Chapter Text
If Harry were a planet, he’d revolve around Tom Riddle. It’s as simple as that. His whole life, he had lived for a man named “Tom Riddle”, who renamed himself “Voldemort”, though Harry didn't bother differentiating between the two.
Everything about him belonged to Riddle; the man’s presence itself was engraved on his soul.
“Tom” was the simplest of simple names, and even if that man stripped himself of that name, Harry could not erase the symbolism that he himself had tied to it.
To Harry, “Tom” meant destruction, loneliness, calamity. Loneliness was a strange one because it wasn’t that he pitied Riddle, he thought the man was lonely in the sense that he isolated himself from others on his own terms, not that others had left him out. Riddle thought of himself as better, no—as the best, therefore, he was alone, because he created a separation between his own self and the rest of the world, since no one could match him.
So when a boy named Harry was born, Voldemort couldn’t stay in isolation anymore, because Harry could match him, because Harry would one day be on the same level as him.
He would be equal to the great, undefeatable dark lord Voldemort. And when the dark lord has an equal, he’s not lonely anymore.
But Harry wasn’t alone. He had never thought of himself as the best, never cared for fame or power, thus the two were unimaginably different.
So why, why, he asks, did it seem he could never escape Tom?
Why was it that Harry would inevitably become a bug in a spider’s web, stuck in the hands of fate that wouldn’t free him of Tom Riddle, Voldemort, the dark lord, the heir of Slytherin, and the one who must not be named?
Under fate’s—or maybe death’s—hands, he had been thrown back into time to Voldemort’s time, because obviously, he would never be allowed respite from him.
He wanted to return to the forbidden forest, where he met his loved ones again, where he died at the hands of Voldemort, and then met Dumbledore in a—dream? It must have been a dream, for he had definitely not chosen the option of entering the afterlife. Could this even be counted as an afterlife?
It hit him hard: Ron, Hermione, the Weasleys, his friends at Hogwarts. What of them?
He had to go back.
He had people to protect.
But didn’t he prepare for his death? Prepared himself to leave them behind? But he was the Master of Death as Dumbledore had told him.
He could not stay here, he was an anomaly.
Earlier, he had scanned a newspaper. His hands were still dirty from having dug through garbage, a funky smell spreading through them. He had opened his eyes not to see Hogwarts or the forest, but garbage cans masking his view of the street.
He was in a dirty alleyway, in the middle of the night, in London, in 1935.
His hands were small; his grip was weak. To worsen his situation, he had realized he was a child, and the clothes he had worn in the forbidden forest weighed down his small frame.
He tore the paper with desperation, shredding it and stomping on it to soothe himself. He couldn’t describe what exactly he was feeling right now, some feelings too intense to be put into words.
The chilly air penetrating through his exposed skin only made the situation more tangible.
His senses felt alive; everything was real.
Too vivid, so he wasn’t dreaming.
He stumbled his way through the garbage cans.
There was only one place he could go: Hogwarts.
Hogwarts. His mind flashed and blanked, once again drifting back to the situation in his timeline. He knew very well he couldn’t go to Hogwarts. He was a child now; he must be around 8 or 9. The Dursleys’ neglectful habits had stunted his growth, so to anyone else, he would appear younger, but Harry knew his own body.
He grazed the scar on his forehead, confirming that it was still there. His connection with Voldemort wasn’t severed after all, but he had expected it to disappear if he traveled back in time.
He didn’t even know where he was, and subconsciously, he let his legs guide him straight while his eyes roamed for signs to recognize. Old London was rather an interesting sight, and Harry would’ve enjoyed his time had it not been for the circumstance he was currently in. The large shoes kept slipping off and made an awkward friction noise as he walked.
Though it wasn’t crowded, he still got a handful of stares from those nearby. A young, stinky child wandering the streets at midnight was quite the sight. He got similar looks from his classmates during his second year. Harry’s hands jumped to his hair, trying to straighten and tame those rebellious cowlicks down. It faintly brought up the memory of Mrs. Weasley, who had tried to put a comb through his hair once.
Would he ever see her again—hear her voice—be subjected to her motherly affections?
Would he ever see any of them again?
He didn’t want to ponder on it, afraid his mind would come up with the correct answers and he’d only make it worse for himself.
The gravity of the situation would weigh him down until he would be lost in 1935 London with no one and nothing, and watch Voldemort commit acts of terror once again.
Fate liked to play jokes, jokes that the target they were being played on never found funny. Harry was the target. A gullible target led here by fate like a toddler learning to walk with the steady help of their parent.
He saw it clearly, very clearly. Unmistakable.
Wool’s Orphanage.
Just as he thought about Voldemort.
The man—no, the boy, was there. He was, at this very moment, inside that old, worn-out brick building. The reason he was here—the reason he had lost many of his close ones, the reason he became “The Boy Who Lived” and “The Chosen One”,—that very “reason” was somewhere inside that building.
Is this what fate planned for him the moment he died? Harry’s white sclera, at that instant, tinged with red; his blood vessels in those unnaturally green eyes dilated.
Yes, it was indeed a hilarious joke, even Harry couldn’t help laughing. Fate, what a funny thing it is.
Fumes from a cigarette tingled his senses as a lady approached, who had been sprawled on the stairs of the building. “Hm? Abandoned by your parents, lad?”
Harry recognized the voice and appearance, it was the woman, Mrs. Cole, the matron of the orphanage. Oblivious to his lack of response, she continued, “We get boys like you here all the time, left here by their parents. Scared to come in, so they stare as if the place will disappear if they look long enough.”
Harry wiped his runny nose, patiently waiting for the woman to finish. He was half-heartedly listening; Mrs. Cole was mostly babbling to herself about having to take in another kid, how they were low on money, and how barely any rooms were available.
When her distant one-sided conversation ended, she focused her attention on asking him questions. “Where are your parents? They just left you here?” She eyed him strangely, possibly pitying him, possibly thinking that his nonexistent parents couldn’t even give him clothes that fit.
“..Yes, Ma’am, my mother said she won’t be coming back.” His voice was rough like he’d been sobbing earlier, but really, it was just because of the cold weather and his clothes that offered little protection. It seemed to work in his favor, as the matron said firmly, “Alright. Come in, then, boy. Name?”
“Harry. Harry..Evans.” The gates of Wool’s Orphanage were towering; if one stared at them too long, they might appear like the gates of a prison that would trap anyone who stepped inside.
It was very much like entering a prison, because he knew once he crossed paths with Riddle again, he doubted he would be able to leave.
Not that he had ever managed to get away from him. Even now, he was going to be stuck with Tom Riddle, as if he were a dog on a leash held by Tom.
“Any relatives? Your parents' names? I need as much information as you can give. I need to register you.” Mrs. Cole didn't seem to notice that the room she had led them to was becoming suffocated because of her cigarette smoke. He could see the light, pale wisps of it in the air, and Harry didn’t find it comfortable to breathe.
“Not any that I’m aware of. As for my mother, she….” He had to come up with a story: what if they tried to contact his mother? She didn’t exist here, the consequences would be dire—he could be taken somewhere else or get in trouble for lying about his identity. Harry hoped documentation wasn’t such a big deal in 1935 London, especially for kids left outside an orphanage.
If only Hermione were here.
“Your mother what..?” She glanced at him and Harry faltered. He’d been in such mental turmoil since he got here that he was struggling to make up fake stories. His brain was short-circuiting. Even Umbridge hadn’t been this intimidating.
“I..I don’t want to talk about it, ma’am.. I—it brings back bad memories.” Technically, it wasn’t really a lie. He tried not to think about his parents if he could and the tragedy that befell them, and the what-if scenarios of what his life could’ve been had his parents lived. It brought an unpleasant taste to his mouth.
Mrs. Cole wriggled her one eyebrow before carefully setting her pen down. The silence that followed was awkward. She seemed to be pondering over something, trying to decide the best way to handle the situation.
“It’s not the first time we’ve had cases like these. Parents abusing their own kids—truly heartless. She starved you, too, I assume?”
She had learned of all sorts of horrid reasons young children ended up at the orphanage. Her years of experience from the stories she had heard told her that Harry was likely abused, he appeared to be 9, but his body was too skinny for his age.
Skinny like he had been denied the necessity of food, clothes, too, since the ones he wore were comically large on him.
Harry nodded. He would leave it to her imagination; she could believe whatever as long as he didn’t come off as suspicious—like someone who had tangled the threads of time and snuck into a place that was not his.
The wallpapers that decorated the halls didn't fulfill their purpose; they were peeling and dirty, with some ripped and torn as if a vicious animal had been trapped here. He was led somewhere, accompanied by Mrs. Cole and her questions, “Did you attend school? Do you have any siblings? Anything you want to tell me?”
Harry gave minimal responses, lie after lie spilling from his lips.
Her footsteps halted as she opened a dusty door without knocking. Rather inconsiderate, Harry thought as he looked at the three children asleep inside.
The space was inadequate, and a single window was insufficient to bring in enough sunlight. Mrs. Cole woke them up with her loud and firm voice, the kind used to discipline a misbehaving toddler.
“Up, boys, up!”
The one whose bed was closest to the door raised his head first. He adjusted his dark hair to cover his eyes, shielding them from the light. The sight of Harry did not elicit a reaction.
Though the room was scarcely illuminated, Harry could still make out the silhouettes of the other two boys groaning under their sheets.
He knew where this was going, she would introduce him to his new roommates. Not a great first impression when you’re being forced to get up in the middle of the night to greet your new roommate. He guiltily rubbed his neck.
“Ma’am. This is..?” The dark-haired one asked, his voice groggy from poor sleep.
“Your new roommate. This is Harry. I advise you treat him with care.” Her lips suddenly curled, and did not escape Harry’s eye. Her tone shifted to almost, “I don’t want another case like Daniel’s. It’s troublesome, and I expect you to behave.”
Harry was about to ask what she had meant, but the boy interjected, “Yes ma’am. He can share the bed with me for the time being. There won’t be any… incidents.”
Everything about this seemed eerie. Harry observed the other boys, who were now awake and eyeing him. They looked no older than 10, and the dark-haired boy could only be a few years older than the two.
Harry, 17, had kids as his roommates, but he'd been in worse—way worse situations before.
A few months with kids in a cramped room until he found a way to get back wouldn’t do him much harm.
“Will, lend him some of your clothes. And breakfast is at 6:30, arrive on time if you don’t want to starve again.” She turned away after her final words, and Harry was left in the care of the three. “
“Er—Hello.” Harry’s greeting was dismissed abruptly as Will threw a nightshirt his way, “You’re sleeping on the floor.”
A blond from the corner bed sneered, “Why does the stupid hag always place new brats in our room?”
Harry felt his throat tighten. Kids, he thought, they were just kids. He was a lot older, so he had to act mature. He had to act like the responsible adult who had fought the most dangerous man in Britain.
And he could absolutely not fall prey to these hyena-like children. Years of bullying by Dudley and his friends. Teasing by Draco and the Slytherins. Those experiences told him enough about the kind of kids he had just encountered.
Why would he be scared of these kids when there was a Tom Riddle who wandered this building? The definition of a psychopath: the human manifestation of a devil on earth. No one could instill more fear than Tom.
He rested against the wall, sitting down and not bothering to react to their conversation. His eyelids threatened to close, but there was a lot on his mind, so he pushed himself to stay up.
The grunts and murmuring from around him put him to sleep anyway.
His dreams came to him in the form of ocean waves; he could not hold onto them, and they were replaced one after another. The first was Ginny, holding his hand, and then they hugged, embracing each other like the universe itself could not separate them. Afterwards, it was Dumbledore. He had been crying, trying to explain something to Harry. At last, he saw Sirius, who was laughing with him, the pair of them in Grimmauld Place.
When he stirred up again, he saw pinkness on the arm he had slept on.
Almost gasping when he glanced at the time on the old-fashioned clock, Harry changed out of his clothes and put on the ones the black haired boy had left. His name was Will—Harry recalled. He hoped he would never have to use that name.
It was long past breakfast and Harry realized he couldn't count on the kids he shared the room with. He hadn't expected them to bring him food, but at least they could've woken him. They didn't have the best first meeting, but none of the blame could be placed on him. He was tasked with speaking to Mrs. Cole, who had said she needed to make "arrangements" for him.
Harry folded his clothes and his heart lurched when he heard shuffling.
His hands instinctively reached into his back pocket, only to find that there were no pockets and his wand was missing.
Right, he didn't have his wand. One of his most treasured belongings, and he didn't have it. He might as well be put among a pack of Death Eaters without anything to defend himself with. Harry tilted his head to get a better look, the beating of his heart shadowing any other noises.
Beneath the bed.
“Come out, whoever you are. Or else—“ Harry didn’t get to finish his sentence when a boy from last night emerged. Frightened, like a stray cat. Harry noticed his physical appearance, he must be the third boy from yesterday. The other two troublemakers had probably left for breakfast.
He quickly grabbed a tattered book and positioned himself to throw it at him.
Was this one of their pranks? He expected bullying to ensue, but hiding under a bed? Really?
“W-wait! They can’t find me here—wait!” The boy thrashed, wiggling out of the tiny space fully and breathing hard, as if deprived of oxygen. His mouse-colored hair had bits of dust collected at the crown.
“Is this a joke? You really planned to sabotage me like that?” Harry cocked an eyebrow. Kids' way of bullying and harassing must have been different in the 1930s.
“No, no, you misunderstand!” He panted out a whisper, and Harry wanted to tell him he could take a breath and calm himself first. “Explain, then. What other reason could you be hiding under a bed? Playing hide-and-seek?”
The boy glanced away, and only then did Harry take notice of his closed left eye. It painted a rather clumsy expression on his face—with one eye closed tightly, lips pursed tightly, and the freckled nose twitching. Harry hadn't showered and was covered in the smell of garbage fumes from last night.
He backed away from the boy slightly.
“They like to tease me, chase me across the yard. I was hiding here from them.”
So they were playing hide-and-seek in a way, Harry nodded. “They hit you?”
“Only when I don't give them my meat portions.” The boy blinked with his right eye. He strictly kept the other eye shut, as if he had glued his lids. Harry restrained himself from asking.
He wasn't an angsty teen going through puberty anymore, where he needed to poke his nose in other people’s business.
“I see. Well, don't er….stand up for yourself. No, sorry. Do stand up for yourself, I meant.” Hermione had been right when she had lectured him on his ability to comfort people. He was exceptionally terrible at it. Well, it be damned; a 7-year-old like him couldn't possibly mind Harry’s atrocious advice.
He received a wary look as the boy crawled underneath the bed again, fitting perfectly and hiding his face. “Close the door properly on your way out, please.”
Harry could only wish him the best as he made his way to Mrs. Cole’s office. The clock earlier had read quarter to eight, she’d judge him for sure. A kid who had been starved did not show up for breakfast.
The office door was fully open, but Harry knocked out of courtesy. Mrs. Cole invited him in to sit in the chair as he muttered a “good morning.”
He wasn't focusing much on her expressions but on a pair of kids seated near the window.
One boy, one girl, both looking terrified and gloomy, like they had seen their worst nightmares come to life. None of the kids he had met so far seemed normal or happy. The matron paid little attention to the scene and addressed him instead.
“I'm going to explain how this place works and your schedule. I advise you not to skip your classes, children often don't understand the importance of education.”
Harry inwardly sighed; what would he not give to avoid going to school with children? He had already completed most of his education at Hogwarts anyway.
“Yes ma’am.”
She laid out a few papers in front of him: one of them a map of the orphanage and the surrounding area, one for his classes and daily routines, another with a list of rules, and the last one with his information on him. He read along the lines of the paper which had his fake identity and history. His name was at the edge of the paper, and in bullet points written: Domestic abuse, signs of neglect, no former education, no known relatives.
"Let me know if I've got any of the information wrong. You see, we have a few classrooms and a small library." She pointed to the adjacent building on the map. "And you'll be going to the in-orphanage classrooms, meant to provide basic education to kids your age. Once you turn 12, we'll have you attend the local school with other older children. For that, last thing I need of you as of now is your birthdate."
"July 29th..." He couldn't pick anything too random, afraid he'd forget and mess up, thus, he stuck to his real birth month. "1926.." Harry figured he'd done the math right. "And I'm 9." The matron nodded. "Very well. Take these with you and start classes tomorrow."
It was interesting to learn that the severely underfunded orphanage had its own classrooms to teach the younger children and a small library.
Harry returned to his room, but didn't find the boy from earlier. He had the whole room to himself, and with no one present, he wanted to rest his body on one of the beds and feel the soft yet shabby mattress sink under his weight. His back ached from the lack of cushioning last night.
No—too risky.
The boys would start unnecessary drama, and who knew, what if they hit him? He couldn't even hit them back; he was seventeen, and it was wrong to raise his fists against a poor orphan.
Deciding that the floor would work just fine for now, he grabbed a book and settled down. Harry was going to read to kill time.
When the time came to face Tom, he'd deal with it then. Think about how to face the future dark lord later, but for now, he could enjoy a little free time before his lovely roommates returned.