness to his determined smile. “Why don’t I show you around Hogwarts?”
Tom scoffed. “I already know Hogwarts, probably much better than you do.”
“Not necessarily. My dad and his friends made a pretty nifty map with secret passageways you might find interesting.”
Imploring green eyes waited expectantly. This was a terrible consolation prize, but Tom would have to accept it. His pride permitted no further tantrums.
“All right,” he agreed, “but you should know that I have high standards for ‘interesting.’”
“Challenge accepted.”
They shared a tentative grin.
“So, if you’re not patrolling tonight,” Harry began.
“I’m not.” The fifth-floor corridors could do without Tom’s oversight for one night.
“Then come on,” Harry said, tugging at his hand. “I have a secret tunnel to Honeydukes to show you.”
Notes:
This is probably where I nervously hope we all have the same definition of happy endings...
On a happier note, kudos to everyone who guessed that a kiss ends the time loop (vs. Harry's convoluted theories). Thank you for sticking with the fic, and if all goes well, I hope we can wrap up before the end of the year.
Chapter 17: Roulette
Notes:
Hello for the final time, everyone! I’m sorry to have made you sad in the last chapter, but we’ve arrived at the end.
In honor of Tom’s birthday, this chapter is dedicated to everyone who took the time to encourage and support me. Thank you so much and please enjoy the update.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Time had the funny property of expanding and contracting against one’s wishes. It had literally been everlasting during the loop and dragged on during the painful two weeks when Tom and Harry scarcely spoke. Now that a deadline loomed on the horizon, it sped by.
Harry delivered on his promise of sharing secret passageways, most of which Tom hadn’t seen, despite months of poring over the castle’s blueprints. The unassuming parchment that Harry called the Marauder’s Map was a magical marvel and instilled much envy. The idea of recreating something similar for Horcruxes flitted through Tom’s mind, but was swiftly dismissed. Every remaining second with Harry was precious. He would investigate magical cartography later.
His stomach clenched at the thought of later.
Spending time with Harry came with the downside of interacting with his friends, though the experience was less painful than expected. While Tom would never consider them to be of his caliber, he also no longer saw them as the ragtag group of losers randomly assembled by Harry. Over afternoon tea in the Hogwarts kitchen, Harry shared what they meant to him. Tom learned that Hagrid had been his first friend in the wizarding world and brought him the first birthday cake he could remember. That Longbottom’s great-nephew was one of Harry’s most trusted friends. That Prince’s son had sworn to protect Harry at the cost of his own life. That a Hogwarts house-elf had taken a knife to the chest for him. That Warren had been Voldemort’s first murder.
There was so much Tom didn’t know about Harry’s other life, Harry’s real life, and he soaked up those snippets, wishing he’d asked more questions during the loop.
Nevertheless, while Tom survived attending Quidditch scrimmages and Gobstones team meetings, he was absolutely certain that coming to Hagrid’s knitting circle was a terrible mistake. There was so much yarn and giggling and gawking. At least Hagrid didn’t force him to actually knit, because his public image would never recover.
Instead, Tom was forced to watch Harry clumsily knit a scarf, knit being a generous word choice to capture what he was actually doing: clacking two knitting needles together. Eventually, he set down his stack of O.W.L. study notes, unable to silently witness the yarn massacre any longer.
“Is that really a scarf?” he said skeptically.
“Yes.” Harry squinted as he lifted his handiwork to the light. “I was hoping I’d be able to finish before term is over, but progress is slower than expected. I don’t understand why I have all these holes.”
As he spoke, he dropped yet another stitch.
“Good grief, give me that,” Tom snapped, snatching Harry’s sorry-looking scarf. “If you keep tugging at the yarn, the whole thing will unravel. You need to scoop the needle from the back, like this, and tug it out. And then, if you bring it through the loop here, you can salvage the row. See?”
He shook the repaired scarf, accidentally catching the attention of others.
“Yer talented at this!” Hagrid said, while a few Hufflepuffs gazed at Tom with something akin to hero worship. “Yeh sure yeh don’ wan’ ter make anythin’?
“No, thank you,” Tom said pleasantly, and shot daggers at Harry as soon as Hagrid looked away. “Do not comment.”
Harry blinked innocently. “I wasn’t going to.”
“You were! You were probably going to suggest that I co-run the knitting circle with Hagrid.”
“You’re so suspicious,” Harry said as he reprised his version of knitting. “I was going to say that if your Dark Lord career doesn’t work out, you have a backup career as a scarf fixer.”
Tom snorted and gave Harry an enormous eye-roll to show him exactly what he thought of his suggestion. Ridiculous.
Unfazed, Harry stuck his tongue out in childish revenge, but his fond expression was genuine.
And Tom couldn’t help preening just a tad. The matrons at Wool’s had taught him useful life skills after all.
“My Lord, we haven’t had a Knights of Walpurgis meeting in over a week.”
Tom hummed and flipped a page of Numerology and Grammatica. He’d come to the library for peaceful studying, not a Malfoy’s nagging.
“No, we haven’t. I have personally been busy studying.”
And if Abraxas knew what was good for him, he should study too, lest he wanted a repeat of last year’s Herbology final.
Not taking the hint per usual, Abraxas plopped down in the seat across from him. “Now is the opportune time to meet and make plans. Have you been following the news on continental Europe? Grindelwald canceled a planned campaign in Austria and three public appearances in Scandinavia.”
“Yes, I have. I read the Daily Prophet.”
“It’s not only that either!” Abraxas grew animated. “Apparently, his apostles are deserting him in record numbers. Linus mentioned even Vinda Rosier is starting to worry Grindelwald is losing influence.”
Sighing, Tom laid down the textbook. “Is this regarding the ball again? I’ve told you already, Grindelwald’s departure and temper tantrum are not your fault.”
“It’s not regarding the ball!” Abraxas said, reddening. “It’s not because of the ball at all! The rumor is that Grindelwald used to have a very powerful wand, but he lost it. And ever since then, his magic hasn’t been the same.”
“That’s the reason?”
No wonder few Dark Lords lasted more than a few decades, if the loss of a single wand was enough to undo years of efforts and dismantle Grindelwald’s empire. Or perhaps the cracks in the foundation had been accumulating for some time, and losing the Elder Wand merely triggered the demise.
This validated Tom’s belief once more that being a Dark Lord wasn’t for the faint of heart.
“Do you see, my Lord?” Abraxas said, growing excited again. “This could be our opportunity to expand the Knights of Walpurgis. Everyone at Hogwarts who might’ve joined Grindelwald is looking for a new leader, and didn’t you say you want to broaden recruitment?”
Tom rubbed his temples, torn between rewarding Abraxas for his persistence, and punishing him for giving him a migraine.
“Is something the matter?” Abraxas asked, noticing Tom’s lack of enthusiasm. “Ever since the ball, you’ve been acting…differently.”
“As I have stated multiple times, I’ve been busy. Is that so difficult to comprehend?”
“You’ve been busy with Evans.” Tom’s eyes snapped over. “You’ve been spending a lot of time together. And with his friends. Everyone is talking about it.”
“He’s been giving me helpful pointers for the Defense O.W.L.,” Tom lied smoothly. “You recall he’s a remarkable duellist. And Prewett and Shafiq’s Ministry connections make them useful allies.”
“Of course. I figured there had to be a reason.” Abraxas slumped in relief. “You know, Wally’s been spreading the rumor that the two of you are, er, well —”
“Abraxas. Spit it out.”
“That the two of you have been shagging.” Abraxas gave an involuntary shudder. “Outrageous, right?”
“And?”
Abraxas’s eyes bulged. “My Lord?”
“What I do in my free time is none of your business. And weren’t you the one to tell me that Harry is in line to inherit the Potter potions business? I’m hardly going to turn down such a financially advantageous arrangement.”
“Financially…advantageous…”
“And as it happens,” Tom said, delighting in the sight of Abraxas squirming, “Harry is joining me shortly, so if you wouldn’t mind, I’d appreciate you vacating his seat.”
Harry picked the perfect moment to appear. “Hey Tom. Oh, hey Malfoy. Are you studying with us?”
“No,” Tom said, sending a glare. “Abraxas is leaving. Aren’t you?”
Abraxas wisely got the message. “That’s right, I’m leaving. Good evening, Evans. I will see you later, my Lord.”
He scampered off, probably to spread more gossip through the Slytherin dungeons.
Good. Let Walburga gripe about something fresh.
“Were you threatening him or something?” Harry asked, perplexed. “He seemed terrified.”
“You know how it is with Malfoys. They’re a twitchy bunch.”
Harry chuckled. “Yeah, twitchy is the right word. I haven’t told you much about his grandson, have I?”
“Not aside from the fact he’s a carbon copy of Abraxas, no.”
“Boy, do I have a story for you!”
And soon, Tom was treated to a scintillating tale of how one Draco Malfoy ended up as a bouncing ferret.
As the end of June approached, Tom and the rest of his fifth-year classmates readied themselves to brave two weeks of O.W.L.s. Despite horror stories from upperclassmen, Tom found the exams to be borderline trivial, and left every one confident that he’d earned at least an E, if not an O.
On Friday, after an Ancient Runes O.W.L. that left a third of the class in tears, a note arrived from Harry.
The Unspeakables updated Dumbledore on their progress and I’m going to meet him at five o’clock this afternoon to go over the details. He said you’re welcome to join.
(I hope you can make it.)
Harry’s entreaty was unnecessary. There was no question that Tom would show up.
Dumbledore expressed no surprise upon seeing them both. “I shall keep my update brief,” he said, once they had taken their seats. “The Unspeakables are running final tests on the portal and expect it to be ready on the 28th of June. If that works for you, Harry, I can take you to the Ministry by Portkey in the morning.”
That would be next Monday, less than a week away, but the timing made sense. Most students would be too preoccupied with final exams and end-of-term activities to remark on the disappearance of a seventh-year, particularly one who had less than two months’ tenure.
“That works for me,” Harry said. “Am I allowed to tell anyone where I’m going?”
“That is up to you, although if you do, we will need to swear them to secrecy.”
“I’m rubbish at coming up with cover stories. Especially to my grandfather and great-uncle, they’ll sniff out my lie instantly.”
“I agree the Potters will not let you go without the real reason. I’m happy to help you deliver the message.”
“Thank you. I think hearing from you would help.”
“Certainly, I’ll make a note to arrange a meeting with Fleamont and Charlus,” Dumbledore said. “What else can I answer for you?”
Harry chewed his bottom lip. “Can I bring anything with me back to the future?”
“I believe everything you carry on your person should be able to make the trip unscathed.”
“And the portal… Can it remain open?”
Dumbledore shook his head. “Unfortunately, it takes much magical energy to maintain the link between two universes. It would not be practical to maintain a portal that isn’t actively used.”
“Can it be reused in the future?” Harry pressed on.
“Theoretically, but it is highly likely that you will need a new anchor to accommodate changes in both universes.”
As Harry’s face dimmed, Tom let out the breath he’d been holding. The answer was disappointing, though not unexpected, and at least Harry’s forlorn reaction eased the constriction in his chest.
“I’m sorry this is not the answer you wish to hear,” Dumbledore said gently. “As much as I wish you could visit your friends and family again, time magic is extremely volatile, and further research is required to truly harness it.”
“Please don’t apologize, professor. I know you’ve already done everything in your power, and I’m very grateful.”
“If there’s anything else I can do…”
“Actually, I do have two requests, if that’s all right with you,” Harry said. Tom, who was staring at the far wall, felt the weight of his gaze.
“Please go on, I can accommodate anything within reason.”
“The Resurrection Stone belongs to Tom’s family. Can he keep it? If he promises not to abuse it?”
Tom’s head jerked up, having forgotten that the Resurrection Stone was a family heirloom. Though tainted by his uncle, it would still be an impressive trinket to wear.
Dumbledore steepled his fingers. “Yes, now that the stone has been successfully used to establish a connection to your universe, it can be returned to Mr. Riddle’s possession, though I advise that it should be used with caution.”
“Thank you,” Tom said stiffly.
Dumbledore inclined his head and turned his attention back to Harry. “What is your second request?”
Harry took out his mokeskin pouch, which Tom had seen him carry but never open, and upturned it. Two halves of a holly wand fell onto Dumbledore’s desk, barely connected by the core of a phoenix feather.
Dumbledore inhaled. “Is this…?”
“This is my original wand,” Harry said, running a loving hand over the twisted wood. “The feather came from Fawkes.”
At the sound of his name, Fawkes crooned and fluttered to Dumbledore’s shoulder. He craned his neck for a better look at the wand, sensing the presence of his tail feather.
“Ah,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “Garrick told me that two wands were made from Fawkes’ feathers.”
He glanced briefly at Tom.
“Mine broke during a confrontation with Voldemort’s snake and couldn’t be fixed by normal wands,” Harry explained. “But I was thinking…since the Elder Wand is so powerful…”
“It’s worth a try.” Dumbledore tapped the Elder Wand against Harry’s. “Reparo.”
Before their eyes, Harry’s old wand resealed and, as Harry picked it up, emitted a shower of red sparks. Tom’s own wand vibrated in response.
Brother wands, he thought, recalling the golden web from Harry’s memories. Somewhere in Ollivander’s dingy little shop, the exact copy of this wand in this timeline was waiting for its owner.
He swallowed the growing lump in his throat.
As if reading his mind, Harry gave him a small smile. “Your Harry Potter will find it to be a great wand.” He turned to Dumbledore. “Part of me wishes I could stay longer to help you defeat Grindelwald.”
“I appreciate the thought, but Gellert has always been my responsibility. Who knows? After hearing what transpired during your time loop, I’m starting to think all hope is not lost for my old friend.”
“Thank you very much, professor, for everything.”
“There is no need to thank me. You’re a remarkable young man and it’s been my privilege to be your professor. I look forward to meeting the Harry Potter of this timeline, though hopefully under happier circumstances.”
Student and professor exchanged a smile.
Their meeting with Dumbledore came to a close. Harry stood to leave and cocked his head in puzzlement when Tom didn’t follow.
“You go ahead,” Tom told him. “I’d like a private word with Professor Dumbledore.”
Harry’s eyebrows rose, but didn’t protest. Once the door had shut behind him, Tom cast a privacy spell to be safe.
At his desk, Dumbledore watched with knowing eyes. “How may I help you, Mr. Riddle?”
“I have one question about the portal. Is it only the Master of Death who can travel through it?”
“No,” Dumbledore replied simply, and Tom’s heart leaped.
“I see.”
Blue and brown eyes met in a long gaze. “Is there anything else you’d like to ask me?” Dumbledore asked.
“No. Thank you for your help, professor.”
Outside, Harry was pacing. He rushed over as soon as he caught sight of Tom. “What happened? Is everything all right?”
“Yes, I had a question about my Transfiguration O.W.L.”
“Oh.” Harry frowned. “Did you get an answer?”
Tom considered. “Yes,” he said slowly. “I believe I did.”
On their last day together, they snuck off to Hogsmeade and visited their favorite haunts. They bought chocolate and treacle tarts at Honeydukes. They indulged on butterbeer and greasy pub grub at Three Broomsticks. As they walked along High Street, Harry pointed out places where new stores would be erected.
For nostalgia, they visited Loretta’s Lair. As they wove through the bookshelves, Tom felt possessive pride. Decades in the future, Harry would have dates at Madam Puddifoot’s, but in a way, Tom had taken him here first.
Dusk was casting the sky in an orange glow when they finished browsing the bookstore. Harry checked his watch. “We should head back to school soon. Is there anything else you’d like to do?”
“Yes.” Tom had been incubating the idea for a while. “I’d like to see my father.”
Harry’s expression shifted. “I’m not sure visiting Little Hangleton is a good idea.”
“It probably isn’t,” Tom agreed, “but I need closure, and I’d like to have it while you’re still here. You can make sure I don’t do anything rash. You can even take my wand, just in case.”
Harry glanced down at the proffered wand and reached for Tom’s hand instead. “No, keep it. I trust you.”
Once more, Apparition landed them outside the wrought iron gates. The Riddle Manor looked practically the same as it did during their previous visit, presiding over the village on its lonely hill. The only change was that today, June roses were in full bloom, rendering the front lawn in pink and purple that contrasted nicely with the austere brick mansion.
However, Tom had little interest in admiring the gardener’s prowess in botany. As luck would have it, Tom Riddle Senior was outside, cutting a solitary figure against the greenery as he took his evening walk.
Tom stilled. It was surreal to see his father in person, to see his own future in the lines of the aristocratic face, the gray peppered in the dark hair, and the slight limp in the gait.
Yet, in spite of their physical likeness, his father wasn’t him. Even from this distance, his weakness of character shone. The way he stared blankly into the distance. The way he shrank away from his staff’s deferential greetings. The way he walked like a man lost through his own garden.
This man wasn’t family, any more than Morfin Gaunt.
This man had barely been a part of his life, and now he would never be a part of it.
A strange peace settled over Tom, and the how-dare-yous he’d once imagined saying to his father evaporated. There would be no satisfaction in any revenge other than to live his own life to its fullest extent. If Harry could overcome his unhappy childhood and unloving family, Tom could as well.
Beside him, Harry was stealing nervous glances, one hand on his wand. Tom met his eyes squarely.
“You know,” he drawled, “this garden is overrated.”
“Overrated?” Harry repeated cautiously.
“Yes, highly overrated. There aren’t even peacocks. I would’ve never been happy growing up here.”
The furrow between Harry’s brows eased as understanding dawned. “Yeah, it’s not a real manor unless you have all sorts of peacocks.”
Tom turned away from Riddle Manor. “I’m ready to go now.”
Harry tore his own eyes from Tom Riddle Senior and laid his hand on Tom’s arm. “You’re really okay?”
“I am.” He stuck his hands in his pockets, at last ready to leave Little Hangleton behind for good. “I absolutely am.”
In the entrance hall, the dread of parting gripped Tom. The clocktower chimed in the distance, signaling the start of curfew. Not for the first time, he wished for the return of the loop, for the ability to stretch their day ad infinitum.
“Well, this is it, I guess.” Harry shrugged in a show of nonchalance, only to be betrayed by his trembling lower lip. “It was — I had fun today. Thank you, and I hope you have a good night —”
“No. Wait.” Tom couldn’t bear for their final day together to end. Not like this. “Come with me.”
“Where else would you like to go?”
“Our war room. Spend the night with me. Not like — not like that,” Tom amended, flushing when Harry tilted his head. “I just want — I just want —”
I just want you.
He swallowed, readying himself for refusal. Harry had perfectly legitimate excuses to do so. He needed to pack. He needed to say goodbye to his other friends. He needed to confirm logistics with Dumbledore.
Harry said none of these things. Instead, he graced Tom with an understanding smile, a smile that was so unique to him, a smile that Tom wanted to scorch into his memories.
“Okay. War room, then.”
Unlike its appearance during previous visits, the Room of Hidden Things transformed tonight into a bedroom in an amalgamation of Gryffindor and Slytherin colors. The curtains were silver trimmed with green, the rug gold trimmed with red, and the bedding emerald green and crimson red.
In a different reality, this bedroom could’ve been theirs.
Two pairs of pajamas were laid out on the pillows. They changed and crawled under the covers together, keeping a chaste distance between them as they lay facing each other. Harry tucked a hand under his cheek and studied Tom, his green eyes luminous despite the dim light.
“How are you feeling?” Tom asked.
“Nervous, as you can imagine. I am fighting one of the greatest dark wizards of all time.”
Harry’s tone was neutral, except Tom knew he’d been agonizing over his plan to defeat Voldemort with as much ardor as he’d put into Operation Stone and Wand. There was little margin for error without a time loop.
“You will defeat him,” Tom assured him. “You are the Master of Death, after all.”
“I hope so. Well, if all else fails, I could kiss him. Apparently that’s pretty effective.”
“He doesn’t sound that kissable.” Tom was not jealous of his uglier alternate self. “Isn’t he lipless?”
“If that’s what it takes to end a war, I can manage. Besides, I’ve kissed worse.” Harry grinned at Tom’s sour expression, then sobered. “Sometimes though, I wonder whether I should’ve done more for this timeline.”
“Why do you say that? You’ve done plenty.”
Harry flopped onto his back to gaze at the ceiling. “If you know that someone is slated for a terrible fate, would you try to prevent it? Or would you let it happen, because you don’t want to mess up the timeline?”
He must be thinking of Prince, who’d ended up in a terrible marriage with a Muggle brute. Annoying though she was, she deserved better.
At the same time, Tom understood Harry’s predicament. Prince’s son would never be born had she married another man. Would that be a preferable outcome? Nobody could predict the butterfly effect of a different choice.
“You can’t control everyone’s destiny,” he pointed out. “That’s too much responsibility for one person, the Boy Who Lived or not. You can’t waltz in like a hero and save everyone.”
“That’s true.” Harry poked Tom’s arm playfully. “At the very least, I was able to waltz in and save you.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Tom said, even as his stomach fluttered.
“Hey.” Harry half-rose on his elbow for a better vantage point. “Promise me something.”
“What?”
Anything.
“Promise me you won’t dabble in Horcruxes. It’s not worth it.”
They’d had variations of this conversation in the past. Although Tom remained skeptical of Harry and Dumbledore’s preachings on the beauty of a pure soul, Lord Voldemort’s appearance did make him reconsider splintering his soul.
He reached out and lightly traced the lightning-bolt scar marring Harry’s forehead. The remnant of old magic tingled, planting a strange epiphany in his mind, one that he chose not to voice for now.
“Well, I do like my Grecian nose, so no Horcrux in the foreseeable future,” Tom said. “But I can’t promise not to go after the Elder Wand.”
“I’m not concerned then. I don’t see you outdueling Dumbledore.”
“We’ll have to see about that.” Just a few more decades, and Tom was sure he’d emerge the superior duelist.
Chuckling, Harry fluffed his pillow and snuggled against it. “We should sleep. You have an O.W.L. tomorrow, don’t you?”
“Yes, History of Magic.”
Which honestly was a lost cause. Aside from goblin wars, Tom learned way more about wizarding history from the Chamber of Secrets research —
Wait.
He sat up. “The chamber’s entrance is located in the second-floor girls’ bathroom, isn’t it?”
Anticlimactically, Harry only yawned. “Did it take you until now to figure it out? I thought it was bloody obvious.”
Maybe it was, but Tom had always been preoccupied with one thing or another when it came to that bathroom.
“So what was Slytherin’s monster?”
“If I tell you, you will be bound by the Vow.”
“That’s fine.”
To be honest, Tom had no intention of revisiting the bathroom, since it would forever be associated with Harry and the kiss that started everything.
“It was a basilisk.”
“Hmmm. That makes sense. Fits Salazar Slytherin’s brand.”
Tom tried to imagine overtaking wizarding Britain with a mighty familiar at his side. For some reason, he could only conjure images of Voldemort and Grindelwald surrounded by worthless sycophants, espousing empty and meaningless causes.
Harry yawned again. “We should really sleep now,” he said, shutting his eyes. “Good night, Tom.”
His pinky grazed Tom’s and remained. Shortly after, the room was filled with the sound of his soft snoring.
Tom tried to stay awake as long as he could, not wanting to let Harry out of sight, but eventually, darkness overtook him.
Tom woke up with a jolt and flung out his hand. It met cold air and cool sheets. Harry was gone.
A note lay on his pillow. Dear Tom, I decided to write a note because neither of us is great at sappy goodbyes —
He stopped reading. Time was of the essence.
After haphazardly dressing, he dashed towards the Slytherin dungeons, earning startled glances from passing students and professors. He didn’t care. With clarity came acknowledgement, and with acknowledgement came freedom.
His trainers pounded on the flagstones, each step solidifying his resolve. His Knights, his ambitions, his timeline. They had been important to him, once upon a time, but they didn’t define his future.
Harry was his future, and he was not letting him go.
Tom ran faster.
He burst into his dorm, startling Abraxas, who was fussing over his hair. “My Lord, you’re back!” he exclaimed. “I was worried when you didn’t come back last night.”
“I appreciate your concern, but as you can see, I am perfectly fine.”
Tom opened his trunk and began to transfer its contents into his schoolbag. Even though his bag was magically enlarged, he had few things of value that he cared to pack. His diary, textbooks, a small pouch of wizarding and Muggle money he’d saved up over the years, and his favorite sets of robes.
Abraxas watched, face scrunched in confusion. “Where were you, if I may ask?”
“With Harry.”
“With —” Abraxas choked as he took in Tom’s untucked shirt and unknotted tie. “So the two of you are shagging?”
Tom didn’t deign him with a response. He pulled on his travel cloak and tried to remember what else he needed to bring. Ah yes, a few instruments he’d nicked from past trips to Knockturn Alley. They might become useful, and Harry didn’t need to know where they’d come from.
“Uh, my Lord?” Alarm had crept into Abraxas’ tone. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Yes, somewhere quite far away.” Tom closed his bag and stood. “I don’t expect to come back.”
Abraxas’ jaw dropped, Tom’s words clearly not computing. “What? Why? You’re leaving Hogwarts? You’re leaving Britain?”
“In a sense, yes.”
“What about school? What about the Knights?”
“I’ll attend school elsewhere, and I’m glad you brought up the topic of the Knights.” Tom started towards the staircase and Abraxas hurried after him. “As of today, the Knights are formally disbanded. Please extend my well wishes to everyone. It was a pleasure making your acquaintances.”
“Disbanded? But what are we going to do without you?”
“You could learn to think for yourselves,” Tom suggested.
“Think for ourselves?” Abraxas repeated, dumbfounded.
All right, maybe Tom was expecting too much of pampered pure-bloods, not to mention his leadership was irreplaceable. He took one look at Abraxas’ devastated expression and sighed. For five years of loyalty and not a small amount of pocket money, he could leave him with a few pearls of wisdom.
“I can share some advice, if you’re interested,” he offered.
Abraxas immediately bobbed his head.
“Your taste in witches is extremely specific,” Tom began, descending the stairs. “At this rate, you’re going to run out of blonde pure-blood witches and the entire Malfoy line will become inbred.”
“I’ve been diversifying my tastes, my Lord. If you recall, Elina is a Hufflepuff.”
A Hufflepuff who was as blonde as everybody else Abraxas lusted after, and who was unlikely to hold his interest for much longer. Not that Tom was foolish enough to open that can of worms.
“If you ever have trouble taming your peacocks,” he continued, “consider hiring Rubeus Hagrid as your animal trainer. He will work wonders.”
“The half-breed? Mother would have a fit, but I suppose I could make a suggestion.”
“Prince’s Gobstones team shows a lot of promise. See if you can invest in her with some promise of profit sharing. You won’t regret it.”
“Invest in Gobstones?”
Tom’s final lecture continued as he strode towards the common room exit. Unlike Harry, he had no qualms about influencing the future. People made their own destinies, and well, he was already blasting a large part of his timeline to smithereens, wasn’t he?
“Dumbledore is going to be headmaster and Grindelwald is going to lose the war, if he hasn’t already. Pick your side wisely.
“There will be a garish tea shop in Hogsmeade where Loretta’s Lair is located. Your future dates or spouse might enjoy the tea there.
“You need extra tutoring for Herbology and Potions. Otherwise you’d never pass your N.E.W.T.s.
“The Chudley Cannons won’t be winning for the next five decades, in case you insist on wasting Galleons on those betting pools.
“Oh, and finally?” Tom paused for dramatic effect.
“Yes, my Lord?” Abraxas asked breathlessly.
“Your penmanship is truly atrocious.”
Abraxas winced. “I know, Mother is always complaining it’s illegible. I swear I’ll improve —”
“You misunderstand,” Tom said, holding up his hand and bestowing an indulgent smile upon his former minion. “Your penmanship is perfect as is. Never change.”
And slinging his bag securely over his shoulder, he stepped out of the Slytherin dungeons without a backward glance.
Tom reached Dumbledore’s office just as a group of Gryffindors and Eileen Prince were exiting. Noticing him, Prewett and Shafiq winked while Longbottom and Prince grinned. On the other hand, Hagrid was sobbing into a giant handkerchief and required Prince to guide him along.
He barely spared them a glance before he slammed open the office door with a bang. Harry jumped, eyes widening. Dumbledore remained calm.
“Ah Mr. Riddle, perfect timing. I was just telling Harry we should be expecting you any minute, but he didn’t quite believe me.”
“We already said our goodbye last night,” Harry said, then blushed furiously. “That is, professor, I mean, it’s not what you think...”
Dumbledore coughed delicately. “Should I give you two a moment?”
“No need.” Tom faced him. “Professor, you told me anyone could pass through the portal, not only the Master of Death.”
“I did.”
Tom turned back to Harry. “I’m coming with you. We’ll defeat Voldemort together.”
Any doubts he harbored about his decision were rapidly assuaged by the brilliant smile spreading across Harry’s face.
“You changed your mind?”
“I don’t trust you to go back to the future alone. You’re awful at directions. What if you get lost again?” Tom took a step closer, resisting the urge to touch Harry in front of Dumbledore. There would be plenty of opportunities later. “Besides, you promised to show me London and video games and the wizarding world. I’m holding you to all of that.”
“We’ll do all of that, and more!” Harry’s smile faltered slightly. “But what about school?”
“You said Hogwarts still exists in your timeline.”
“It does, but your grades — your O.W.L.s —”
“I’ll prove my academic superiority again.” It probably wouldn’t even take long, given what he’d learned about Harry’s schoolmates.
“And your minions? They’ll be devastated.”
“I disbanded them. They are not my concern anymore.”
“You really won’t regret this?” Harry whispered, eyes shining with hope.
“No,” Tom said firmly. “I’m making the right choice.”
“Indeed, it is our choices that show us who we are, far more than anything else,” Dumbledore said, applauding. “I’m delighted for you and have little doubt you will triumph against the Dark Lord in Harry’s timeline, after the way you teamed up to defeat the Dark Lord in this timeline.”
“We will,” Harry said, face hardening with resolve. “With me as the Master of Death, and Tom coming from another universe —”
“And Gobstones.”
“And Gobstones,” Harry agreed, even though Tom had meant it as a joke. “Eileen gifted me her limited edition Gobstones set, so Voldemort definitely won’t have a chance.”
Tom almost laughed. Voldemort was in for a shock if he dared to underestimate the power of Gobstones. The true power that he knew not.
“And Mr. Riddle, I have something that should ease your transition into the new universe.” Dumbledore retrieved an envelope from his drawer and handed it to Tom. “This contains your academic transcript, early results from your O.W.L.s, as well as a letter of recommendation from me to my successor. With these, you should be able to continue your studies at Hogwarts, if you so choose, without any fear that your link to Voldemort will hold you back.”
“You thought of everything,” Harry said, impressed. “Thank you, professor.”
Tom was less impressed and more suspicious. “You knew, didn’t you? You were hoping I’d come to this decision. That way, you also get rid of me.”
“Mr. Riddle gives me too much credit,” Dumbledore said, but tellingly did not deny Tom’s accusation.
Meddlesome man, tiresome to the end. Fortunately, this was one person he no longer had to deal with.
“Now, if everything is in order.” Dumbledore held out the Portkey, blue eyes twinkling. “We mustn’t be late for our appointment with the Unspeakables. Whenever you are ready.”
Tom took a deep breath. It was happening. Within the hour, he would travel across time and space. He would leave his world and everything he knew behind for a world that was unfamiliar and potentially treacherous.
Yet, he was not afraid. While he did not doubt that the future would pose many challenges, its potential was infinite, as long as he and Harry faced it together.
Game on, Voldemort.
Tom reached Dumbledore first and grabbed the Portkey. He grinned at Harry.
“Your move.”
Notes:
The moral of the story: good penmanship is overrated (speaking as someone with extremely neat handwriting).
More seriously, I hope I delivered on the promised happy ending. In the beginning, I had sketched out different endings, including one in which they reunite after a time skip, but ultimately felt that this one fit the best. Tom needed to first refuse Harry’s invitation to acknowledge that despite having things he’d miss in his timeline, Harry meant more to him than everything else combined.
I may write a short sequel, but for now I need a break from this universe. You can safely assume that the boys manage to defeat Voldemort together (maybe using Gobstones) and live happily ever after, while his friends will always be a little befuddled.
Thank you so much for coming with me on this ride: your kudos and comments were invaluable in sustaining me through many bouts of self-doubt and writer’s block. I hope you had fun with my cracky take on the time-travel trope, and I’d love to hear from you one last time.
Happy New Year everyone! I hope to see you around for other fics :)
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