before they convinced you life is war

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/17541269.

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Category: M/M
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationship: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Character: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Dolores Umbridge, Luna
Lovegood, Albus Dumbledore, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Mutants, Reincarnation, Mid-Battle of Hogwarts,
memory problems, mutations, Canon turned AU, powers include mind
control and empathic manipulation, Don't copy to another site
Language: English
Stats: Published: 2019-01-25 Updated: 2023-08-08 Words: 94,314 Chapters:
17/?

before they convinced you life is war

by EclipseWing

Summary

Harry's got the Imperius Curse tripping off his tongue and Tom's suddenly acutely aware of
other people's emotions.
 words like cracking glass
Chapter Notes

[Go check out 'that one mutant romance' series, very inspirational for me to give the
trope a try.]

Just a kind of prologue to see what people think, I've got more planned if there's
interest.

“Do you remember, Harry Potter? Do you know where you come from? Where you are going?”

Harry is a freak. That’s nothing new. He strives for normality and it flees from him like scurrying
clouds running endlessly across the sky.

A fan whirls around in the humid room. A note pinned to the wall flutters in the breeze everytime
it passes. The air is listless otherwise, with droopy eyes and languid limbs enwrapped around him.
The fan spins and the notice curls up once more.

He picks at a scab over one elbow. He can’t remember what it was from. His nail catches the flap
of skin and slides over it. It’s soothing.

The poster flutters. Mutant re-education it reads as it breathes in time with the whirring fan. A
different word for the same thing. Mutant. Freak. Magic .

Except magic didn’t exist in this reality. Just Harry and his scrawny underfed teenage body, scabs
from old scars healing over his elbow and glasses hanging lopsided off his face.

“Mr Potter?”

The fan spins. The poster whirls. She stands in the doorway, still dressed in baby pinks as if she
thinks it’s cute. As if she’s a little girl with soft features and wide eyes, staring innocently at the
world. Dolores Umbridge is anything but innocent.

With a face that looks like she ran into a wall, she simpers at him. Tone a pitch too high, she clears
her throat and holds her door open like condemnation. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mr Potter. I
trust we’ll be getting to know each other during our meetings. I hear you’ve been a very naughty
boy.”

He’s fourteen not five. He’s not an idiot. Even if he didn’t dream of a castle and magic and a Dark
Lord trying to kill him he would think her stupid. That’s all she is really; a pandering pink-clad
fool. His hand clenches for a wand that isn’t there and he settles for curling into the seat and trying
to make himself as small as possible. He rubs at the back of his hand.

It’s unscarred. He can’t remember what’s meant to be there, only that something is.

A naughty boy. She sounds like Vernon and Petunia. She calls him ‘Mr Potter’ instead of ‘Boy’ or
‘Freak’ or ‘Mutant’ but the amount of disgust and derision shoved into the name is the same. Her
words are patronising and condescending and revulsion crawls it’s way up his throat. He picks a
new scar into the back of his left hand.
The office is dressed in pink too. He twists to look for the cat pictures he knows are there. They’re
eerily still, frozen mid mew. He waits a heartbeat for something to happen.

Nothing does.

“Oh dear,” she says, as she finishes going through his files, “What are we going to do with you, Mr
Potter?”

“Do you believe in magic?” he asks her, a question for a question and he waits for the recognition,
for the ghost of the awful woman he had known to make an appearance...

But all she does is laugh, clasping her hands in front of her on the desk, “Do you think you’re some
sort of witch, Potter? This isn’t fairytale,” she breaks it to him almost gently, almost kindly if it
wasn’t for the way her voice twists into a laugh as sweet as sugar-coated lemon rind. “You’re not a
wizard, you’re a filthy mutant. And I’m here to make you better.”

Make you better, she tells him, as if he’s ill . As if there’s a cure .

(“Just like my filthy sister,” Petunia had sneered at him, “And that boy of hers with his smoke and
tricks. A freak .”)

Petunia hated him because he has magic. Petunia hated him because he is a mutant. Worlds blur
and shift and Umbridge smiles down at him and it’s not a nice smile. He recognises it, it’s the same
smile she gave him with the quill, the same when she had been about to curse him and he’s never
met her before but he knows what she’s going to do before she does it.

It’s like a spot the difference taken to the extreme. Overlapping images that are totally different
except for a few fixed points. Human brains aren’t meant to comprehend entire lifetimes shoved on
top of each other like a jenga tower filled with holes all ready to come tumbling down.

“We’ll try this for a few days,” she says, “See how you feel then after no food or voice. You
understand this is for your own good, right?”

The mask is metal. Electricity hums under the surface. It leaves his nose free, covers his mouth. It
looks like some sort of archaic torture device. Or some odd bondage gear. It chokes his words and
tongue. Hunger is a dead bone in his stomach being gnawed raw. Not unusual; Vernon and Petunia
don’t like him enough in either world.

Dead parents, he sees in his file as Umbridge slams it closed. Car crash or dark wizard, he wonders,
he’ll probably never know. Dead, always dead, a kaleidoscopic mirror and everything’s the same
same same except this.

Cold metal wrapped around his jaw and extinguishing his words, his tongue, his voice. It hurts ,
wraps around something inside him and chokes it out of existence.

Dying is easy , Sirius tells him, and he’s right. It’s the easiest thing Harry has ever done. Had he
known it would be this easier he would have stop fighting years ago.

And then? Then he comes back.

Maybe it’s all his fault. He distinctly remembers thinking this could have turned out so much
better in between all the fighting and dying. Was it him with the resurrection stone pressing
imprints into his flesh, a cloak around his neck and a wand of elder in his hand?
He can’t remember.

Ron’s hair windswept and illuminated by spellfire. The whirl of Hermione’s robes on Hogwarts’
stairs. A flash of a sword in Neville’s hands. Ruby red eyes in a serpentine’s face and genuine fear
in Voldemort’s face.

The events are there, but not in order. Harry was dead and then he wasn’t. There was a battle and
then there wasn’t.

There was magic, so much magic Harry had thought he would drown in it, and then there wasn’t,
just a power settling at the base of his spine and half-forgotten dreams drifting off with the wind.

They take the mask off after a week. They put something in his food afterwards that makes the
whole world seem hazy. Like he’s trying to watch a 3D movie without the glasses, everything is
just slightly off. Images overlap, memories roll in his head and reality shifts.

“Do you remember?” a girl in the cafeteria asks. She watches him choke down food like he’s afraid
it will be taken away from him once more. “Do you see ?”

“Shut up,” one of the guards snaps at them.

She remains staring at him with wide blue blue periwinkle eyes. Her long blonde hair is drab and
dull. He stares at her, “It’s not real, Lovegood,” he whispers back.

“Isn’t it?” she asks with just a hint of a challenge, a little less question and little more gauntlet
being thrown into the ring. The polished metal reflects his surroundings and he sees spellfire and a
shining tiara and a castle burning . “Do you dream, Harry Potter?” she asks, in that tone that is just
quintessential Luna it makes a part of his heart ache.

He’s never met this girl.

“Don’t hang out with him, Lovegood,” one of the other children hisses as they walk past, “He’s
amurderer .”

“Nah, let them hang out together, she’s crazy anyway.”

“Do I know you?” he asks her.

She tilts her head, smile content. She reminds him of Alice, in her own personal wonderland, long
blonde hair trailing down her back washed out like limp seaweed. It drapes over her thing bony
shoulders like those of death’s horses. “I don’t know. Do you?”

Her eyes are like chips of sky shattered into a human body and they see much too far too--

It hurts.

“Yes,” he says, and pushes his tray away. He’s not hungry anymore, and his head hurts. He rubs at
a scar that isn’t there and his thoughts feel muffled. He walks away, leaving her sitting there
looking so small and frail and aged twelve not sixteen but he sees her thin form in a dungeon cold
and alone and--

His head hurts.

“Do you remember, Harry Potter ?”

Of course he remembers, he thinks as his worlds fold together; imperfect silhouettes until he can’t
hope to work out what he’s seeing.

Of course he remembers.

That’s the problem.

Luna’s soft and comforting. His only friend in the place and she looks at him with total and
complete understanding, like she can see into his soul.

Maybe she can; he doesn’t ask her mutation. She’d always been able to see far more than normal
people anyway.

One of the boys complains about him and the mask goes back on. When it comes off after three
days he’s shaking; he can’t stop his hands from trembling. Whatever they put in his food they up
the dose. Everything feels flat; like paper cutouts.

Maybe this is the world that’s not real, he thinks, as he curls up next to Luna who is making a
necklace of leftover pencil stubs. “Do you think the others are okay?” she asks.

“They’re dead,” he says.

“So were you,” she says, “Are you dead, Harry Potter?”

Who are you, Harry Potter?

“Luna, they’re not here ,” he says, harshly, “They’re not… they’re gone . Don’t-don’t confuse this
world and that, they’re not the same .”

“It is when it counts,” she insists.

“Then they’re dead,” he snaps, words cruel and an icy snow blizzards slamming into her slight
form. She shivers just a little but persists.

“They’re not,” she insists, “Not here, Harry, please listen to me--” she holds out the drawings, and
they’re all of that wrong time wrong world . Hermione in the Gryffindor Common Room, Ron at
the Burrow in dress robes at the wedding and Ginny in her Quidditch Uniform. There are little
chain links drawn around their names, small triangles and--

A hand shoots out and snatches the pictures up. “And what…” Umbridge’s words are thin ice
already cracking, “What are these? Miss Lovegood; are you not aware that using your powers
could result in severe…” she almost savours the word, “Consequences .”

Luna stares, twelve and a little girl, and Harry always has to play the hero. “No,” he straightens,
“No, it wasn’t her, it was me, I made her--”

For a moment her attention wavers. He thinks she’s going to take Luna away anyway, but she falls
for the bait. She’d never been able to resist attacking him, smearing his name through the muck
and the dirt. “I’m very disappointed in you - we had been making such progress.”

He doesn’t say anything, presses his lips together in a thin line and waits for the detention.

“Come with me,” she instructs, “I think it’s probably about time you realise the true severity of
your actions and what they could mean for you. If we can’t train this awful nonsense out of you--”
she leaves the threat hanging like a noose in the air. With every step Harry takes he feels it tighten
a little more.

He glances back once; sees Luna sitting there alone, and then Umbridge is grabbing onto his arm
to speed him up.

She drags him into what isn’t her office, there’s no way, it’s not pink enough. She drops him in a
heap on the floor. There’s someone else in the room who pauses what he’s doing, “Get back to
work,” she snaps at him, “I’ve brought you company.”

The boy is about the same age as him with dark hair. He’s sitting in the corner of the room, pen in
hand racing across the paper. His head is ducked, but there’s something not cowed about the way
he sits. It’s respectful, but borderlining on being patronising. Like a mockery of obedience, biding
its time.

Umbridge turns to him with a sinister smile plastered pleasingly across her face, “Ignore him. I’ve
got a little project for you, you’ll just love it. I’ve got these for you to sort out. Just sit there, that’s
it, good boy...” she talks to him like a pet, as she watches him sit on the floor amongst piles of
paperwork. He doesn’t see how this is a punishment. Not initially. It’s just paperwork--

It’s not paperwork. It’s records. Records of mutants.

The ones that had already passed through the facility. The ones that were no longer here because
they were…

They were…

“They all got what was coming to them. Think of it as a warning, Mr Potter. You can’t win.”

The words he reads rattle around his head. The red stamps on the files seem awfully final. Dead
deaddead--

I must not tell lies, he thinks, and he doesn’t know where the words come from for a moment.

“I always knew it was my duty to help purify the population of mutants. They ruined my family,
killed my father and tried to kill me when I was little… it was only natural to choose it as a career
path.”

Harry drops the folder into a pile. Picks up the next one. Sees the words swim, feels helplessness
well up and her voice grates over him...

I must not tell lies.

Her voice catches on something, words like cracking glass.

“They’re so close to a cure, and soon you will be freed from the crimes of your filthy species…”

The cracks spread fine hairline fractures--

I must not tell lies.

The folder slips from his hand as he stands.

“Mr Potter, what are you doing? Get back to work, there’s an awful lot to sort through--”

Warm power curls at the base of his spine, crawling up it with creeping tendrils like reaching ivy.
It feels a bit like magic, almost. It’s the same where it counts , Luna whispers in his head, and she’s
right, of course.

Magic is gone but he is still gifted , he is still special . And he can use that .

“ Don’t lie ,” it slips out, voice like dry ice. “ Tell the truth. ” His power like sharp spice coats his
tongue. His temper had always been a terrifying thing; not even Ron or Hermione dared argue half
the time. In the corner her assistant just freezes. Umbridge bristles indignantly, face going steadily
red with anger and the words…

The words just pour out. “Why? You want to know that my father was a filthy mutant? That my
mother was well rid of him when she left him with my brother and I? That he dared to pass on his
filthy genetics to me? But I’m good. I don’t use my freak abilities and if I can learn how not to use
then, then you, Mr Potter, can do the same--”

There is click as her jaw snaps shut. Her eyes are wide and bulging out of her toad-like face. Harry
stumbles backwards, realisation creeping over him.

“You dare ,” she says, taking control of her own voice from him, “You filthy mutant freak ,
you dare use your abhorrence on me ? ”

It’s like the Imperius he thinks with horror, he completely takes away their will. He takes another
slow step backwards, because she’ll punish him now. He’ll be in the cupboard for days --

Wrong world wrong world he thinks, and dreams blur into reality.

“I will make you regret it,” Umbridge says, slowly and carefully rolling up her sleeves, “And if we
have to use… extreme measures, then so be it. What the authorities aren’t aware of…”

The look in her eyes is gleeful. It’s the same look he had seen as she prepared to cast the cruciatus
curse and whatever she has planned will not be nice. It will be the mask again, he thinks with
horror, the mask or the cruciatus or--

No .

“You’re ill,” she says, sickly sweet, “Sick, but it’s okay. They’re working on a cure but for now? I
can make you better, can’t you see I’m just trying to help--”

The images of Umbridge as a Professor and here as a Re-Educator blur and overlap and it’s
different, but it’s the same and like a dragon that has been sleeping in the undergrounds of
Gringotts his anger opens one feral golden eye.

“Didn’t anyone,” the words claw their way out of his throat, the dragon tearing out from between
his ribs to lie like some bleeding creature on the ground, “Didn’t anyone ever tell you that you
must not tell lies?”

Her eyes narrow, and she reaches out. Harry grasps for a wand that isn’t there, he’s defenceless
except…

No. No, he’s never going to be defenceless again.

“This won’t hurt,” she’s saying, having scooped up that thrice cursed mask that binds his tongue.

“ Don’t lie , don’t move, shut up ,” he says, feeling the power in his words. It’s bittersweet; dark
chocolate on his tongue, “ Pick up that pencil.”
He watches her throat bulge. Her fingers twitch. She tries to fight but Harry’s will is stronger. An
almost glaze covers her eyes as she reaches for a mechanical pencil on the desk.

“ Now you’re going to write,” he says, vindictively, “I must not tell lies .”

She reaches for the desk and paper and a laugh that is war torn and scarred echos in the room.

“Why waste paper?” he asks, “ Write it on your skin. And don’t stop until it sinks in .”

It’s a thrill. A heady, rush, like flying except he hasn’t left the ground. The power coils and purrs in
him, and Dolores Umbridge takes the pencil and starts to write. The thin lead of the mechanical
pencil snaps quickly. Soon she’s digging metal against her skin. Over and over and over and--

It isn’t long before it begins to bleed.

" Keep carving it, " he instructs, dispassionately. He’s watching events play out like a movie,
watching Umbridge get her due. After all, this isn’t real. This world is nothing but paper cutouts
and he deserves this, at least, to rip her silhouette into shreds. "I don't think the message has sunk in
quite yet."

Movement and Harry whirls around, but it’s only Umbridge’s assistant, the teenage boy, standing
up. Harry had forgotten about him, and he opens his mouth to make the other forget, keep his
mouth shut, he’s not sure, he gets distracted by the way the boy is gazing with glee at Umbridge’s
quivering form. “That was truly beautiful. I didn’t think you had it in you, Potter.”

The world snaps into focus in a way it hasn’t before. It’s as if everything had been out of focus
before. It’s with almost condemnation and resignation that he looks up to meet the dark satisfied
gaze of Tom Riddle.

This is real , he realises with a sudden, mind-numbing horror.

 short second life

The world crashes down around him with Tom Riddle smiling at him and a pool of blood at his
feet. He stumbles backwards, he’s going to be sick, he’s going to be so sick , oh Merlin , he was
torturing Umbridge --

“Oh god ,” he chokes out, hysteria rising in his throat because where are their gods? They are the
gods, he thinks, they are the gods now. This is his divine intervention.

She deserved it, he thinks, with that same detachedness that has haunted this life.

“Oh, don’t get moral on me now, I was enjoying the show,” Riddle says, not moving from where
he has taken up position leaning against the desk. He is…

He is not Voldemort.

“Tom Riddle?” Harry asks, staring at him. The boy looks Harry’s age. Pale skin, dark eyes, an
incessant curl to his hair he can’t quite get rid of. A twitch of his lips at the name in distaste that he
can’t quite hide. “Voldemort ,” Harry repeats and Riddle looks almost satisfied, especially as Harry
puts another metre between them.

“Harry Potter,” Riddle practically molests his name, “I do always enjoy meeting you.”

“Do you.” It’s not even a question, Harry can’t muster the energy to put the inflection on the end,
“You usually end up trying to kill me.” He does a double-take, because is he exchanging banter
with the man, “What the hell?” he says, to nobody in particular, “You’re fourteen .”

“Sixteen.”

“You’re meant to be seventy , not sixteen , what the hell ?”

“If I knew,” Riddle looks impatient now, “If I knew I wouldn’t exactly be here, would I?”

Here, Harry realises, working as Umbridge’s assistant, in a mutant re-education facility. Riddle is a
mutant, of course he’s a mutant , all magical people are mutants in this reality. In this reality--

This is reality, Harry realises, numbly, this is his world. “What happened?” he asks, because
Riddle isn’t the only one who is the wrong age; Harry’s a fucking kid again. “Hogwarts… the
Battle… that happened, right?”

Riddle’s lips press together in a thin line. His nod is slow, like he’s mulling the question over,
“You remember,” he states, “Although you look like they’ve got you on something or other. I
haven’t met anyone else who remembers. Darling Dolores apparently didn’t.”

Harry doesn’t really have a response for that. All it served to do was draw his attention to where
Umbridge is still carving words into her flesh. I must not tell lies . Harry remembers it on his own
skin, there is something satisfying about seeing it on hers. “Stop that,” he says, she’s nicked an
artery or vein because the blood trickling out isn’t stopping, “Stop--” he takes a breath, “Stop.”

The pencil falls from shaking hands. Her eyes are wide, indignation and fury giving away to fear as
she looks at him, still a puppet to his commands. He’s aware of Riddle still standing there, not
daring to do anything. Harry could kill Voldemort, he realises with startingling clarity, he could kill
Voldemort without raising a hand - he just needs his words--
There is blood drip drip dripping onto the floor and Harry can’t . No matter how much he
physically wants to, he can’t. Riddle is staring at the dripping blood with fascination, “Not so
golden now, are you, hero?” and Umbridge is one the floor bleeding and they’ll cut out his tongue
for this; they’ll tear his vocal cords to shreds if they don’t put a bullet straight through his brain.
He’ll be hunted like a dog --

He’s so busy trying to control his breathing, trying not to hyperventilate that he misses Umbridge
moving, reaching out. Riddle doesn’t, but he’s still halfway across the room and his frantic jerk
forwards is for naught. “Potter--”

Umbridge’s pudgy fingers find a switch and press down.

Somewhere, somehow, an alarm wails .

“Shit,” Riddle freezes, eyes widening with horror.

“You’ll get what you deserve now, Potter,” Umbridge says with gleeful, dry-cracked lips. Vernon
leers at him in his memories, they’ll expell you now , and in the distance Marge Dursley is floating
away and--

The door bursts open, guards there, and Riddle’s back across the room as far away as possible
staring at him with brown-brown eyes ( weren’t they red) and Umbridge is a bloody mess at his
feet and the world is spinning around him.

There is the sharp scent of blood in the air. An urgency; he has to get out of there, he has to leave --

But the needle sinks in and his vision blurs until all he can see is Riddle’s not-red eyes and all he
can taste is the remnants of almonds on his tongue.

Like cyanide.

The block they put Harry in is cold. Cold brick walls, cold tiled floors, cold white and grey staring
at him from every direction. His mind swims in a haze of drugs. This is irony at its finest, he thinks
as he tries to fight the battle with the fuzziness clouding his thoughts. It’s like he’s trying to throw
off the Imperius Curse - is this what his victims feel like when his words slip in like slick-sick oil?

But drugs are not magic, and the closest thing Harry will get to the Imperius Curse in this life are
the words tripping off his tongue.

“What the bleedin’ hell do they have you on?”

The voice is familiar, accent slightly blurred and young, so much younger than he hears in his
nightmares. His fingers claw weakly at the stone floor and he looks up to where the dark-haired
boy stands by the bars in the door.

Bars on his window - cat-flap in the door - it’s nothing new .

He glares, as if he could kill Riddle by the force of his emotions alone. The handsome boy either
doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, whole posture shifty as he glances over his shoulder and back to
Harry and then there’s the distinct sound of a key in the lock.

The door creaks as Riddle slips in, closing it behind him and standing, door handle pressed against
his back as he eyes up where Harry’s in a messy heap on the floor, “Look at you ,” he crows, “The
Boy-Who-Wouldn’t-Die, brought so low by muggles .”

Harry would probably spit back an answer or insult were he not gagged. This is, Harry thinks in a
daze, a real tragedy. He has so many retorts all ready and waiting to go.

And isn’t it just weird seeing the man who had terrorised his life looking like a school boy, clothes
slightly too big for him and still a hint of childhood roundness to his face. He looks soft. Younger
than the version Harry had seen in the Chamber, no harsh features or coldness to his face yet. His
eyes are not the colour of the disarming charm - instead they’re an almost warm brown.

“I mean, they’re not really muggles ,” Riddle appears unaware of Harry’s mental assessment of
him, “ Mundanes , isn’t that the term they use? I’m not sure, they kicked me out of the orphanage
as soon as they could before I really had much chance to remember anything useful. But that’s how
it works here, right? Mutant and Mundane? Magical and Muggle? Same thing, different world.”

Harry wants to stand, to confront the boy but his whole body feels shaky. His world still feels
distorted and he’s still half-convinced the floor is going to shatter beneath him and he’ll start
falling falling falling and wake up in that too-white station or dark dark forest or--

“Don’t matter,” Riddle shrugs, “We’re mutants and they’ll kill us for it, eventually. They’ll
certainly kill you--” brown eyes rake over Harry’s form, “So I have a proposal, Potter.”

Fuck you , Harry thinks as hard as possible.

Riddle clicks his tongue, disapproving, “Don’t look at me like that, Harry. I know we’ve had our…
differences, in the past. But I think we could help each other. You’re trapped in here, awaiting
most certain death or worse and me...well…”

Harry’s head tilts; a silent question even as Riddle holds out his wrist. There’s a thick metal band
around it, glowing electronics visible in the black material.

“You need my help and I need yours,” Riddle says, so so temptingly, “They don’t trust me; I’ve
spent months, years playing to their tune to get even a modicum of freedom and still don’t stand a
chance of getting out of here but with you and your gift …”

He wants to use Harry - of course . Predictable, Harry thinks, he’s pretty sure the muggles -
mundanes would bottle that up and distribute it if they could.

“Also,” Riddle isn’t finished his pitch, stepping away from the door and towards Harry, “Also you
remember . That has to count for something, Potter, even if it is you.”

Harry remembers. A curse, he had thought; remembering too much is not a gift . It is
overwhelming and there is sometimes just too much . He hadn’t understood when he was seven and
the dreams started; he doesn’t understand now he is fourteen and come to the realisation that it
wasn’t a dream.

He was a wizard and he was that boy who wouldn’t die and he was fighting a war and then--

Then he wasn’t.

Riddle drops down to a crouch in front of him and Harry can’t stop the flinch when he reaches for
Harry. He tries to summon up the energy to move away; the drug is fading, he’s sure they’ll be by
with another dose soon. “Relax,” Riddle chides, “I’m going to take the mask off. No gilded words
though, Potter.”
He considers fighting, there’s a phantom pain in a lightning scar that doesn’t exist and for a
moment the boy in front of him is a white-skinned man with serpent features and slit pupils and
then--

Then it’s just a boy, sixteen and young and with too many memories of a lifetime shoved onto him
and he hears the mechanism click open.

He feels it release and tumble away and doesn’t hesitate. He lashes out with a wild punch straight
at Riddle. The other boy is prepared though and has the advantage of not being drugged up. A
strong grip catches Harry’s flailing punch and Riddle’s other hand goes for Harry’s throat. Harry
freezes when he feels the soft pad of fingers sink in around his pulse.

“Fuck you,” Harry says, now he is able to.

“Eloquent,” Riddle says, shifting as Harry kicks out at him until his weight pins Harry to the
ground, “So; how do you feel about a deal?” His eyes gleam, a hint of the psychopath buried under
soft brown eyes and human features.

Harry feels his lip curl in disgust, “With you? Baby psychopath and mass murderer? No thanks.”

“I’ll help you get out of here,” Riddle says, “You need me - I know the way, I can get us both out
of here but I need your help.” His thumb brushes Harry’s pulse point, his hand wrapped around
Harry’s throat almost bruisingly tight.

It must hurt Riddle’s pride to say that, Harry thinks, and he can see the way Riddle’s teeth are
clenched. This is genuinely important to him. “You need me,” he repeats, assessing Riddle’s
desperation, that frantic creature under his skin that drives him to plead with Harry for his help.
Parasitic, Harry thinks, like that being that had latched onto Quirrel, pawned off the Malfoy’s
fortune, curled up in Wormtail’s hands except--

Tom Riddle, pinning him down, reminds him more of the diary than any other incarnation of the
snake-faced Dark Lord Harry had met. And it’s that, more than anything, that makes him ask
further.

“I help you,” Harry says slowly, “And you get us out?” A short sharp confirmatory nod, “What do
you need? Why do you need me to do it? What is it?”

Riddle leans back a little, gaze almost defensively, “Are you agreeing?” he asks back.

Harry stares. He wants to say ‘no’, he doesn’t even know what he’s agreeing to. “Fine,” he says, he
can always tell Riddle to go away if it involved murder. In actually fact- “No killing anyone,” he
says, “ Don’t-- ”

He doesn’t get the instruction out because the grip around his throat tightens, choking the sentence
before it forms, “That’s cute, Potter, really . Fancy you of all people with your delicate little moral
sensibilities getting the power to make people dance around like puppets.”

Harry claws at Riddle’s wrist with his free hand, nails bluntly scratching at the device on Riddle’s
wrist and beneath that--

Beneath that soft skin, pale but not that unhealthy almost translucence of Voldemort, and marred.
He stiffens at the realisation, at the feel of imperfections scarred across that thin wrist--

Riddle lurches away from him, letting go of Harry’s throat and standing, looming over him, “Don’t
push it,” he says, and it should be intimidating but there’s a definite shake in his voice, even as he
holds out his hand, “If you’re in we need to move. Now. Before they dope you up again and render
you useless. Do we have a deal?”

The hand hovers; so many bad decisions and yet--

The boy in front of him is, impossibly not Voldemort.

What the hell, Harry thinks, he’s going to die either way.

He takes the hand.

Tom Riddle is almost definitely not meant to be down on this level. Harry realises this almost
instantly as they have to dart into the shadows to avoid a patrolling guard. He has a stolen keycard
in hand, his eyes are too shifty, too used to sneaking around and there’s a desperation to his
movements. This is, he realises, all or nothing. They work together and get out or they stay trapped
in here forever.

How that must gall Riddle, to be so reliant on somebody else.

“You’re a mutant, right?” Harry asks, enjoying the opportunity to finally talk without curbing his
tongue, “What is your power anyway? Avada Kedavra with a touch? Or, no, wait, you shapeshift,
right? Back into that snakelike monstrosity? Why do you look the same age as me anyway, what’s
up with that?”

Riddle shoves him through a door and he goes, stumbling slightly as Riddle follows, closing the
door behind them and peering through intently for a few seconds before gesturing Harry up a flight
of stairs. “I am the same age as you, Potter. I don’t know why, and nobody else I’ve met is half a
century out in age. I’m clearly just special ,” he sneers.

“Maybe that’s your power,” Harry squints at him, “Eternal youth--”

“I’m actually sixteen you nitwick.”

“Just checking; you can’t do what I can do, can you?”

“You haven’t told me what it is you can do aside from that beautiful demonstration--”

Harry flinches. “I can make people do what I want,” he says, bluntly, twisted words a cracked
mirror of what he had once heard a young Tom Riddle say. If Riddle realises this he doesn’t react,
just stares at Harry with a raw sort of hunger. “Don’t look like that,” he snaps, “It’s like having the
Imperius I can use on accident - I told someone to forget they’d seen me; managed to wipe their
whole fucking memory; total amnesia.”

“How quaint ; Boy Wonder gets an Unforgivable for a mutation,” Riddle hums.

“You don’t?”

“No,” Riddle shakes his head, “I don’t manipulate. No killing curse touch. No shapeshifting. No
age control. No torture curse either, before you ask.”

Harry closes his mouth and tries to pretend he hadn’t been about to ask. Riddle pushes past him
and swipes the stolen keycard through the next door. This whole wing of the facility has the same
harsh cold feeling to it; a clinical cleanliness. It makes him uneasy as he follows Riddle though the
maze of corridors. Unlike the main building that at least pretends it’s some sort of elaborate
summer camp crossed with boarding school, this part of the facility makes no pretenses.

It is a laboratory. A prison for humans, for mutants --

“How long before they notice I’m gone?” Harry asks, “Or you don’t appear like a good little lap
dog?”

A shrug, another key card swipe and the door opens and finally they almost walk into someone. A
scientist; female, old and standing slightly stooped with grey hair in a messy bun. She holds a rack
of test tubes in her hand. Harry blinks at her; she’s familiar and yet at the same time--

His memories slip away from him as the test tube rack hits the ground. She makes it two steps
towards an alarm or radio or something , Harry’s not sure because he’s already snapping out,
“Don’t ,” and she stops moving. There is a second too long of silence, and Harry steps fully into
the room, eyes darting around the chemically clean environment that makes no pretense at what
they do here. The woman…

She is looking at him with recognition and shock. She had not been expecting him, but she knows
who he is. It’s shallow, superficial, only one-reality deep but it’s there. “Harry,” she says, staring at
him, “Harry, please--”

His head tilts; does he know her, he ponders, eyes tracing her features and--

“Figg,” he says, blinking at her, the lab coat had thrown him off. That and the lack of cats.
“Arabella Figg?”

“Who?” Riddle twists to look at him, “Potter, just tell her what to do so we can get out of here…”

Figg looks to Riddle and back to Harry. There’s no fear there - she doesn’t know who Riddle is,
“Harry, please, just hold on. Dumbledore’s been looking for you for years. I don’t know why but
he’s a good man with a good cause. He knows about the facility, he’s coming here--”

Harry’s world shifts, he’s aware of Riddle’s snarled anger and his own desperate clinging horror
twisting into betrayal and the once-squib, now mundane scientist playing spy keeps talking--

“He didn’t know where you were, I swear, but they’ve been planning to deal with this facility for
months… if you can just hold on, please, Dumbledore--”

Dumbledore, Harry thinks, Dumbledore sent him to his death.

Dumbledore can rot.

“ Shut up ,” he snaps, “ Take the band off Riddle .”

She jumps to follow his instructions like she’s been electrocuted. Riddle is silent, staring at him as
she mindlessly finds a matching black machine to hold to the wristband, punching in numbers until
there is an affirmative beep and it clicks open. Riddle yanks it off, tossing it carelessly to one side.

“What does that even do?” Harry asks, watching Riddle rub at his wrist almost tenderly.

“Tracks--” Figg chokes through the way Harry’s mutation silences her tongue. He relaxes the force
he has on her mind and she slumps slightly, “It’s a tracker. Riddle managed to get out once - it’s a
precaution in case he managed again.”
“It’s useless now,” Riddle shrugs, “And now for the second thing--”

Harry lurches forwards, “I said ‘don’t kill’--”

“Relaaax,” Riddle drawls, “It’s just a minor thing. You asked me about my mutation, well, they
took my powers away from me after I tried escaping a year ago. You,” his dark gaze hyperfixates
on Figg, “You took my powers away from me. Now? I’m getting them back.” He reaches up to the
back of his neck, pushing down the collar and dark hair out of the way revealing--

There is--

Harry feels a bit sick.

It’s not a collar, not quite. It looks like a collar that had been cut up and broken off and half-lodged
itself under the skin at the nape of Riddle’s neck. The same flashing lights under the metal light it,
even as a few probing wires reach out spidery fingers straight into Riddle’s neck.

“You can get it out,” Riddle says through gritted teeth, “You put it in, I know you can get it out.
Do it.”

Figg’s hands are shaking, “We put it in for a reason , it rendered your powers void --”

“Harry,” Riddle says, a prompt for him to use his powers but Harry’s still staring with fascination
at the device, “ Harry --”

“Why don’t you use it on everyone then?” he asks, curious despite himself.

“It’s s-s-specific to him,” the scientist stutters out, “We haven’t gotten far enough to target the
genes that make you mutants yet, b-but we tailored this to Riddle. It was experimental; sits at the
base of the brainstem and interrupts signals from the hippocampus. We had to find someway to
block his powers after his escape.”

“ What ?” Harry lurches to his feet. He feels sick and he’s not sure if that’s because he didn’t know
they had technology that could block powers or because Riddle’s somehow conned Harry into
getting it taken out.

But he thinks about the mask, about the cloying choking of blocking off that part of him that
however much he detests the ability, it’s still a part of him. He imagines losing it, imagines
something reaching into his head and around his vocal cords to stop it --

“ Take it out ,” he instructs.

She fights, but it’s weak, and she moves to do it even as she protests, “It’s in for a reason, Harry,
he’s dangerous. He-- he drove one of the guards to suicide --”

“ Take it out and stop talking. ”

Riddle stares at him, face blank, almost grateful, even as Figg moves into action with needles and
forceps and that black machine. He looks like he can’t quite believe Harry is helping him and
honestly Harry isn’t either. This is the man who killed Harry’s parents in another life. He is the
monument to all Harry’s misfortunes in a world that exists only in Luna’s half-mad ramblings and
his own dreams.

There is no way Riddle killed his parents in this life. He would have been three .
It doesn’t acquit him of his crimes. It doesn’t even start, but Harry still values honour even if his
house colours mean nothing to anyone in this world. Besides, if he helps the boy, maybe he’ll be
less inclined to kill Harry.

It’s easier than he envisioned watching Figg remove the pieces of technology wedged into Tom’s
neck. It comes out with a spray of blood and on rote she treats it, mops it up with a bandage and
gauze. She doesn’t stitch it, and Harry doesn’t make her. Let Riddle have a scar for a change. He
pokes at the piece of plastic, ominously still flashing blue lights at him with tangled silver fingers
coated in blood. There is a moment when Riddle straightens that Harry genuinely thinks he’s going
to shapeshift straight back into Voldemort.

But when he opens his eyes they’re still brown. His hand comes up to press against the bandages,
knocking aside Figg’s hands as he stands from the chair he’d been sitting in and twists his neck a
bit in clear discomfort.

His features are still human. His gaze settles on where Figg stands, still bound by Harry’s powers.
Tom’s lips curls up in glee, “Thank you,” he says, head tilting slightly.

Figg whimpers, stumbles backwards. Her eyes widen in fear.

“Ah,” Riddle sighs in pleasure, “Still got it.”

She flinches and drops to her knees. Harry stares because he can’t work out what Riddle’s doing.
He’s just standing there , he’s--

“Stop it ,” he snaps, and Riddle jolts as if electrocuted. On the floor Figg sucks in air, limbs
trembling, “ Get out of here ,” Harry tells her firmly, directly, “You forgot to do something the
other side of the facility, leave.”

She straightens, heading for the door.

“ Oh, and one more thing,” Harry adds, “Forget we were here .”

Her eyes glaze, slide right over him and the door swings shut behind her. Dumbledore won’t be
finding out they were here from her at least. Does the man even remember? Harry isn’t sure how it
works, how relationships work - did the man still know his parents? How many things change,
how much stays the same?”

Tom stares at the door, almost regretfully, “Spoil all my fun,” he clicks his tongue, and that is,
inevitably, when his gaze falls on Harry, lighting up with glee.

“Don’t --” Harry starts, to command Riddle to stop abusing his power but-- an odd feeling creeps
over him, a strong sense of trust and reluctance. He can trust Riddle, he feels, he doesn’t want to
shackle him. He remembers how horrible it was to be bound, waves of helplessness and he can’t
do that to Riddle--

“That’s it,” Riddle says, eyeing him up. Mind oddly blank of distrust and wariness, Harry admires
how handsome Riddle had looked as a teenager before Dark Magic had twisted his features so.
Soft dark hair with a slight curl, pale skin and a jawline Harry could cut himself on. There is
nothing serpentine visible, not now, and his nose is definitely present.

Voldemort would be the sort of person who would cut off his nose to spite his face. Quite literally
in his case.

Said nose flares in confusion, “You’re odd,” he says, bemused, blinking at Harry, “ Merlin , how
do you cope? You…” he seems to struggle for the words, still frowning at Harry. A determined
glint appears in his eyes, and Harry wants nothing more than in that instance to help Riddle, to
make himself useful, too--

Something is wrong .

It is not like the Imperius Curse. Harry’s mind is his own, there are no waves of contentedness, no
ocean of peace to simply float in, but there is something off .

The thought occurs to him and no sooner does the panic start to rise up, it vanishes replaced with a
beautiful, calm kind of content, the kind that only comes from sitting on a smooth wooden bench in
a park on a sunny day.

“ Don’t use your powers on me ,” Harry says before he can really think about it, and with an
alarming tilt the world snaps back into focus like an elastic band. It stings, the way his emotions
slip-slide back to the mean. Riddle stiffens, eyes widening in surprise and Harry takes several sharp
steps backwards, “The fuck ,” he snaps at Tom, furious suddenly as realisation crashes in, “What
was that? You said you couldn’t manipulate --”

Riddle’s on his feet, “I said I couldn’t do what you did,” he says with an easy shrug, “I said nothing
about manipulation--”

“Emotions,” Harry says, eyes darting around wildly, “Emotional manipulation… you’re an empath
?” he chokes, staring at Riddle in horror, “You? Empathy ?”

Riddle makes a contrite noise in the back of his throat, “Is that so unusual?” he asks, then appears
to realise the question, “Never mind,” he rolls his eyes, “I mean, it wouldn’t have been my first
pick either, but as you see it has its uses.” Fury rolls along Harry’s veins because how dare he --
“Oh relax,” Riddle snaps, “You’re not even surprised, you knew I’d use my powers on you so
don’t feel so betrayed, it’s pathetic.”

“Stop reading my emotions!” Harry shouts, but he fails to put any power behind it. Riddle appears
to consider his instructions before not complying with a smirk.

“But it’s absolutely fascinating having a glimpse into that head of yours.”

“You’re crazy,” Harry snaps, “Your horcruxes screwed you up.”

Slight alarm flares in Riddle’s eyes, head tilting as he examines Harry, “You found out about the
horcruxes?” he asks, like he hasn’t found the charred remnants of the Gaunt shack, like he wasn’t
aware of the Gringotts break in. Harry stares at him; Tom Riddle given empathy, he thinks, is a
strange new thing. Voldemort was, at least, predictable in his madness.

Tom Riddle isn’t. He’s new and young and there’s something still distinctly off about him.
“You’ve got what you wanted,” Harry says, “You’ve got your powers back. Deal done,” he twists,
wanting to run, to escape, to fly free and away and--

A hand clamps down around his arm bringing him up short, “We are not done ,” Riddle snaps,
standing over Harry. Despite being a lanky teenager, Harry’s still only fourteen and malnourished.
Riddle overpowers him easy, tugging him closer, fingers curled around Harry’s bicep like a vice,
“Where are you going ?” Riddle hisses. Harry blinks at him, the words almost like parseltongue
except not , that language doesn’t exist here, the magic that twisted his words to hisses isn’t a thing
.

Riddle’s words don’t have the power that Harry’s do, still pinning tendrils of Tom’s emotional
manipulation in place. “Leaving,” Harry snaps anyway, “I’m getting Luna and getting out of here.
Without you--”

“We had a deal ,” Riddle sneers, nostrils flaring reminiscent of his more snake-like days, “You
gonna throw it away for your little clairvoyant pet?”

“Let go of me,” Harry says, weakly, but there’s not power to the words.

“Harry,” Riddle fucking croons , “Is that an order ?” he mocks, tone venomous. It might even be
smooth or charismatic, but it comes off with a rough rasped accent and teenage pettiness, “You’ve
gotta mean it.”

“Fuck off,” Harry snaps again, trying to tug his arm free. Anger and rebelliousness flare within him
and he reaches for his power to make Riddle go away -- “I can make it a order, I can--”

Riddle lets go of him so fast Harry almost face-plants on the floor. He blinks lazily down at Harry
who is scrabbling to stand, “You’re adorable,” he says, amusement curdling in his tone. “How
much does it damage your precious morals every time you use your mutation? You didn’t seem to
care when Umbridge was carving herself up just now for your entertainment. Had I known you
were inclined to violence with that temper of yours I’d have put more effort into recruiting you for
my Knights.”

“You were too busy trying to murder me,” Harry says, dully, as if Riddle isn’t right, as if the very
thought of using his mutation doesn’t make him feel a bit sick, as if he doesn’t simultaneously
detest and crave the power that comes with his words. He straightens; Riddle stands between
himself and the door, “Now it appears kidnapping is more your forte. Let me pass; I need to get to
Luna--”

“Don’t be the fool reckless Gryffindor,” Riddle chides, “This is not the time for heroics, besides,
you heard the spy - the children here are going to be rescued eventually once the Order make a
move. I’d rather be long gone before that so unless you want to hang around and be Dumbledore’s
pawn--”

Anger flares. Only half is from Riddle’s words, the rest is from the hopeless, terrifying walk to the
forest in another life. It’s half-there and yet it’s years old and so fresh it still stings and it fuels the
all-too familiar roll of power and wraps almonds around his tongue as he tells Tom, “ Step aside .”

Riddle does so, jaw clenching and just like that Harry’s gone. Pushed past and out the door. He
hears Riddle shout something, doesn’t listen. Doubts Tom is going to bother following him - he
fears Dumbledore more than he wants to keep Harry around for his power. Besides; he’s got what
he wanted. He’s got his empathy back.

Had somebody asked Harry to pick one mutant power or magical spell to ascribe to someone;
empathy is probably the last thing he would have thought to prescribe to the psychopathic once-
megalomaniac behind him. He himself would probably have attributed some skill with defence or
flying or disarming; not the curse that crushes people’s will to dust.

It doesn’t matter - he will use it if he has to. He will get Luna out - precious, innocent Luna whose
dreams are true and whose spirit remains unchanged, and then he will leave and--

Do what, he doesn't know. Getting out is the most important thing right now.

He turns the corner, spots the door that leads back to the main building and throws himself at it.
His shoulder hits it and jars and that is the point he remembers that Riddle still has the damn key
card.

He spins around to find someone to control or an alternative route and almost walks straight into
the barrel of a gun. Umbridge smiles at him, bandages wrapped over her hands and weapon pointed
at his heart. “Say one word and I’ll shoot,” she warns, and Harry scrabbles in vain at the locked
door to no avail. “Oh, Mr Potter,” Umbridge says with a thin-lipped smile, “You didn’t think it was
that easy, did you?”

This is, Harry thinks, going to be the end of his short second life.

“Did you think you could escape? Really?” Condescending words drip out, run down Harry’s
spine and freeze to ice there. He can’t breath. He reaches for his power, tries to think of what
words he can get out before she pulls to trigger, can’t come up with any-- “You foolish boy,”
Umbridge scolds, “You horrible boy. I’ve been told the bosses want you alive to try and harness
your power but I’m sure I’ll be able to spin out a tale of how I had to do it. You were simply too
dangerous, too unstable; I had to put you down.”

“Do n’t --”

The gun fires so close it grazes his cheek. He stills, voice mute. He refuses to beg. He refuses to
look away. He glares venomous green eyes at the hated woman who just laughs. “Don’t worry,”
she says, lowering the gun, “I won’t shoot you, Potter. That’s too easy.” She lets out a girlish
giggle, dropping the gun carelessly on the ground next to her. Harry flinches, half-expecting it to
go off as it bounces.

Now unarmed, he opens his mouth to taste the cyanide poison of his power, to reach out and
manipulate her, to--

He’s cold, he thinks first, and that’s in the second before despair reaches a skeletal hand into his
heart and squeezes.

“Stop--- stop---s--” he can’t form the words, what’s the point, he thinks, everyone is dead and he is
dead, born to die, raised like a lamb to a slaughter , wouldn’t it be easier to just die -- “Stop--” he
can’t summon the power, can’t--

“Shooting you is easy,” Umbridge looks regretful, but it’s a facade, an empty mask worn over
vindictive glee, “I didn’t want to do this, you’re a filthy mutant freak but you deserve this.”

In Harry’s head Lily Potter screams .

Oh Merlin, he thinks in despair and horror, she’s a dementor. Umbridge is a human dementor.
Everything Harry hates and fears shoved into one uncomfortable pink-wrapped package. He gets
one image of a dementor with a cold clammy hand and aura of despair dressed in baby pink before
the cry of his father drowns it out.

“No,” he chokes out, “No, don’t--”

“Take him to your sister! Hide him; Lily go, go now!”

“Oh yes,” Umbridge says vindictively, “It’s not so nice, is it, having someone’s mutation used
against you.”

Despair is a black hole. An impossible gravity, with clawing, reaching fingers that search out, grab
and drag everything it encounters into it’s bloody heart. It’s inescapable.

“Expecto--” Harry murmurs against the horror and revulsion. Expecto Patronum. Expect
protection; how ridiculous. What protection exists here? He is alone and friendless; a mutant in a
world that hates mutants. His friends are gone and he is alone .

“James!”

“Lily, RUN!”

“There is something I found out I can do,” Umbridge says, examining her nails like there is
something wrong with the way they’re filed to perfection, “A way to make you behave. A way to
stop you even thinking of using your filthy mutant power ever again… don’t worry, it doesn’t hurt.
I don’t think you’ll feel much of anything soon--”

A kiss. It’s not, thankfully, an actual kiss. It is what Harry imagines a dementor’s kiss would have
felt like. Clawing black tendrils reaching in, a numb, endless void and maybe she’s right, maybe
it’s easier to just…

Let go.

“Not Harry, please , he’s just a boy --”

In his head Lily whirls away from him with red hair and in reality Umbridge reaches out towards
him to make skin contact and there is a loud and very definite gunshot.

Harry’s world blinks out to black, even as the sight of Tom Riddle swims into view, hair in disarray
and yet still looking remarkably poised as he holds a gun on Umbridge, finger already flexed
around the trigger.

His world blinks out, Lily’s scream still ringing in his ears.

There’s a growing pool of blood on the floor. Tom stares at it, surprisingly unbothered. Something
wrong with him , they had said at the orphanage, even before he dreamed of castles and magic and
ruling the world. They’re right, he thinks, there is something wrong with him.

It’s not a bad thing though. It makes him powerful. It makes him better .

Cloying terror and fear and despair still hang in the air like smoke. Directed at him they probably
would have rendered him useless. He remembers they have, in the past, but now, today, directed at
the boy curled up on the floor unconscious it had been easy to throw it off, to scoop up the gun and
bring it around to that foul woman.

He’d been here for years , the orphanage had been ecstatic to get rid of him. After his failed escape
attempt a year ago when they took his powers and latched a tracker onto him like a dog he hadn’t
seriously considered getting out again, but then Harry freaking Potter had been dragged into the
room with power radiating off his hunched, beaten form. He’d been here months and Tom hadn’t
noticed. Hadn’t even realised ...

Tom had been good, so good, played Umbridge’s little games, bowed his head, bided his time and
the moment he saw Potter he knew - it was now or never.

He steps around the dead body to where Potter lies, curled in on himself and shivering. He’s chill to
the touch, weak and so so vulnerable . Yet he is Tom’s salvation, razor words spat out and Tom’s
free. Like it’s easy. Like it’s nothing . Such power…

Tom’s hands still shake slightly from the adrenaline; from the feel of the gun in his hands, the
power he held there, the sharpness to the colour around him and the soft rise and fall of the boy’s
breathing. It’s with an almost reluctance that he pulls away, slipping the gun into his belt and
stepping away.

This is going to be difficult, he thinks, eyeing up an unconscious Harry. He should just leave the
boy here. Dumbledore and his gang might arrive in time to save him, and if they didn’t well… it
wasn’t Tom’s problem.

Except--

He doesn’t need the boy anymore, he reminds himself, despite Potter’s pretty little talent with
words. He can manage without, he’s Tom Riddle , he is Lord Voldemort , he is not reliant on a
fourteen year old who would probably sooner spit in his face than help him.

Said fourteen year old does have a righteous, honourable streak though and he can use that. It goes
against every instinct - Tom is not the sort to take painstaking care to ensure someone’s continued
survival, and the irony that it’s Harry Potter is not lost on him. But the boy could prove to be useful
and Tom will continue to prioritise his own survival above everything else.

He turns, preparing to walk away but doesn’t make it even a single step.

Maybe it’s a strange fondness for the persistence with with the child fights, or a possessive desire
left over from his day of obsessing over murdering the boy, but it’s with a sigh that he turns back to
the unconscious boy. “Come on, Potter,” he murmurs, even though Harry can’t hear him. The boy
is small; had he always been this slight and malnourished, he wonders. He doesn’t remember.
Memories blur.

He is sixteen and not an adult, just a teenager with too many memories that don’t fit together. He is
exhausted and his neck hurts and he has an unconscious fourteen year old he is now responsible
for. He sighs.

He can always kill the boy later, he reminds himself.

Sirius Black picks his way through the facility. The members of the Order are looking after the
children, wrapping them in blankets and leading them towards the bus to take them away from this
hell hole. The staff members have either fled or died in the wake of their attack on the facility, and
at his heels Remus stalks in his wolf form.

It was irony and cruelty at it’s finest that Remus’ unwanted curse in one life had followed him into
the next, twisted and mutated itself into what is almost a gift by comparison.

“Anything?” he asks Moony, who is scenting the air. His nose twitches for something, anything
that might suggest that their godchild was here. It’s been years of nothing, Sirius isn’t expecting
anything now and he certainly isn’t expecting Remus to bound away, Sirius barely keeping up with
him. His own ability to shift into a dog doesn’t exist here - he’s confined to his own two feet as he
races after the wolf.

Remus skids into a room filled with files. There is blood on the floor, long dry. A figure stands by
a filing cabinet, flipping through files and Sirius takes a step towards the white-bearded Albus
Dumbledore who looks up at them as they enter.

Dumbledore sighs sadly, “Ah,” he says, gaze skimming over Remus and then Sirius in the
doorway, “So he was here, then. I had hoped…” he sighs and shakes his head. Remus sniffs around
the blood on the floor but thankfully appears disinterested.

That’s good.

It means it isn’t Harry’s blood.

“What is it, Professor?” Sirius perks up, “Have you found something? Was Harry here? Remus
came straight here...” He holds hope like a candle in the dark to light the way as he moves closer to
where Dumbledore is holding paper files - those, at least, were not all destroyed by the server wipe
during their attack.

Yet something is cracked in Albus’ face; with horror and sadness and what Sirius thinks might be a
hint of fear. “Harry was here,” he says, and Sirius looks over the file. There’s a picture of Harry -
Merlin, he looks so small. Sirius had forgotten how small and scrawny Harry had been at fourteen.

Large green eyes stare out of the picture. The files are either basic details they know already or
blacked out redacted information. Harry J Potter. fourteen years old. Born 31st July. Powers are
covered up, but the formulation for drug compounds they’ve tried on him aren’t. Sirius flinches at
the sight, “Was he with the other children?” he asks, “We have to find him, is he--”

Remus shakes his great furred head, one ear twitching anxiously. Dumbledore is still looking tense.

“We’ll find him,” Sirius insists, “Wherever they’ve moved him to, we’ll find him. I failed him
once, I won’t fail him again, Albus. Lily and James fled with only a faint recollection of what
happened but we all know now, we’ll find Harry and make it right and why are you looking like
that .”

Silently Dumbledore holds out another file. Another boy with dark hair, sixteen, born 31st
December, Sirius doesn’t recognise the name, his powers too are blacked out along with several
other details. “That boy,” Dumbledore says, and there’s something in his tone maybe, or in his eyes
that gives Sirius a clue as to the horror of what he’s about to say, “That boy should not be a boy.
He should be older; in his sixties. I fear something has gone wrong.”

“Tom M Riddle,” Sirius reads out.

“He grows up to be Voldemort,” Albus confesses, imparting the great and terrible secret like it’s a
razor blade in his throat, “He was also missing from the children we rescued.”

Voldemort. Sirius stares at the teenager in the picture. Handsome, aloof, human looking… Just a
child. A teenager. The Dark Lord and Harry, in the same correctional facility and now both
missing. “We have to find them,” he drops the files, “Now. If baby Voldemort gets to him, if he
remembers --”

Dumbledore’s blue gaze is like cancer, “I fear,” he says slowly, “It may already be too late.”
 exists in sepia tones
Chapter Notes

Updates gonna be less regular as I'm back at work but this is my only WIP so it's got
my full attention. I'm looking forward to seeing where it goes XD

Harry wakes to dry lips and a stiff neck. He’s exhausted, drained but still alive and breathing. He
stretches out, eyes flickering open. His head feels like he’s been hit with a bludger.

“Wouldn’t move,” someone warns him, “You went down pretty hard after she got to you.”

He ignores the voice and sits up anyway and immediately regrets it. He opens his eyes but his
vision blacks dubiously. He props himself up and waits for the sickness in his stomach to stop
churning. Something cool is shoved into his hand and he takes a grateful sip of the water before he
places who exactly is in the room with him and promptly spits it out. “Is it poisoned?”

“If I wanted to kill you,” Riddle perches on a desk of what looks like a too small cheap and non-
descript overnight travel lodge, watching him with dark too-intelligent eyes, “I would have left you
to be thrown back into that cell I got you out of instead of rescuing you. We had a deal and I, at
least, hold up to my side of it.”

Harry takes another sip of the water now he’s determined it to not be poisoned. He’s thirsty and he
takes a few large gulps, almost choking in the process, “Why?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the
back of his sleeve and enjoying the disgusted look Riddle shoots him, “Why on earth would you
save me? You want me dead, hell, you’ve been trying to kill me since I was born. Why stop now?”

“Why, Harry, can’t I do something nice for a change?” he plasters a smile to his face that falls as
soon as Harry shoots him an unimpressed look, “Isn’t it obvious?” he drawls instead, “You’re
useful .” His words are plain and blunt, “I’ve encountered nobody with a mutation half a useful as
yours. You control people. You can’t just go looking for power like that. I found you.”

“I’m not a puppet,” Harry snaps, “You can’t make me do anything.”

“No,” Riddle’s eyes gleam, “And that’s what makes this so entertaining. Besides,” he adds,
stretching like a cat where he’s perched, “You’re the first person I’ve met who remembers. That
makes you interesting alone, Potter.”

“Luna remembered. And remember what Figg said? I bet Dumbledore remembers.”

“You didn’t exactly seem keen to talk to the old man,” Riddle notes, and Harry very carefully
doesn’t flinch, just takes another shaky sip of the water, “And your friend was clairvoyant,
according to her file; it’s hard to tell how much she knew and how much she was picking up off
you.”

Harry sits there, staring around at the room. Bland, nondescript, and then there’s Tom Riddle
sitting there watching him. “Did you kill her?” he asks, hollowly.

“Are you going to get upset when I say ‘yes’?”

Is he? Harry ponders his own feelings. He had hated Umbridge, yes, but did he want her dead?

He had wanted her to suffer. He had wanted her to feel pain, to know that she was nothing , that she
was pathetic , that she was--

“Merlin,” Riddle pulls a face, “Do you always feel so damn much?”

Harry blinks. He’d forgotten Riddle was an empath. How oddly appropriate and twisted. “Some
people aren’t raging sociopaths,” he snaps out. He makes to stand but a spasm shoots through him,
and the glass does tumbling to the ground.

“And that would be the withdrawal symptoms,” Riddle says, sounding oddly detached. He makes
no effort to help. “Take the tablets,” he gestures, “They’ll help.”

“Where did you get them? Steal them?”

“Sent waves of sympathy at an old lady in a supermarket,” Riddle sounds unbothered by his own
brand of blatant manipulation, “Take them, they’re just paracetamol. Painkillers.”

Harry pokes one suspiciously, and decides there are easier ways for Riddle to kill him, “Why are
you helping me?” he asks, a flush of fever crawling over him as he sinks exhausted back onto the
bed, “I thought you wanted me dead .” Suspicion laces every word, his glare would still kill if it
could.

Riddle shrugs. Harry blinks at the action - he’d thought such thing was beneath a Dark Lord but no,
that was a shrug, “I did,” he says, like that explains everything. It doesn’t. “Guess you just have
luck on your side,” he says, a complete non-answer, “You’re more useful alive. Don’t feel so
offended or indignant. You told me not to manipulate your emotions so I can’t--”

“It doesn’t last that long,” Harry says, trying not to worry.

“Don’t panic , Merlin, I’m not manipulating you,” Riddle rolls his eyes, even as Harry carefully
examines everything he’s felt since waking, “I won’t, how’s that, although you can use your gilded
words on me if it makes you feel better.”

“I don’t trust you,” Harry says, “Why on earth should I believe you? What do you want from me?”

“I want to find out why we’re here,” Riddle says, plainly, “I want to know why we remember. And
I want to make my way in this new world unconstricted by that foul place I’ve been in since I was
eleven.”

Simple, easy desires; ones more akin to the teenager Riddle looks like rather than the villain he
will become. “That’s it?” Harry scoffs, another tremor wracking through him, “You don’t want to
kill them all? Enslave them? Mutant superiority?”

“Maybe later,” Riddle says and it takes Harry too long to realise he’s being mocked . He bursts out
laughing because what a fucking mess . “What’s so funny?” Riddle frowns, no doubt reading his
emotions as well as his hysterical, borderline manic laughter.

Harry gestures between them. Because this is it, isn’t it? It’s always them, it always comes down to
himself and Riddle, “It would be you , wouldn’t it?” he asks, “Merlin, look at us. Two runaway
teenagers with no money, no documents, and the power to do anything we want except one is a
genocidal maniac turned schoolboy empath and the other a schoolboy turned enemy of state. And
you - Voldemort, Riddle, whatever the fuck you’re calling yourself, you’re not exactly scary, are
you? A Dark Lord turned 15-year old empath?"
Riddle examines him with a smirk, "If you had told me our powers and asked me to assign one to
each of us I'd have thought empathy much more suited you and manipulation me. But you appear
to have grown into your powers and it's delightful."

"It's foul," Harry snaps, "I tell someone to go fuck themselves and they actually break their back
trying."

"Oh, agreed, I can't imagine anything worse than having everyone's pesky emotions in my head.
It's just so much baggage, but over the years I have gotten used to it. Used it."

Just as quickly as the hysterical emotions well up they fade. He squints at Riddle, trying to work
out if the other boy is the cause of it but he looks blank faced and innocent. Probably was him,
then.

Another shake runs through him and despite the painkillers his head pounds. He feels sick. “If
you’re going to kill me,” he says, “Kill me in my sleep,” he moans, “Preferably before this gets
worse.”

“I’m sure a big brave Gryffindor like you has survived worse. This can’t, after all, be worse than
one of my Cruciatus Curses.”

“I don’t know, sure feels like it,” Harry goes through another withdrawal tremor. The words stick
in his throat and he curls up a little tighter. Maybe if he closes his eyes and wishes really hard this
will be over. He’ll be--

His mind whirls over images - the Burrow, Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione, a too-narrow cot next to
Luna - it can’t decide which to stick with and he feels all the worse for it. He’s vaguely aware of
Riddle shoving him back into bed, draping a warm blanket over him.

“Sleep, Potter. You’re in for a rough night.” He’s only half aware of a warm body curling next to
him, soft drawl and soothing ocean of emotions lulling him, “Relax. I have no doubt you’ll get
through this, Potter, you’re persistently stubborn.”

He does not expect to stay.

He sleeps fitfully and wakes feeling worse than he did when he went to sleep but his head is no
longer pounding and he no longer feels sick. They leave the travel lodge; when Harry refuses to rob
someone with honeyed words Riddle spins yarns about lost tickets and plays around with their
emotions like putty. They’re on a train to London and Harry doesn’t even feel guilty - the man
Riddle had bribed had too much money anyway.

They don’t discuss where they’re going. It’s without really thinking about it that they end up
Charing Cross Road, wandering down and stopping at the spot the Leaky Cauldron should be.

There’s nothing. The street is busy - cars and taxis going both directions, the shops are your
standard high street affair, repeated on every busy London Road. There is no dingy pub. The one
alley they find leads to the back of a takeaway place with overflowing bin bags. A cat scrounges
through the leftovers.

The barrier at King’s Cross is solid. Harry scams a cashier into believing he’s already paid and
deposits a meal in Riddle’s lap, “There’s no point,” he says, “There’s nothing here, Riddle. It’s not
the same world.”

Riddle looks like he’s lost something precious. Like he’s mourning someone’s death except that’s
ridiculous. Riddle doesn’t mourn . Except…

This is not Voldemort. Harry can’t pin it down, not quite, but there is something intrinsically
different about Riddle in comparison to the monster he remembers. He has no wand of yew, no
snake at his side - Harry’s pretty sure neither of them can talk to snakes, not anymore. They’re like
small boats floating at sea with absolutely nothing to anchor them. “If in doubt,” he says, “Find a
library,” he grabs Riddle’s sleeve, tugging him up, “Come on.”

“You’re all melancholic,” Tom follows him, “Is that something one of your friends said? It sounds
too intelligent for you.”

Harry presses his lips together, “I bet anything sounds intelligent given the company you used to
hang around with.”

“Not all the Knights were incompetent,” Riddle bites back. It’s almost friendly, this odd banter
between them. Harry squints at him again, disjarred by something .

“Knights?” he asks instead. “They your top tier Death Eaters or did you vote on a name change?”
he watches Riddle’s expression flicker, turns his curiosity into a taunt, “Can I put forth a
suggestion? You should totally make up another anagram; did you know that out of your name you
can also make--”

“Shut up,” Tom cuts off Harry’s glee before he gets there, “The library’s here - do your thing--”

Harry spends the next fifteen minutes signing up for a library card legally just to annoy the other
boy. The only thing he bluffs on is the non-existent cash; they’re still making do with nothing, just
Harry’s words and empty pockets. It’s gotten them a change of clothes from a local charity shop.
It’s a relief to shed the ratty facility horrors. Twenty minutes later he’s logging into a computer
cautiously while Riddle looks at it as if it might bite his hand off.

“I forgot you were old,” he says, as if Harry himself knows how to use one beyond what he had
seen Dudley do in another life. This is also fancier than anything he’s seen Dudley ever use. He
pulls up a search engine semi-successfully as he’d been instructed and then hesitates half a moment
before he types in ‘Lily and James Potter’.

Maybe it’s too ingrained into him from two lifetimes worth of lies, but he still expects an article
about a car crash to come up. Instead: “Merlin,” Riddle leans over his shoulder, breath warm
against Harry’s neck. It’s uncomfortably close; the hairs along the back of Harry’s neck rise up and
he’s about to flinch away when Riddle does so first, “Try and feel a little quieter,” he says, with a
wince.

Harry makes absolutely no effort to do so. The article sits in front of him; clear in black and white
print. “Murdered,” he whispers, “You’re not even there and they’re still killed. Found murdered in
their homes by mutants.”

“Grindelwald,” Riddle says, “Apparently he’s a famous mutant known for his ability to induce
psychedelic visions. Vision that have charmed hundreds of mutants to his cause, but somehow
failed to charm the Potters. So he killed them for it.”

“No prophecy, but they still die,” Harry can barely believe it. Grief wells up, fresh and clean like
they have just died once more in his head. Maybe he’d been holding out hope the Dursley’s had
lied again. Maybe he’d prayed they might be alive, or he’d be able to find Sirius or--

“They must have been mutants,” Riddle hums, “No mention of their powers? Shame.”

“If you exist your mother must have been able to do what you can,” Harry’s grief makes him
vindictive, “Make your dad think he was in love , a love potion by a different name but a love
potion all the same.”

“An Imperius by a different name smells as sweet,” Riddle quotes something, nose wrinkling,
“You know an awful lot about my life, Potter.”

Harry picks his way through a few more articles covering the murder of his parents, “Dumbledore
gave me a history lesson instead of teaching me how to destroy your horcruxes. He… Merlin, I
don’t know, maybe he wanted me to feel sorry for you or maybe he just wanted to make sure I was
committed enough to kill you.” Harry’s feelings about Albus Dumbledore are mixed, half-
remembered betrayal clashing with respect and that awful awful understanding because he knows
why the old grandfatherly figure did it.

Riddle pulls a face again; Harry’s clearly feeling too much. He rocks back in the chair, turning to
where Tom is perched on the desk, “So that’s my parents - what about yours? What happened after
the not-love potion enamourment of your dad? If you were in an orphanage - does that mean the
same thing happened to your parents? Merope died and your dad’s living in a rich mansion
somewhere with your grandparents? You didn’t kill him at eleven, right?”

Tom’s lip curls in a sneer, “I don’t go around killing family off at eleven, Potter. Do you?” Harry
looks away, sharply, expression blank but emotions giving him away, “ Do you ?”

“I killed Quirrell at eleven, remember?”

“I thought I killed him,” Riddle blinks, “I was possessing him.”

“I… my mother’s blood protection set him on fire .”

There’s a second too long as Riddle stares at him, “Of course,” he says, like that is the most natural
way to kill someone. “But why do you feel guilty, then? Also you said family --”

“Hey, look,” Harry swings the computer screen around, “Your dad’s dead after all, turns out your
uncle killed him. Morfin Gaunt, local mutant with the ability to talk to serpents sets pet snakes on
local Eton boy,” he scoffs, “Our mutant manifestations are fucking weird ,” he snorts. “Hey, maybe
you could claim his inheritance; he had a big ass house, right?”

“I don’t want it,” Tom says, dismissively, still staring at Harry, “What did you mean about your
family? I mean - clearly your parents still died somehow but no… that’s not what you meant…
your godfather…” He pauses, probing Harry’s emotional response to his words.

“Don’t,” Harry says, but there’s not enough force in his words. He settles for glaring, not in the
mood to slip into that cyanide poison mindset.

“You could just tell me,” Tom says, “Come on. You’re dying to share, get it off your chest,” and
then he has the audacity to reach out, snagging one of the strings from Harry’s ratty hoody and
using it to tug Harry closer, “Confess your sins--”

Harry snorts, more amused than intimidated by Riddle’s antics, “What is this; I have seen your
heart and it is mine?” he quotes the locket and enjoys the frown that furrows Riddle’s perfect face.
“You want to know so badly,” he says, yanking himself free of Riddle, “You can look it up. I’m
going to get a coffee.”

“You’re fourteen, so much coffee isn’t good for you!” Riddle shouts after him as he heads out onto
the high street.

It’s easier to think outside amongst the hustle and bustle of London’s commuters. He dodges
pedestrians, wondering what the date is and if he’s hit his fifteenth birthday yet. Fifteen and on the
run, he thinks, what a laugh. At least in his former life he’d had somewhere to go. Friends; a
community; school; but here all Harry has is Tom freaking Riddle.

He should leave. Strike out on his own. He contemplates it, seriously considers it and makes it
three steps. He really should leave; should run and make his own way. He doesn’t need Riddle,
after all, he has his mutation, he is an adult in his head even if he does look like an underfed teen,
he would be fine --

He could hunt down Ron and Hermione. The Weasleys. Sirius. The precious few people who
actually matter.

He wants to burst into hysterical laughter at the hopelessness of it - he doesn’t know the first place
to start.

He could do it though, he just needs to leave--

He turns back to the library where he left Riddle. It’s not like he knows where to find the others
right now and besides--

Someone needs to make sure Riddle doesn’t snap and go on a murder spree.

If Riddle had actually looked up anything he makes no sign of it, “Ah, good,” he says, “You’re
back. Look at this - after years of non-action Albus Dumbledore, famous mutant rights activist
leads a team known as the ‘Order of the Phoenix’ to take down… huh, guess Figg was right. They
took their time though--”

Harry snatches the mouse from Tom’s hand, “They took down the facility?” he asks, feelings
mixed, “Completely?”

“Why are you relieved?”

“It means Luna got out,” Harry says, “And the other kids, I guess, but I knew Luna.”

“Oh, your little clairvoyant, yes, well… it says here Dumbledore was an Oxford graduate, no
known mutant activity at all until around the time your parents died. I wonder why he’s starting
now?”

“Because we remember, now,” Harry says, “At least… we’re assuming he remembers, right? But
Umbridge didn’t, and neither did Figg. But you do, Luna does… what makes us different from
them, huh? Why do we remember?”

Tom raises an eyebrow, “I know you know,” he says, bluntly, “I can feel it. Go on, spill.”

He runs it through in his head before saying it outloud, as if putting words to it might make him
wrong, somehow, “The Battle,” he says, quietly, “The Battle of Hogwarts. We were all there.”
Riddle stares at him, “I’m pretty sure,” he says, slowly, “Dumbledore was dead. The Malfoy brat
got assigned to kill him.”

“I…” Harry swallows, throat too dry, “I used the Resurrection Stone. He was there; in spirit. It’s
why… my parents took off. Why there’s no Sirius, no Remus - it’s the only explanation. They…
the memories don’t come quite right, so they had an inkling or something that they needed to hide
and did so. It’s why I wasn’t there, why when Umbridge did her thing… I heard them screaming - I
mean, I always did, but I heard the screaming from this world. They knew someone was coming,
and they hid me with Petunia. But my aunt didn’t remember. No hint. Dudley hit eight and kept
going like nothing had changed except his present number.”

Riddle’s brown eyes are unreadable. Harry tries to calm down, and then realises that it doesn’t
matter. Whatever his face looks like Riddle isn’t reading it - he’s feeling Harry’s every emotion.
The turmoil, the hurt , the raw loneliness and the dawning realisation, even as the last few pieces
of the puzzle click into place.

Because Riddle is sitting there calmly. No anger, no fury, he reminds Harry more of the school
boy than the megalomaniac.

“Also you were there,” he says, as if in conclusion, jarring Riddle from his assessment of Harry’s
emotions.

“I think we’ve established that,” he says, unimpressed.

“You were there,” Harry repeats, “And yet you weren’t. Voldemort was. Nagini was. Ravenclaw’s
diadem was. Hell, we brought Hufflepuff’s cup there; we’ve already established that death might
not affect this curse. I was there…” Harry cuts himself off, course corrects, “You were there in
pieces, Tom, which is probably why your memory’s in pieces too.”

Tom wonders why, exactly, he thought the boy was stupid. He’s not , he’s surprisingly perceptive.
Maybe not book smart, maybe not academically inclined, but he’s put together the clues Tom has
left lying behind him like glaring sign posts.

He doesn’t try to deny it. That would be useless, Harry is already too confident in his certainty,
“How did you guess?” he asks instead, voice dry, like the whole conversation is boring.

“Knights,” Harry says, and oh, of course . “You forgot about Quirrell and the fact that I’d not only
found out about your horcruxes, but destroyed most of them.” Indignation flares through Tom,
fingers twitching with the urge to do harm and he quells it. He’d missed that, how had he missed
that , Merlin, maybe this reincarnation thing was a good deal if that was the way Lord Voldemort’s
reign was going. “Also,” Harry adds, condemningly, “You just forgot that Draco never succeeded
in killing Albus Dumbledore. Snape did.”

“Shit,” Tom says, surprisingly coarse, “Fine. You’re right. I remember but it’s patchy. Happy?”

Harry is-- relieved ? Tom’s not sure, the boy is surprisingly hard to read. There are so many
emotions in a snowstorm around him. “It makes a hell of a lot more sense now why you’re so nice
.”

Tom is almost indignant. He is not nice .

He does, unfortunately, understand what Harry means. Huge chunks of his life don’t exist to him.
Hogwarts exists in sepia tones, bits of adulthood drift across his mind and he remembers trying to
kill Harry but doesn’t remember why. What could possible drive him to do such a thing as kill a
one-year-old infant, even one as irritating as Potter?

Had the horcruxes done this, he wonders, caused the split and dissonance in memories? Or if it
even more sinister - is this not dissonance at all but realisation and understanding. Had the cracks
already existed before in a previous life and this is all that could be salvaged?

Both ideas terrify him; he is meant to be eternal, immortal and all powerful; not an oddly selective
amnesiac, and certainly not a teenager again.

“Maybe that’s why you’re sixteen,” Harry is squinting at him. Tom resolves to make a stop by an
opticians to get him better glasses. “Your soul was too broken to reflect your actual age?” Tom’s
withering look stops the speculating; he doesn’t need Potter theorising more disastrous realisations
right now.

“You could probably track down your parent’s will,” he says, dispassionately, determined to throw
Potter’s investigative curiosity onto something other than him.

Potter doesn’t appear to care, shrugging carelessly, “Oh, or maybe when you split your soul you
didn’t just cut off slivers you actually split it in half. And given the locket, diary and ring were
gone that means you only have…” he squints, “One sixteenth of your soul?”

“Potter, that’s not how souls work,” he rubs at his temples, the boy’s whirlwind emotions are
fleeting and hard to pin down. Tom has an uncomfortable feeling about this.

“I don’t think you can really talk about knowing how souls work given the mangled mess you
made of yours. It’s was fucking unstable, you broke yourself into eight pieces.”

Harry’s emotions settle on discomfort, disgust twisted to pity and…

Comfort? Sympathy? Pity ? Tom can’t pin it down but it makes him uncomfortable and a little sick
just to try. That nagging feeling in his brain grows and he turns slowly to face Harry, “Eight?” he
asks.

Horror. Terror. Revulsion and dread . What is Potter talking about? Why did he say eight ?

“Yeah, Dumbledore theorised you wanted seven horcruxes, right, plus yourself--”

Lie lie lie .

Eight pieces, Harry said, unstable .

“ Tom --” Pity tastes cloying on Tom’s tongue, “Tom--”

“Don’t call me that --” he grabs the boy, fingers curling cruelly into the meat of Harry's shoulder,
shoving him back against the lip of the table, "You're lying."

Harry flails, the keyboard clattering to the floor, "I'm not, Tom, don't-- "

His other hand closes around Harry's throat. He can feel the hum of the other's vocal cords and
Harry stops talking as soon as he presses against the flesh there, well aware that if he's going to get
any words out before Tom chokes them to death he'll have to be quick, "Don't you dare try to
control me," Tom snaps, "I am not one of your pathetic little Gryffindor friends, following you to
their death." And oh, that strikes a chord because Potter hurts at those words.
“I’m not, Tom, just let me go. You’re attracting attention--”

“Eight pieces,” Tom repeats, slowly, “You said eight pieces; what the bleeding hell do you mean
eight pieces--?”

“Everyone’s looking,” Harry chokes out again. His green eyes are wide. Don’t you know ? They
ask him, haven’t you guessed ?

“Eight,” he repeats, and he lets go of Harry’s throat to trace the lightning bolt that should be there
on Harry’s forehead and the boy freezes , ice in his veins and revulsion and horror. Like a fox in
the jaws of the hound, like the bear in the trap Harry quivers, warm to touch and pulse racing.

“ Let go of me ,” Harry enjoys being unpredictable, there’s barely a tensing of emotions than the
words are spat out and Tom’s hand uncoils, that horrible awful contentedness to just obey whatever
he says. Furious, he takes Harry’s own temper, curls in the boy’s anger, humiliation , fear and
shock and throws it back in a ball at Harry. The emotional whiplash catches the boy by surprise
and he stumbles a little. Serves him right, Tom thinks, the boy feels too much anyway.

Emotions are a great weapon. Tom has realised this, learned this in a way he had never understood
before but now--

He’s aware of eyes on them; Harry was right, he’s drawn too much attention. He tears at the
emotional wounds in the boy, the hurt and betrayal , “And to think,” he mocks, “After everything,
Dumbledore still sent you out to die at the right time. Like a sacrificial lamb. His own personal
martyr - Merlin, no wonder you’re pissed at him, he strung you up as a human sacrifice.”

Despite the emotions warring in the boy he still manages to find the resolve to glare avada kedavra
green eyes at him, “You’re the idiot who fell for it,” he snarls, and resolve unfortunately is not an
emotion as much as pure stubborn willpower Tom cannot affect. “You destroyed yourself, Tom,
how does that feel?”

His blood burns , he wants to pin Harry down and cut him open. He wants to pick the boy’s bones
clear of secrets, he wants to follow through on the seemingly eternal plan of killing him--

“Excuse me,” a staff member brave enough to get between them steps forwards, “I’m going to have
to ask you to leave. I’ve called security--”

Lie. Tom’s a walking lie detector; legilimency tuned to the emotions instead of the thoughts, but
they still betray. The fear and disgust and “You could just say you called the Department of Mutant
Affairs,” he sneers.

The woman flinches . Harry opens his mouth, as if to talk her out of it but stops at seeing the
number of people looking at them. He looks at Tom, as if half-expecting Tom to offer him a hand
to his feet but Tom’s lip curls and he turns away. Potter is nothing to him. Less than the dirt
beneath his shoe. He has no use for the boy.

He’s nothing . Tom would kill him if there were no witnesses, the boy after all isn’t even a horcrux
in this reality.

Not that that had stopped him killing the boy before. Memories tumble over each other in his head
but he remembers the boy dying. He killed the boy.

Didn’t he?

“Just stay here, someone is coming to deal with this,” the woman is trying to keep them there.
“Get out of my way,” and Tom doesn’t have Harry’s powers, but the wave of fear he twists through
the woman’s psyche in front of him has her throwing herself out of the way. He’s aware of Harry
scrabbling to his feet but doesn’t stop, anger fuelling his walk.

Outside it’s started to drizzle and in true British fashion nobody even notices. Someone wipes at
their phone screen as they pass by. Tom twists and starts up the street before any government show
up. He is not fleeing - Tom Riddle does not run. He evades, he survives and he lives . His horcruxes
were necessary. They were something he had been hurtling towards since he first learned about
magic.

But to have gone so far as to not notice the creation of another one --

“Tom?” he’s aware of the whirlwind of emotions, stabilizing now Tom’s no longer influencing
him. Harry stops just behind him on the stairs.

“Don’t call me that, Potter, how many times--”

“But you’re not Voldemort ,” Potter’s a confused mess of something bright and sweet clashing with
that temper of his. “And it’s not that bad a name, not really. You’re more Tom than I’ve ever met
before. Besides,” his laugh is tinged bitter and full of self-disgust, “I had a part of you inside me
for years, Tom , I will call you what I like. But you’re not Voldemort. Not anymore, there’s no use
deceiving yourself”

“And yet,” his tone is thin ice cracking, “I still shot Umbridge in the head. You’re not a horcrux
anymore, sweetheart,” he drawls, “Nothing to get in the way of killing you now.” He contemplates
it; there’s a stolen gun in his bag with a box of bullets; he could do it easily , mundanes really have
perfected the fine art of killing--

There is the sound of sirens wailing. Police. “Guess it can wait until later,” Tom says, spinning
around, leaving Harry there on the stairs.

“What- Tom --”

“Good luck,” he shrugs, “You’re on your own.”

The emotional tornado that is Harry doesn’t follow him and Tom doesn’t turn to look.

He doesn’t need Harry Potter.

He watches Tom walk away. He knows , Harry thinks, Tom knows Harry is a horcrux. Was a
horcrux. Tenses blur in his head.

He’d reacted both exactly how Harry had expected and not at all. He’d been disbelieving, angry
and yet cruel and oddly possessive. And now he was gone, storming off with violence lining every
muscle of his body longing. Like a storm on the horizon, the air heavy with thunder unstruck Harry
had feared the older boy would lash out.

He hadn’t . Still, fleeing, running and ditching Harry--

His resolve settles; Riddle can do what he wants. Harry doesn’t need him, Harry doesn’t need
anyone. The siren wails and Harry jolts into movement, slipping down the stairs and starting off
down the street. A few pedestrians give him funny look but for the large part people don’t care.
His pace is quick, trying to look unhurried as he moves away from the library.
He doesn’t need another encounter with the DMA. Not now. Not alone.

Not that he needs Riddle.

He twists around a corner, shoulders slumping. Shit . What does he do now?

He has zero contacts with any potential allies. He doesn’t even know if he went to somewhere like
Grimmauld Place whether it would even be there, let alone be the Black ancestral home in this
universe too. Diagon Alley doesn’t exist. Hogwarts doesn’t.

What does?

His parents ran in this world, trying to keep him hidden and separate from the world. They
succeeded - Harry lives, and his separation is absolute. For just a moment he hates them for that,
but he feels the imprint of a cold stone in his hand and he can’t hate them. They gave their lives for
him, in every life.

He’ll find Sirius, he resolves. Grimmauld Place should be easy enough to track down, and if that
doesn’t work he’ll spread out from there. He’s pretty sure that while he doesn’t remember
Hermione’s address, there can’t be that many dental practices run by a couple named ‘Granger’.

A flash of movement in his periphery. He twists, heart stuttering. Maybe it’s instinct, honed by
years of paranoia and survival, he’s not sure.

Something’s wrong.

He spins around, pace faster, more urgent and almost walks straight into a heavy set body that’s
appeared there. “Well lookit what we have here,” someone sneers, just as something crashes into
him, sending black clouding his vision.

He really does have the worst luck, he realises.

Harry blinks awake with a throbbing headache. His hands are pulled uncomfortably behind him
and something hard digs into the soft skin of his wrists and pulls his shoulders back awkwardly.
He’s on a soft, carpeted floor that smells of mould.

Voices are talking urgently but quietly over his head. “She won’t be happy, this isn’t who we were
meant to bring back--”

“Relax, kid, the boy will be perfect --”

“She wanted you to track down your boss, not some teenager .” There’s something familiar about
the voice in it’s abstractedess. Harry blinks. There’s hazy light spilling from some old curtains. A
‘For Sale’ sign is propped up in the window, the text all backwards to Harry’s gaze. “Oh look,” the
voice says, brightly, “Boy’s awake. Hi there.”

Harry’s head throbs as someone grabs him, tugging him up and propping him up against the wall
like a doll. He squints at the man crouched in front of him. “Is he like you?” the man asks the other
person in the room, tongue darting out to lick his lips, “Does he have extra memories?”

The second figure moves into place. Dark hair, cragged features. Harry sees the posters, corners
peeling, faces crazed and flinches back. “Yeah,” Rodolphus Lestrange laughs, “Yeah, he
remembers, don’t you Potter?”
The man in front of him pushes back Harry’s fringe, tilting Harry’s head back, “You said he had a
scar. There ain’t no scar, just some pretty green eyes--”

Lestrange shrugs, “World’s different. Shift back, let him see you.”

The man in front of him grins as his face just-- melts . Harry thinks it’s the head injury for a
moment, before he realises that no, the man’s face is shimmering in a distorted mockery of
Polyjuice Potion. His hair pales to straw blonde and eyes fade to grey. His face is unfamiliar,
despite how well Harry had known the man. He’d known the facade. Barty Crouch had always
been more of a concept, a Death Eater hidden under a mask.

Harry feels the breath leave him in a rush, recognition frosting over him with cold cruel tongues of
ice. “ You . But you--- you don’t--”

“No, I don’t remember,” Crouch shrugs, guessing what he’s going to say. Harry tries to pull away,
but can’t with the wall at his back. “Doesn’t matter,” Barty shrugs, “From the sounds of it I had a
shit life there and shit life here. Daddy’s got high expectations, I do everything I can but it’s never
enough to impress him and he still calls the fucking cops on me.”

“Calm down, Bart,” Rodolphus chides, “We got you out of jail, didn’t we, even though you didn’t
remember. Stop whinging.”

Crouch straightens, taking a step back to assess him. Harry can feel the scrutinizing gaze like ice,
his breath stutters, he tries to manoeuvre, to get his feet beneath him. His hands are useless, bound,
but he can still run, can still use his words -- “He’s not much, is he?” Crouch sniffs, dismissively.
“Rodolphus has a gift for tracking down anyone he puts his mind to. He was looking for his boss
who apparently is going to be all for mutant superiority if we manage to find him. Sounds like
some leader, huh, this Voldemort?”

Even without his memories, the idea has sparked something in Barty’s gaze. He looks thrilled .
Harry feels sick, because they’d been so close . It’s possible they even saw Tom, didn’t recognise
him… Recognised Harry instead and Harry like an idiot just let himself get knocked out--

There is the taste of bitter almonds on his tongue. He reaches for his power, even through the
pulsing headache. “ Let --”

The door to the dingy terrace house slams open. “That would be the others now,” Rodolphus grins,
yellow and leering.

“Barty, let me go ,” Harry snarls out, and the shapeshifter actually listens, has Harry on his feet and
is reaching for the zip ties when something barrels into him. Too late, Harry thinks, he was too
fucking slow, too late --

“What is it?” a woman demands, “What did you find?”

“Not Potter?” the force that hit him and had thrown Barty to a heap on the floor holds Harry by the
scruff of his neck, shoving him forwards. He stumbles, knees heavy and barely managing to stay
standing. “No, it is, I recognise that smell . Rodolphus you’re slipping , this isn’t the Dark Lord.”

“No,” say the fourth person, the woman, stepping forwards and into Harry’s view. Horror claws at
his heart. “It’s better . Rodolphus found us Harry Potter.” Bellatrix Lestrange smiles. It is not a nice
smile; it is one that promises pain, blood and a slow death. Her eyes glint with silver mercury
madness. “Hello ickle Potter, did you miss us?”
 situation genocide
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Rodolphus was always good at tracking people down. Managed to find us the Longbottoms a
lifetime ago. Now it’s his mutation. So when we started to remember about - oh, a few weeks ago -
we decided to hunt down our Lord and continue his work in this brave new world. And what does
he find… but you. So tell us, Potter - where is our Lord?”

“Dead,” Harry sneers. True, from one perspective.

Voldemort is gone.

Bellatrix whirls around, “Don’t lie!” she screams, “Rodolphus pinned him down to this region, he’s
here! He lives!”

“ Calm down ,” Harry manages to get out, wonders how much power he’d have to pack into the
word ‘sleep’ to drop them all at once when a cuff across the head stills all thoughts of that.
Bellatrix blinks at him, calm in the moment before realisation hits.

“Gag him,” Rodolphus snaps, “He did the same thing to Barty, some trick with his words--”

“Stop --” Harry really needs to get better at targeting multiple people at once. His syllables of
puppeteering are cut off when the man holding him shoves a cloth into his mouth and tugs it tight.
His head is twisted up and he finally gets a glimpse of the final member of the quartet - Fenrir
Greyback leers as he ties the gag. The material cuts cruelly into the corners of his mouth, cloth
choking his tongue to silence.

“Cute trick, baby Potter,” Greyback sneers. His teeth are fangs and his features are twisted as if
caught half shifted to a wolf. He is the first Harry has encountered whose mutation is not secret and
hidden away. “You might live longer if you keep that tongue in check.”

“You dare?” Bellatrix has composed herself, thrown off Harry’s compulsion, “You dare ? Ickle
baby Potter thinks he can use his mutation on us?” She throws off her husbands reassuring hand,
stalking towards Harry. Greyback sensibly moves out of her way, and without the wolf mutant
keeping him standing gravity tugs him down to his knees. Thin fingers dig into Harry’s shoulder,
trace his cheek and nails scrape harshly against skin, “No pretty scar now, is there?” Bellatrix
croons, “I’m sure when Rodolphus does his fucking job and tracks down our Lord he can give you
another one. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Harry gags at the cloth in his mouth, can form sounds but no words, his power sits uselessly along
the tense arch of his back. The blood in his veins turns lemon-sour at the realisation that he’s not
getting out of this one. Dark strands of her hair brush over his cheek as she leans over him, clasping
him in an almost kind embrace. Nails run cruelly along the skin of his shoulder, blood chasing after
the pin point pressure.

“Nu uh,” the woman croons in his ears, “No more of that little trick of yours. You remember, don’t
you Potter?”

Harry tries to slam his head into her, but she grips his chin bruisingly tight.

“Oh yes, definitely remembers. How precious .”

Horror creeps in and makes a home, like woodworm rotting the floor beneath his feet. Because if
his theory is right; if everyone from the Battle of Hogwarts regain their memories…

Then it’s not just his friends. It’s his enemies too. He should have known that. Voldemort
remembered, after all.

“What are we going to do with him?” Crouch asks, pacing around Rodolphus and Greyback, “Kill
him? Turn him in to the Mutant Affairs Office?”

“Nah,” Fenrir growls out, “Where’s the fun in that? Gonna keep ourselves a little manipulator pet.”

Crouch arches one eyebrow, clearly skeptical about their ability to make Harry do anything for
them. Lestrange scoffs, “We’re gonna keep him and give him to the Dark Lord,” he announces,
like it’s a grand plan, “When we find him, we’ll present Potter and reform the Death Eaters. We’ll
wage a war against the mundanes and reign victorious.”

Harry--

Harry wants to laugh . He manages to choke it down - it comes out muffled anyway and Bellatrix
just looks gleeful, “Don’t like the sound of that, do you? Are you scared of the Dark Lord, Potter?
He killed you once, he can kill you again just as easily, especially when you’re wrapped up so
pretty for him.”

Harry’s ears ring, tinnitus like peeling bells. Voldemort… Voldemort is dead, he thinks, the best
they’ll find is Tom. Tom with just over half his soul stuck together like a bad jigsaw puzzle where
you can see the overall picture, but there are so many pieces missing. Tom who the Death Eaters
only just missed, probably wouldn’t have recognised either. Tom who almost certainly will kill
Harry when he next sees him, if only because Harry had been his horcrux once and that? That is
unacceptable.

Tom will kill him. Of that he has no doubt. Tom will kill him and march off with his wide-eyed
followers to situation genocide.

He makes a muffled noise of complaint, but his words don’t form around the gag. Not to anything
comprehensible, usable, and he tries to kick Bellatrix off him, only for a shove to send him
sprawling on the ground. “Oh dear,” Bellatrix clicks his tongue at him, index finger cocked
disapprovingly at him. “What’s the matter? Can’t control anyone? I can’t believe you of all people
got the Imperius Curse. I wonder what our Lord got? The Killing Curse? Maybe he completes our
little triad, wouldn’t that be poetic?”

Harry is half-way to righting himself from where he is sprawled on the dusty floor of the
apartment, torn between wondering what on earth the Death Eaters would thinking finding out that
their precious Lord got emotional empathy when her words hit fully.

“There it is,” Bellatrix’s smile grows wide, “Yeah, see; you get the Imperius Curse and I? I get the
other one.” She laughs and it breaks off into a cackle as Harry realises what she means, the same
time the pain hits.

It is a hundred needles in every muscle, tendon and bone. It is acid being injected directly into his
blood. It is fire eating him alive with clawing iron brand fingers reaching into his chest and
scraping out pieces of his heart. It hurts . There is no other word for it; Harry had forgotten how
much it hurts. The Cruciatus is pain; eternal, everlasting until all you know is the hurt . It came
before you, it will come after, it will be buried in your bones until after you are dead and rotted.
It builds and builds until there is no other way to cope, to last through it than to let it out.

Harry screams .

It’s easier to think without Harry’s emotions racketing around in his head. Tom can block out the
rest of the world that presses in on him but Harry manages to slide around shields and weave his
way in. Some distance between them and Tom’s own emotions flatline back to their base; anger,
ambition, hatred and obsession.

It should be easier then, to sort out his priorities.

So why can he not decide what he needs to do next? Why is it not obvious?

This is Tom Marvolo Riddle with most of his soul; sane and youthful and he’s the same age as
Harry because of the piece of his soul that had been in Harry .

Hell is empty, Tom thinks, because all the devils are here.

He can’t believe he hadn’t worked it out because the moment he had stopped to think about it;
there had been only one conclusion. And of course Potter wouldn’t tell him, would probably have
sooner bitten his own tongue off than revealed the bare raw bloody truth.

He’d turned Harry into a horcrux .

Unintentionally, more of a proto-pseudo horcrux than an actual one, but the boy had housed a piece
of his soul nonetheless. Tom had fucked up his soul so badly that the pieces had just flaked off
without him even realising it.

And Tom had killed him, regardless.

Oh he’d been so predictable , so foolish , Dumbledore had played him like a fucking pawn .

It burns .

Now here he is; a lifetime away from those mistakes but they still haunt his heels like the wild
hunt, forever chasing him. They dig their claws in deep and maybe they were right, Tom thinks
with horror, maybe Voldemort had been a monster . To go so far as to lose pieces of himself
without even realising it… Maybe this second life is a blessing in disguise. He’s alive, breathing
and he’s whole .

Well… as whole as he can get considering the mangled mess he’d made of his soul. He remembers
nothing of the diadem. Not how he made it, where he found it; nothing. Most of his memories are
from when he was younger, when his soul was more stable but occasionally pieces from near the
Battle flash through his mind.

But that doesn’t, he think, explain the image of a fat man calling him ‘Freak’.

It’s Potter’s memory. Except… no…

It’s undeniable his memory. It’s from Potter’s perspective but it belongs to him and in his head he
hears Dumbledore ask him ‘ from whose perspective did you see this’ and Potter answers ‘ I was
the snake’ and he has never heard Dumbledore say that in his life and yet--

Horror. Rage . Anger is an emotion of his own that Tom is intimately familiar with.
It’s impossible and yet it’s the answer he should have realised. The boy had even spoken
parseltongue , how had he not seen it? How had he been so far gone so as not to see his own
reflection in those green eyes?

It’s not there anymore. The boy is unscarred, Tom’s soul is intact, albeit cracked and missing bits.
But almost as if he can feel the remnants of where his soul had once lived, he is drawn to the boy.

No, Harry is important. He had realised this subconsciously already, and now he understands the
reasoning he is loathe to let him slip through his fingers.

There might be no soul link between them anymore, but there is something .

He pauses, in the middle of London. Around him the emotions of the busy city brush against him.
They could be overwhelming and there is a kind of hyperstimulation that comes with sensing so
many after a year of blank indifference. Tom’s used to brushing them aside, and he cares nothing
for them - they are not people he knows.

He expands his range, trying to seek in on Harry’s emotions. There’s a certain… flavour isn’t the
right word but for lack of language to describe Tom’s extra sense it will do. Harry’s emotions are
unique and Tom would be able to know them anywhere. He expands his range further; a headache
is budding behind his skull now. Bone can barely contain the pressure building and it’s with relief
he picks up the vibrancy that is Harry.

The boy is impossible to miss. He’s just so… so vibrant . The swirling whirlwind had been thick
and heady and Tom’s own fury had not helped - he’d had to get out of there, away from Potter and
his damn emotions. Tom hadn’t known it was possible to feel so damn much . The last thing he
wanted was Potter’s judgement clouding him from all sides.

Now he misses it, that colourful edge to his feelings sparking at everything like a dancing flame.
It’s warm at the edge of his consciousness as he picks up Harry, probably blocks away yet still able
to pin the boy down. It’s soothing, even muted as it is at this distance. Familiar, somehow, like a
half-forgotten dream. Like something he is used to being there; mind pressed against his own that
to not have it there leaves a noticeable gap.

He closes his eyes, contemplating his next move. He could go get the boy, as irritating as he is and
as many secrets as Potter seems to hold the boy is useful. Harry is important and Tom refuses to
believe it’s just because of the soul connection they had once had. The warm buffer of Harry’s
thoughts dims a bit and he opens his eyes, realising that he’s stopped walking.

Something’s wrong, he realises, even as Harry’s emotions twist to horror, fear and that particular
brand of righteous anger that is so unique to Harry. Tom stiffens, even as there is a definite spike of
pain .

Harry’s pain-hate- loathing -terror hit him like a punch in the gut and he’s moving before he even
realises it.

He needs to get to Harry.

Harry screams. And screams and screams and--

The hurt is gone so suddenly he gasps at the loss of it. It feels like he had been born from the pain,
that it was all he knows and the world comes back to him in bits and pieces. He's on the ground,
sweaty and dishevelled and his throat is raw.
Bellatrix leans over him, tone a croon as she reaches out, trailing one fingernail down Harry's
jawline. "That's right," she simpers, "You get the Imperius, I get the Cruciatus." Harry shudders
involuntary, nerve endings still on fire and her nail curls cruelly, digging into flesh and tearing
through the skin sharply enough to draw blood.

He tries to flinch away, curl in on himself. He’s one open raw and exposed nerve still burning and
an involuntary tremor runs through him. The carpet is damp, dew on the grass of a graveyard,
mould of a rotting house as Bellatrix peers down at him.

“Not so brave now, are you?” Fenrir says with a fanged grin.

“Don’t damage the goods,” Rodolphus says, “He belongs to the Dark Lord.”

Bellatrix doesn’t appear to listen, “Hmmm,” she ponders, “He would, if you had managed to track
him down .”

“I told you, I got close. I must have, but Potter was the only one there. I’ll try again, just find me an
up to date map; I’ll stand a better chance--”

There’s a slamming of the door, all four Death Eaters whirl around. Harry twists slightly on the
floor, muscles sore. A dark shadow has appeared in the door to the hallway, brushing rainwater off
their shoulders, “Ah,” the new arrival says, smooth voice scathing as he eyes up the room, London
twang under British English, “I see. Did you all forget about me so soon?”

The voice is achingly familiar and Harry forces stiff muscles to move, tries to push away the
aftereffects of the pseudo-Cruciatus.

“Who’re you?” Fenrir says gruffly, voice nearly a snarl and eyes flashing animalistic yellow. His
nails are lengthening into claws and he takes a threatening step forwards only to drop with an
almost-yelp as the new arrival turns his gaze to him.

“You don’t recognise me, Fenrir? I admit, I look amazing since you last saw me. I didn’t think the
mundanes would appreciate my old appearance--”

On the ground Harry's breathing picks up in panic, because this is it, he's dead. He's going to die
soon, now and although he can't form the words he can form the thoughts, and he reaches for his
oil slick power to try and slide it mentally through the air and drape it across those nearest--

Bellatrix’ breathing hitches and she stares at Tom Riddle’s face as if seeking out remnants of
Voldemort. Whatever she’s looking for she must find because she hits the ground so hard Harry
hears the crack her knees make when they hit the carpet, “My lord,” she breathes in wonder, “You-
-”

“I’ve been… reborn, I guess you could say,” Tom’s smirk tilts up lopsided, hair curling into his
eye only to be tossed back in a familiar, irritated gesture, “Haven’t we all, Bella?”

“My lord?” Rodolphus stares.

“This is him?” Barty asks, very out of the loop, “This is Voldemort?”

Harry can’t feel whatever emotion Riddle chucks at them but Rodolphus whimpers and joins his
wife on the floor. Fenrir quails back and Barty shudders, eyes widening with excitement.

There’s a moment he can feel strange emotions that aren’t his own. They’re foreign, not even
making a pretense of slipping into his thoughts, like someone walking past him and knocking
against his shoulder. A flash of reassurance, of violent glee and then anticipation and it’s gone.
Harry shudders, managing to heft himself into a sitting position. His hands are still zip-tied behind
him, the hard plastic beginning to rub his skin raw. The gag is wet with saliva and he swallows
nervously.

“We found you,” Bellatrix has practically prostrated herself on the floor, “My lord… as soon as we
remembered our mission we sought you out. Rodolphus tracked you to London, and then we found
Potter. We--”

“You what --” Riddle’s gaze is dismissive as he glances over them, face cruel. A shadow of
Voldemort flickers beneath his face, “Did you think you had any right to touch what is mine?”
Bellatrix quivers, but it looks like it’s more from excitement than fear. Tom clicks his tongue,
“You have indeed found me Harry Potter,” the dry amusement probably gets missed by the Death
Eaters, “He does look so pretty tied up, doesn’t he?”

Betrayal curls in Harry's stomach. The anger is hot slick and gasoline lit on fire and-- Harry glares
at Tom but saves away his insults for later. He focuses on reaching out with his power. It’s a heat
against his spine, a taste in the back of his throat and in his head. He can’t speak, he can’t use
words, but maybe it’s like silent casting, he thinks.

Maybe if he thinks hard enough he doesn’t need his words.

“We heard Dumbledore was around,” Rodolphus says, eagerly, “But like usual the old man is
useless--”

“Mutant rights?” Barty interrupts, “That’s what the guys say you’re advocating. Magical rights
except whatever world you fuckers remember doesn’t exist so… mutant superiority? Because we
are better. The mundanes are the lesser species, it’s evolution, baby.”

If Tom is at all insulted or bemused by a Barty Crouch Jr who doesn’t remember being a once
devoted follower of his he doesn’t show it, “That’s right,” he says, quietly, “The mundanes who
fear us, lock us up and experiment on us, who try to cure us…”

“Are you sure you’re Voldemort?” Fenrir growls suddenly, “You look like a school boy …” the
wolf man has stood, claws curling threateningly.

“Don’t say his name ,” Bellatrix hisses, but doubt crosses Rodolphus’ face. Whatever emotions
Tom’s inflicting upon them he’s got the same problem Harry does.

He can’t maintain it on more than one person. Not for long.

Tom shrugs it off, "An unintentional side effect from the battle, but do not doubt me, I am all the
stronger for it."

“Prove it,” Fenrir challenges, the wolf in his genes refusing to bow it’s head. “Kill the boy.”

Harry ignores the words, their meaning, the realisation that he’s running out of time sparks
desperation as he tries to impose his will mentally onto Crouch, he’s compelled the guy once, he
searches out that familiar feeling to try and do so again--

“You filthy mongrel --”

“He’s kinda right,” Tom interrupts Bellatrix who has half-launched herself at Greyback, only to be
caught by her husband, “I should get rid of Potter, right, but see the thing is I’ve kind of grown
fond of the boy. He’s useful. I want him alive, and preferably healthy."
The Death Eaters stare at him. Barty shrugs, “Sure,” he says, not seeing the problem, “We keep the
boy, he’s nice to look at I guess---”

“NO!” Bellatrix shrieks, “He has to die, my lord, please, let me! The Potter boy is a nuisance, an
irritation… you want him dead, remember?”

“Are you questioning me, Bella?” Tom’s voice is a knife’s edge. A straight razor unfolded against
a throat, blood droplet sitting on the stainless steel.

The woman’s expression wavers. Dark curls frame her bewilderment, her passion and devotion
once so focused on the man that to be confronted by the boy she hesitates.

“I have an arrangement,” Tom tells the room at large, “And quite frankly Harry Potter’s
cooperation and alliance is far more useful and appealing to me than the whole of you lot
combined.”

Several things happen at once.

Fenrir Greyback steps forwards, a vicious “I knew it ,” on his tongue.

Bellatrix lets out a loud “No ,” that takes pointers from Walburga Black’s screeching.

Harry finally manages to slide his gasoline slick power over Barty, attack him coursing through his
brain.

And Barty moves .

Tom feels Harry’s triumph. That’s his signal, his clue, the moment he knows to go for the gun he’s
stolen from Umbridge and draw it. Rodolphus startles, moving to intervene and Tom curbs him
cruelly with a twist of emotions. It’s fleeting, he’s struggling to keep more than one person under
his influence, he’s out of practice .

Tom wants to curl his lip at the weakness.

Whatever Harry’s coercing Barty into doing it must work given by the glee in Harry’s thoughts as
Barty lunges for Greyback with a knife. The wolf man twists with a snarl, features becoming even
more wolf-like as he does. The knife makes a horrible sound as it hits flesh and with a furious snarl
Fenrir tears it out tossing it to one side carelessly.

Tom turns his attention back to Bella, gun unwavering, “You can do this the easy way, Bella,” he
says, slowly, “And kneel ,” he manipulates the emotions, amplifying the fear, the devotion and
Bellatrix trembles. “Or we can do this the even easier way and I can make you . Come on. Make
my day.”

“You’re not my lord,” Bellatrix looks distraught, enough for one to almost feel sorry for her were
Tom one for sympathy. As it is his empathy throws it into perspective, the sheer overwhelming
doubt and disappointment and the resolve --

Tom pulls the trigger at the same time her gaze hardens. Too slow, he thinks, and he still takes a hit
of her mutant power, of fire clawing its way free of his bones. The gunshot goes wide, hits
Rodolphus instead. The Death Eater lets out a yelp of pain. Tom stumbles with a gasp, whole body
quivering at the curse. He tastes blood in his mouth. He’s bitten his tongue.
Bellatrix is staring at him with horror, not even glancing sideways at her bleeding husband, too
fixated on him, “You’re not Voldemort,” Bellatrix utters the name like a curse and a salvation,
“The Dark Lord was so much more than whoever you are.”

“You’re right,” Tom spits out blood, “I’m not him. I’m better . I’m more than he ever was; he was
a fragment, a broken shattered cracked shard and I? I’m as whole as I’m ever going to get and that
galls you--”

“Shut UP!” she shrieks, and another flash of pain hits him, and he actually lowers the gun, muscles
shrivelling under his skin as insects burrow through his flesh and lightning buries seeping hands
like needles through his brain--

“Stop . Bellatrix , stop . The rest of you freeze. Don’t move , don’t speak . ”

The power lifts like a breath of cool air on burnt skin. Tom opens eyes he hadn’t realised he closed
to see Harry pulling himself to his feet. The bloodstained knife Greyback had dropped hangs
loosely between his fingers, zip ties cut through and gag on the floor. Harry’s words sit in the air
like a heat haze and he can see Bellatrix straining uselessly against it. Rodolphus gains that hazy
look as if under Imperius and stops trying to stem his bleeding bullet wound while Barty and Fenrir
leap apart. Barty looks a bit worse for wear, clawed up along one side by Greyback’s animal
claws. The wolf man himself is bleeding heavily from where Barty stabbed him.

Tom steps forwards, and it’s with enough purpose that Harry flinches, despite everything. That
horrible omnipresent doom hangs over him again, like he’s still expecting Tom to actually kill him.

Instead Tom just offers his hand which Harry takes, as if half in a daze. He pulls the younger boy
up, fingers brushing over the butterfly flutter at his wrists, bruises already forming in a line from
where the fool boy had struggled against unforgiving plastic. Harry almost falls into Tom, breath
stuttering and emotions sinking back into that familiar whirlwind. Wonder, confusion, wariness,
disgust, relief--

“Are you okay?” Tom asks.

“Yes,” Harry’s words are coarse and rough, but strong.

“So stubborn,” Tom muses, brushing away the hair strands that had once hid a lightning scar,
“Precious little horcrux.” He pulls away, leaving Harry to his confusion-indignation-anger because
he knows, just for an instance, that there had been a mistuned note of satisfaction.

He turns to where his former Knights kneels.

“Now,” he hums, “What are we going to do with you?”

The knife hangs loosely from Harry’s fingers. His ungainly struggle to grab it, to cut himself free
with both hands tied behind his back and then rip out the gag in time to slide venomous words over
the Death Eaters.

He still half expects death at Tom’s hands, but it doesn’t come. Tom pulls him to his feet and
Harry almost falls into him, the old boy warm, solid, heart-beating next to him. Tom’s staring at
him, but it’s not with murder in his eyes. It’s something different, still as sharp and metal-cold but
as if Harry is something precious or beloved.

Harry shoves Tom off him. “Don’t kill them,” he says, “Barty doesn’t even remember--”
Tom shrugs carelessly, “True,” he hums, gaze flickering over the four of them, “But do you really
want to leave Bellatrix to do her own thing? Besides, Lestrange looks like he’s dying anyway.
Greyback doesn’t look much better.”

The cruel woman is staring at Tom with horror and betrayal on her face. “You’re not--” she
manages to choke through Harry’s power, spread thin over four people. “ My lord .” Her gaze
flashes to Harry, full of fury and indignation.

“They didn’t remember until about a month ago,” Harry says, quietly, “And I don’t think it’s full.
Flashes. That stupid knowing that everything is wrong…”

Tom hums, “That makes sense. I mean - if Bellatrix Lestrange remembered everything the moment
she hit her teens then I have no doubt there would be a lot more people dead.”

Harry looks back to where the Death Eaters are and can’t help but agree. “It’s righting the means,”
he says, something he’d heard Hermione say once.

“Please ,” Bellatrix forces out.

“Shut up,” Tom snaps, eyeing her as one would a stranger. Harry wonders what Riddle actually
knows about, how much he actually remembers. He reaches for the gun but that would be messy,
bloody, cruel and too easy.

“I know what to do with her,” Harry finds himself speaking up. He doesn’t know what he’s going
to say until he does, but it slips out like it’s the most natural thing ever. Like it’s years in the
making, ever since he learned what happened to Neville’s parents. After Sirius. After the Battle
and Bellatrix throwing around killing curses like candy. He drops into a crouch in front of her, “
Find the highest spot you can ,” he says, “Don’t stop, don’t hesitate, don’t kill anyone on the way,
don’t say anything .” He sees her visible gulp as the words talk hold, sink into her psyche and bury
their roots, “And once you’re there…” he finishes, “I want you to throw yourself off .”

There are more than one ways to trip to your death.

Tom's laugh is exhilarated and thrilled, "You never cease to surprise me.”

Bellatrix Lestrange's body is cold and very definitely dead. Despite the pallor to her corpse and the
way her dark curls lie limp she is somehow more threatening than she was in life, and Hermione is
half convinced she will leap off the table at them.

“How did she die?” Lupin asks, stiffly.

"She threw herself off a building," the coroner tells them, "Suicide. They found her husband shot
up in a house half a mile away, looks like she shot him and then found the highest point around.
Should those kids really be in here?"

Lupin hustles Ron and Hermione out before more questions can be asked. Outside Molly and
Kingsley stand, faces grim, “It’s definitely Bellatrix,” Lupin says, “Sirius has gone to chase any
evidence and links they made at the station…”

“No Potter?” Kingsley asks, ponderingly, “No Voldemort? Just her?”

Ron’s face is twisted into disgust, “Just her. And her husband who she shot. She threw herself off
the building, apparently, fourteen floors and smack,” he claps his hands together and Hermione
 flinches.

“Ronald!” Molly scolds.

“I’m not actually fifteen, Mum!” Ron whines, even as she shoos Ron and Hermione towards the
shops she’d left Ginny and Luna at, refusing to let the younger two girls into the morgue. “But
Mum, we want to find Harry too, please--”

“Not now!”

Ron looks about to argue with his mother but he notices the way Hermione is violently shaking.
There are stills times she thinks she is just a normal mundane schoolgirl with an occasional
propensity for setting bullies on fire. The lack of magic has not changed the way she grew up with
her best friend made of paper and ink, a suddenness to hurt and a breach between herself and other
people that she approaches armed with knowledge and words that are never enough to endear
herself to friends.

Fifteen schools in seven years; her parents had kept moving her, trying to keep her safe, and that
was before the memories hit her--

“Hey,” Ron grabs her hand, a warm solid lifeline tying her down, “It’s okay.”

“Is it?” she sucks in a shaky breath, “Harry could be dead. If Voldemort got to him--"

"He's not with Voldemort."

The bushy-haired girl turns to look at Luna, "What?" An edge of hope lines her voice.

Luna looks up, too much knowledge in her eyes, "Harry's not with Voldemort," she says, and
there's complete confidence in her words before she blinks and whatever force possessed her fades,
becomes less intense, more Luna, "Did you know blibbering humdingers don't exist in this
universe, but nargles do?"

Hermione is still a strung out violin string and it's Ron who lays a hand on her shoulder, "Harry
will be fine," he says, "He's gotta know we're looking for him; we'll find him."

Hermione worries at her lip with her too large front teeth. No magic exists to make them smaller,
but she's grown almost fond of them now, "Does he though?" she asks, "You know Harry -
convinced he's got to go it alone. Imagine remembering and you're alone, no idea if anyone else
knows anything and no way to contact anyone. I don't know what I'd have done if McGonagall
hadn't found me. I still can't believe things changed enough that Dumbledore couldn't track down
the Dursley's..."

"You're really worrying about Harry Potter?" Ginny says from where she'd come over to talk to
Luna, "It's Harry, we'll find him in a month or two deep in the biggest spot of trouble in the country
and he'll be doing just fine, you know him. Have more faith."

Hermione does have faith, that's the problem. She has faith that Harry will find the biggest problem
around and make it his, and she just knows he's doing that, probably right now.

Chapter End Notes

[Harry’s powers are terrifying and overpowered and one day the boy is going to wake
up and realise that. Tom, less Voldemort and more Riddle, cannot be the boy’s enemy
the day that happens because right now he does not doubt this boy could and would
kill him.]
 swallow the sun
Chapter Notes

Some bits in here are a bit messy because they got written in later once I established
plot, I'll try and fix it up later. Enjoy!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?”

“Bartender thinks I’m eighteen,” Harry says, “My non-existent ID says so.” He takes another
determined drink from the beer. Despite sharing the name it’s nowhere near as nice as butterbeer,
but there’s something satisfying about the slightly bitter taste to it.

“How old are you anyway? Thirteen?”

“I’m fourteen ,” Harry snaps, irritably, twisting to look at Barty Crouch who seems to think his
faux-kidnapping of Harry and loyalty to a man in a life he doesn’t remember gives him the right to
follow them around. He’s shifted - he looks like himself but younger, nineteen and not in his
thirties. His straw blonde hair reflects the few lights in the dim bar, washing out the man’s figure
and making him look almost translucent. “Also I turn fifteen in… what month are we in? June?
Next month, I’m fifteen next month.”

“Someone’s optimistic,” Barty smirks, scooping up a tumbler from the bar. Harry’s pretty sure it’s
not even his drink.

“Besides, I’m mentally thirty-one,” Harry says, somehow feeling the need to justifying his
compulsion on the bartender.

“That,” Tom appears behind him, “That is not how it works , Potter, two childhoods do not equate
to adulthood.” Harry blinks, trying to work out if Tom is calling him a child or just being pedantic
with his words.

“I hope you trip and fall in a sewer,” he retorts, but Tom just looks smug, like Harry’s proven his
point. Harry settles for nursing his beer, taking another sip as if he can drown his problems. As if
he can forget what they did.

Bellatrix is dead. She threw herself off a block of flats, Harry heard they had to scrape pieces of her
off the sidewalk. Bellatrix is dead and it’s a suicide, the news declare. Murder-suicide of mutant
couple. Murder-suicide but Harry knows the truth; it’s just murder and more murder.

Tom pulls a face, probably sensing the guilt, “Bellatrix,” he says, neatly plucking Harry’s beer
from his hands and ignoring Harry’s indignant yelp, “Bellatrix got what she deserved. And
Rodolphus wasn’t you, I’m the one who shot him but he probably deserved it. I’m sure they had
many heinous crimes to their names…” a pause, a tilt of the head, “Didn’t they kill the
Longbottoms?”

“They tortured them to insanity,” Harry corrects, morosely, “But close enough. That doesn’t
explain why he’s stalking us.” He jerks a finger at where Barty is pilfering someone else’s
unattended drink. “It’s not like Greyback stuck around.”

“That,” Tom takes a sip of the beer and wrinkles his face, the taste obviously not what he was
expecting, “That is because the wolf has survival instincts and without Bellatrix has no intention of
bowing to someone who looks sixteen.”

“You are sixteen,” Harry argues.

“More like forty, give or take a few memories--”

“Double childhoods do not count,” Harry snaps, but Tom’s smirking, clearly teasing, clearly-- it’s
disconcerting, Tom Riddle mocking him. Harry glares and tries to snatch the beer back, but Tom
passes it on to Barty. This whole thing is disconcerting, Harry thinks, along with that deep rooted
confusion of why did Tom comes back for him .

“Your angst is giving me a headache,” Tom says, plainly, “Stop it. Barty is here because I asked
him here; his dad’s a mutant who works in the government, he’s acquired some useful contacts.
Both mutant and otherwise.”

“Contact?” he stares, “Contacts for what?”

“You want to continue running around with no name, ID, money, nothing ?”

“I managed fine when I was ten,” Harry retorts.

There’s a blank stare from Tom who doesn’t look impressed, “And yet you still got picked up by
the DMA. No. Barty here knows someone who can get us the documents we need.”

Barty spins around on the stool next to them, “S’long as you and Riddle are prepared to use those
nifty skills of yours I can hook you up with some, on the condition you get me extra. Never know
when fake IDs are needed when you’re a mutant.”

“Come along, Potter. Let’s go get our identities back. Enough with the guilt, already .”

Harry wonders how to begin to explain that he feel guilty, but not because of what they did.

He feels guilty that he feels nothing at all.

Albus Dumbledore sighs and stares at the piles of paper on his desk. It reminds him too vividly of
the files at the mutant rehabilitation centre for his liking, the brown folders with sheafs of paper, of
information in each about the various children under his care. The school he opened is not
Hogwarts, no matter how much they all might dream it to be Hogwarts. It is a sanctuary though, a
haven for those like him.

For mutants.

He closes his mind, memories swirling. He wonders if they were always there, buried in his head
and he just didn’t see them or if something triggered them. If something sparked the match that lit
the fire, illuminated light over the past. He ponders, and not for the first time, why he remembers
while to the majority of those who recall their past life he had been dead almost a full year.

There’s a pattern; he just hasn’t worked it out yet. It will come to him though, of that he has no
doubt. He drops the file collection in a locked drawer, resolving to find some way of encrypting it.
The last thing he wants is for the government to get their hands on it; the damage they could do…
the damage they have already done…

“Sir,” Hermione Granger is saying, sitting across from him with what looks like half the Weasley
clan, “We want permission to go look for Harry. We know he must be out there somewhere, and
we want to look for him. None of us are dowsers of any kind but surely there must be a mutant who
can find people. And if not then we look - the Dursley’s… the…” her voice trails off cold, much
like the trail for her missing friend.

“And what will you do if you find him?” Dumbledore asks, “What if he doesn’t remember? What
if he doesn’t want to come back?”

“That’s bullshit,” the youngest Weasley snaps.

“Ginny!”

“What, Ron, it’s true and you were going to say it too, don’t deny it! Of course Harry remembers -
we all remember! We need to find him! What if he ends up in another facility? What if… what if
he dies , again-- ”

Her voice breaks on the last word, and everybody, even Dumbledore flinches at the harsh truth of
that. Because that is, apparently, one thing that everyone can agree upon.

Harry Potter had died. His sacrificial lamb had walked to the slaughter and the guilt--

It claws its way up his throat and chokes him. Hermione’s eyes are accusing, and the wooded arms
of the chair are smoking slightly under her hands. Ron nudges her, and she pulls her hands away,
looking mortified. Their powers are still young, temperamental and uncontrolled. They still have
those moments when they go for wands, when their mouth forms spells and their minds reach for
magic instead of their new powers. They’ll grow into them though, and he has no doubt they’ll be
ferocious when they do.

“At the moment, Miss Granger, Miss Weasley, I’m afraid we have no leads. Any searches for
Harry will have to be delayed; we have no idea where to start. And with the government’s recent
announcement regarding Sentinel Services, I think it is safest that all mutants avoid London for
now.”

He sees the flinch in Hermione’s eyes. Ginny’s still fire and fury, “We’ll stay! We’ll look! We’re
not afraid of Sentinel, whatever that is--”

“It’s anti-mutant,” Hermione whispers, “It’s a branch of the DMA that… that…” her eyes are wide,
hands shaking, righteous anger gone now. The Weasley boy reaches out to steady her.

“I can’t in good conscience remain with a branch in London,” Dumbledore concludes, “If Harry is
in London, then no doubt he’ll leave too with the announcement. “

“But--” Ginny’s still protesting.

Ron can probably already see his resolve, stands decisively, “Thank you, Professor,” he says,
grabbing Hermione’s hand, “Come on.”

She looks torn but goes, worrying at her bottom lip with too large front teeth. Albus watches them
troop out and he knows they’ll keep trying. Possibly and most likely without permission. He only
hopes they don’t go to Sirius or Remus because the two men will go behind his back to help.
The thing is; everyone wants to help. To find their lost saviour, their lost friend . They won’t give
up, he won’t give up either. Harry had been their heart and spirit during the war; it is only natural
that they seek out their leader now. But so too did Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange seek out Lord
Voldemort. He doesn’t know if they found him before something… or someone sent them both to
early graves.

“You should really all stop worrying, you know.”

He glances up sharply at his still open door, “Oh?” he asks, softly, “Worry about what?”

“Why, Harry, of course.” He eyes up the girl standing in the doorway. She reminds him of Ariana
in that moment, wide blue eyes and forlorn expression, “You won’t find him,” she says, with a
certainty that murders all arguments before they’re born, “Not until it’s time.”

Albus has not determined if Luna Lovegood is a seer with flashes of futures in her head, if she sees
decisional consequences like the youngest Weasley boy or if she sees the truth, whatever that
might be. But there is something unshakable about her. She looks as if a thin wind might blow her
over but her words are the roots of a hundred year old oak tree buried deep. “Is he safe?” he dares
ask, “Is he well?”

“He’s alive,” she says, “Which is more than you managed.” The words cut. They should, and he
lets them. He deserved that, even if they’re said so calmly they’re not even accusing.

“Harry is my greatest triumph,” he says, “And my greatest failure.”

“Oh, no,” Luna blinks, gaze distant, “I think that position is reserved for Tom Riddle. He’s okay
too, in case you were interested. He’s better.”

“Better?”

“He’s with his soulmate,” she says, and whatever reassurance her words have given him, those
shatter them. She still speaks serenely, like a calm ocean tide under the moon she is named for, but
all Dumbledore can see is the cliffs the ship is heading for.

“Miss Lovegood… can you tell me where they are? I need to find them. They’re in danger, Harry
is in danger…”

She blinks, and just like that the spell is broken, the reflected moonlight broken up by ripples,
“Harry? He’ll be fine, you should have more faith in him. He’s stronger than you think.” She
smiles, a quick bright flash of yellow sunflowers as she plays with her cork strung necklace and
spins away, skipping off like she’s actually a teenager.

She is, in some ways, they never had the chance before to grow to adulthood.

They will in this world, Albus swears it. He will not allow harm to befall any of the students, the
mutants he has found and made a home for. He remembers, and even though he remembered years
too late to save Ariana and her violent, unpredictable powers in this world or the last, he will save
the children he can remember.

Harry Potter is apparently not on that list, but then again the boy did always have a tendency to
save himself.

Harry’s powers roll off his tongue and like a puppeteer Barty’s contact nods along. It’s easy . The
boy is magnificent , and Tom can’t stop thinking about the way he had told Bella to throw herself
to her death, had watched her walk away and brush his hands of the whole matter like he is an
innocent in all this, like the golden boy of Gryffindor isn’t tarnishing his own soul with his words.

And even when the inevitable moral crisis does hit… there is still something so vibrant about
Harry’s emotions that there’s something vicarious about the way Tom feels everything trickling
through the younger boy. He looks so small and young , fourteen, Salazar , had this been how old
the boy had been during that Tournament? During the graveyard? He eyes up the young boy
tripping his way after him, none of that reckless anger or furious grace he possesses during
moments of crisis.

There is still a stubborn set to his jaw, like a dog that won’t sit at heel, yet it’s endearing in an
irritating kind of way. Harry is more competent than half of his Knights - Death Eaters - put
together. Why had he spent so long trying to kill this young boy when Harry on his side is so much
more satisfying ?

Harry…

He’s still half expecting the boy to run. To abscond in the night, especially after they pick up
passports and birth certificates and various other identification that will allow them to fake their
way through until they’re legal adults. He’d almost expected a knife in the back but instead the boy
stays. He looks at Tom with those brilliant green eyes that see far too deep, judge far too much,
and his emotions read fear and foreboding like he’s still expecting Tom to turn around and start
murdering and torturing.

The boy thinks he can save Tom.

How adorable.

The boy with murder on his tongue and a body count practically equal to Tom’s own in this world
thinks he can find some spark of good within Tom. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him it doesn’t
exist. Barely has the soul . Tom's an amalgamation of broken soul shards stuck together, but he’s
human in a way that Voldemort never was. Seeing his old followers had shown him how much
things had changed; he was better .

Sharp-tongued, clever-mind and ruthless ambition; Tom will let nothing stand in his way. Not even
Harry Potter, the once-horcrux. He can still feel the echo of the connection, isn’t sure if he’s
imagining it or if Harry, with his hurricane of emotions has somehow managed to become his
emotional tether in this life as well.

He’s not dependent , he tells himself. It’s simple; Harry is his . The other Death Eaters with their
outdated ideas and thoughts for mutant power are a risk. A gamble he is not yet willing to take.
Tom’s self-preservation had always been strong - he’d split his soul to stay alive, after all - as much
as his once-followers might want mutant superiority, Tom looks like a teenager. Nobody will take
him seriously, and right now he doesn’t want to join a battle he will no doubt lose.

No, let he and Harry sit this out for a few years. Let the boy hone his silver tongue and Tom
improve his own control.

The boy will stay. He thinks he can save Tom .

He won’t run off to look for his friends. He can’t run off. He is all parts of Tom’s soul made
human, after all.
*

“Five people,” Tom challenges, “I bet you can’t coerce five people at the same time.”

“Oh come on! You can’t even force emotions on five people and you want me to--” he breaks off,
because Harry is nothing if not competitive.

It’s been two months. Two odd, weird months and yet Harry is still breathing. Tom has yet to
murder him in his sleep yet, which he thinks is a good sign. Two months and they’re no longer the
desperate teenagers practically living on the streets. They’re still teenagers and the far off
memories like a scattered dream don’t make then older.

It’s almost domestic. They’ve got a flat rented above an antique shop that reminds Harry of Borgin
and Burkes except the darkest thing in there is a wardrobe with one hinge broken. He suspects they
ended up there for that reason - Tom’s oddly nostalgic for an ex-dark lord with partial amnesia.

They hang out a lot in the pub Barty frequents - it alternates between being a warm family friendly
place that does a mean pie on Sundays to a dark, dim place where secretive meetings occur in
every dark corner. Harry’s stopped coercing the barman by now - the barman is a mundane
himself, but he’s mutant friendly. The whole bar is usually frequented by more mutants than
mundanes anyway.

"You need more control over your mutation,” Tom shrugs easily, the casual attitude so odd on him,
“We can't have you captured again so easily."

"Maybe I should just practice on you.”

Tom snorts, "No way. Besides, it's easier for you when you're angry. I doubt you'd agree to me
boosting your anger and you've got enough anger at me already, no, we're going to find a nice
innocent victim whose memory you'll wipe at the end."

"I don't like this," Harry says, "I don't like this at all."

"Come on, hero. Don't worry - there's no Ministry to arrest you for use of Unforgivables here."

“Five,” Harry mutters, stubbornly, “I’ll give you five-- ”

“Don’t start a fight again,” Tom warns, tauntingly.

“That was one time .”

Tom watches Harry stalk away across the pub. There’s an almost prideful look in his eyes - he’d
have been a good teacher, Harry thinks, stopping in front of a group of five mundanes.

A minute later he’s back with five drinks on a tray that he’s coerced off the hapless patrons. He
deposits the tray successfully in front of Tom, “Done,” he says, “Your turn.”

He wonders what it would have been like to go to Hogwarts with Tom Riddle. If he'd always had
this streak of easy arrogance or if that's the influence of the older, more soul torn pieces of him. He
pushes the thoughts from his head. This is Voldemort, he reminds himself, this is the murderer of
his parents, this is…

This boy sitting next to him; lanky with dark brown eyes and human features is not the same. Harry
can't keep making denials.
Voldemort would have killed Harry by now. Voldemort would not have come back for him.
Voldemort would not have a tendency of leaving tea bags in the sink with a collection of used
teaspoons until the number reaches ridiculous proportion. Harry’s getting annoyed at never finding
a clean teaspoon.

“Six people,” Harry challenges, “Manipulate six people. I want six patrons confused but so happy
they're crying--”

“Could you practice at somewhere other than me pub?” the barman grumbles good naturedly,
“Tho’ if you must there’s a bunch o’ mundanes being rowdy over by the telly, see what you can
do.”

“Mornin’,” Crouch makes an appearance as he is want to do. He's like a limpet, irritating in his
persistence.

“It's afternoon,” Tom corrects, eyeing up his new prey.

It's odd , seeing Barty dressed so comfortably in muggle clothing. Then again Harry hasn’t seen
him dressed in anything other than Moody’s skin. The shapeshifter looks like himself today, but
last week he’d been prancing around as a woman. Yesterday he had been fifty years older.

“I’ve got a job for you,” he says, “If you’re interested.”

Harry watches him slide over a piece of paper with details along the bar towards Tom who doesn’t
pick it up, just eyes it curiously.

“Couple’a mutants I know need some documents. Thought you could do your thing, secure them
some. Clear a few criminal records while you’re at it… don’t look all pouty, Potter, half their
crimes exist just because they’re mutants, not because of anything they did.” Harry’s still frowning
and Barty gives a put-upon sigh, “ Okay , so a few might actually have a few B&Es and there’s one
guy with a penchant for arson--”

“How much?”

“What?”

“Come on, we’re not doing this for free, Crouch,” Tom grins, “It’s a job, right, what’s the take?”

“Hey,” Harry protests, “Who volunteered me for this?”

“We need to pay rent, Harry, sweetheart, unless you want to keep coercing our landlord. I don’t
mind, but the guilt every time you do so gives me migraines.”

He feels his teeth grinding together because he can’t argue. He knows the necessity of using his
powers only when he has to, knows it eventually flags up and gets him caught. It was what had
happened before, no, they need income. But still… forgeries?

Tom slides over the details, “Your decision, Potter,” he almost sounds like Voldemort, tone bland
and cool as he straightens, “Barty; I expect cash, half upfront. Right now I have six people to bring
to hysterical tears--” he looks way too gleeful at the challenge, reminds Harry a bit of Hermione
sinking her teeth into a particularly thick book. He stalks off; a confident, almost arrogant figure.

Barty whistles, impressed. Harry edges away from him because there are times he forgets who this
man really is, forgets that in another life he was a Death Eater, a murderer, he’d been just as
complicit in torturing Neville’s parents as Bellatrix and yet--
Crouch doesn’t remember. He’s a blank slate.

Is a murderer still guilty if they don’t remember the crime that never happened in this universe?

“He’s impressive,” Crouch says, admiringly, “I can see why the Lestranges were so obsessed; he’s
gonna be terrifying when he’s older.” His look makes Harry shift uncomfortably, and Crouch’s
attention snaps back to him, “Here ya’ go,” he says, pulling out an envelope from an inner coat
pocket; Harry catches a glimpse of crisp £20 notes within, “The half Riddle wants now. The rest
when you get the IDs.”

“I didn’t say I’d do it!” Harry protests, trying to shove the envelope away. Barty ignores his
attempts, and he’s about to throw the envelope at the man’s head when the pub drops into a hushed
silence. Harry pauses at the sudden absence of noise. He twists around to see the door open, two
suited figures standing in the doorway. They have earpiece on and he feels a chill of recognition.
He remembers being eight and doing anything to survive, remembers hearing the stories, running
from suited shadows in alleyways. Remembers the time they finally caught up to him.

More movement at the door and there are more suited figured outside. Harry is moving even
before the barman hisses, “DMA! Scram .”

The pub goes from quiet and peaceful to a riot in a second flat. Chairs scrape and it’s painfully
obvious who the mutants are, who panics and tries to look for a way out and who startled in
genuine bewilderment.

“Nobody move!” a man shouts, “Mutant ID check, don’t try to resist, this is a routine check--”

Harry ducks into the crowd, pausing only to turn to where Barty looks unbothered. The man’s head
is tilted back like he’s considering the need to shift forms but disregards the option, “Do I need ID
too, daddy dear?” he asks, and with a horrible start Harry recognises the man in the doorway.

Framed against the light there’s that half a second heartbeat moment to recognise him, and
confusion wars in him because surely Bartemius Crouch Senior is a mutant too, surely he wouldn’t
try and arrest his son.

But then again Barty isn’t meant to be out of prison. And Harry remembers the man Bartemius
Crouch had been and doesn’t doubt for a second what this version of him will do.

Barty looks like he doesn’t care about his inevitable arrest, although his skin ripples as if in
preparation for a shift. “Bart,” his father looks resigned, signals to his men to circle the room and
Harry forces his head down, trying to seek out Tom. He’s pretty sure he and Tom are still on their
alert database for retrieval and processing. He scans the room to see where Tom has gone, spots
dark hair and moves. Shoves the envelope into a pocket and wonders when his first instinct had
been to help Riddle instead of run. Hermione and Ron would be despairing at his saving-people
thing right about now.

“Bart,” Crouch Senior sounds disappointed. He must be a mutant too, Harry thinks, wonders how
many of the Ministry chase government positions here or are forced to reclusivity by their powers.
Dumbledore had apparently hid his own powers as he rose through society. Harry is curious to
know how many other mutants hide their abilities. He would have, he likes to think, had he not had
such disastrous consequences to power manifestation. “I didn’t think you were meant to be out of
prison,” Crouch Senior is frowning now.

“Good behaviour,” Barty smirks, “Nice to see you too. How’s Mum...oh...wait…”
Crouch eyes up his flesh and blood dispassionately, “They passed Claus 5.4,” he declares,
“Sentinel Services has the right to arrest any mutant deemed a threat to society--”

“Did you get a promotion --”

“Any mutant,” Crouch repeats. Shit , Harry thinks, feeling out of his depth, feeling like he’s
drowning at the sudden hunted feeling that springs in his chest. “Starting in London all mutants
require IDs and evaluations as to their threat level--”

Barty stutters, “We’re not-- but --”

“Any mutant,” Crouch says it like a mantra.

“Father--” there’s that moment of pause, that hope that his father won’t turn him in and Harry can
see the moment it sours, see the realisation and Crouch Jr is halfway through a shift and throwing
himself over the counter before one can blink. Alarmed shouts, Harry ducks around someone with
seeker-agility, almost slamming straight into Tom as a gunshot rings out.

“Blocked the fire exit,” Tom says, knowing it’s Harry with unnerving speed, “Kitchen--”

Someone shoves into them, and Harry stumbles. A suited figure grabs hold of someone, yanking
them forwards and scanning in an ID card--

For a moment he’s torn between sliding in front of the DMA and telling them to leave, to forget, to
wrap cyanide around their minds until they’re gone and he’s safe. He hesitates in the middle, torn
between what to do in the moment, between fear and adrenaline and the desire to do something --

“Come on!” Tom hisses, a teenage boy and Harry feels all of fifteen, too young, too many
memories with too much disconnect--

Sense and rationality wins out, Harry twists towards Tom, “Fire exit,” he says.

“Are you crazy, I said it was blocked --” Tom cuts off with a choking hiss, clutching his head.

“Tom-- Riddle --”

“Identification,” someone barks.

“I-I don’t--”

“Riddle?”

“I’m sorry!” the girl wails.

“Going to arrest me, father?” Crouch leers and Tom--

Tom freezes, gaze far away and not with Harry in that moment. A dark suit appears in Harry’s
periphery and he flinches away.

“Your mother gave everything for you,” Crouch is saying. The last thing Harry wants is to be
involved in the Crouch family drama, “And this is how you repay her? Petty thievery, joining with
gangsters, vandalisation of government buildings, violence in at least three offenses…”

“You two-- you boys, are your parents around--”

Tom is not reacting, eyes hazy, hands curling into claws that sink into Harry’s jacket, entangling in
the fabric and head shaking like a wet dog.

“Is he okay--”

“No, we need to find our parents,” Harry blurts out, grabbing Tom’s wrist forcefully and dragging
the other boy towards the fire exit, away from the mundane. There’s a pause, then a splutter.

“Hang on, stop, STOP!”

Tom’s not speaking, barely reacting, and flinches at something Harry can’t see. A whimper passes
his lips as Harry almost walks into the DMA guard on the door.

“Phillips, stop them--”

“ Get out of my fucking way ,” Harry snarls, and he packs enough of a punch for five people into
the words. The poor mundane never stood a chance, throws himself out of the way ignoring his
colleague's alarmed cry.

Harry and Tom are through the door and falling out into the street. He catches sight of dark black
vans, of more DMA milling around. His heart is racing in his chest because he can’t go back, he
won’t go back--

Tom’s still oddly stiff and tense, still unresponsive, still mentally somewhere else. His breathing is
fast-paced, pupils blown and out of focus. Harry slots his hand around the older teenager’s wrist
and drags Tom forwards, not stopping until they’re away from the pub, away from the DMA, away
from it all.

He makes it back to their crappy flat in one piece, shoving Tom through the door and locking it
behind him. Riddle is shaking; fine tremors wrack his body and Harry deposits him on the sofa
where he sits, still practically catatonic to the world.

It’s only then that Harry realises his own breathing is shaky, his hand unsteady and his legs are
unstable. Emotion stings his eyes, and he tries once more to rouse Tom. He shoves him, violently,
“Snap out of it,” he hisses; it’s almost parseltongue, “Tom! Fucking wake up, just--”

Nothing.

The adrenaline seeps out, leaving him to collapse in a messy heap on the floor.

Harry hadn’t realised how alone he was until Tom suddenly wasn’t there, hadn’t realised how
much he actually relied on the older boy. And Harry had been on his own for so long , to finally
have someone else--

In his pocket the envelope crinkles, neat crisp £20 bills, an address and a list of names. Some are
probably criminals, mundane and mutant, Harry acknowledges, but there are probably those that
aren’t. Those he could help.

They live in a society bordering a militant state. Mutants are criminals in most people’s eyes. Being
a mutant made you dangerous.

His morals and memories war within his brain, but in his chest is the 8-year old boy who
remembers curling up on cold streets, the Dursley’s hate ringing in his ears.

Runaways didn’t last long on the streets. There were times the only reason Harry survived were his
powers and memories, and all they’ve helped him do is throw everything into perspective. This
new world is cruel; Harry knows this, has found out it’s harshness first hand before all the
memories in his head made sense, before he realised that yes, he might not know anyone else other
than his mortal-enemy turned teenage boy but that didn’t matter.

He had the power to do anything at the tip of his tongue. For quite possibly the first time in his life
he had the ability to control what happened to him.

Fine then, Harry thinks, pocketing the address, he’d prove them right.

He’d prove them all right.

‘Mutant is might’ had a better ring than ‘magic is might’ ever did.

Tom wakes with a stiff neck and the calm, reassuring flutterings of emotions, like a falling storm of
flower petals drifting past him.

His head hurts; not unusual, he lives in the middle of London it’s inevitable that the dry emotions
tainting the air bleed over, but the sheer rush and panic in the air--

Tom feels like he’s been on a bender of the DMA’s drug cocktails. Like he’s had too much alcohol
in his system; that awful feeling when you’ve mixed too many ethanol containing drinks for a
horrible result. The remnant of fear, horror, anger and panic all rot on his tongue and he swallows.

His throat is dry.

He blinks his eyes open; it takes him a moment to recognise the ceiling of their small living room,
the light bulb dusty in the shade. He shifts, realising why he’s so uncomfortable - he suspects he’d
fallen asleep sitting up, mind still caught up in the emotions. He is about to stand when he spots
the human-shaped lump.

Harry’s asleep on the floor next to him.

His dark hair is messy, glasses sliding off his nose. He’s leaning back on the sofa, chin tucked
against his chest and knees curled up. His chest rises and falls peacefully. He looks… he looks…

Tom stares at the boy for a moment, enjoying the stream of Harry’s emotions trickling through
him. Potter’s dreaming about something, bittersweet, raw but distant and long-forgotten. It’s
relaxing; the strange dissonance that Potter’s emotions have are the same tinge his own take, like
the boy is part of himself torn away from the whole--

Like a part of himself had once lived within the boy, breathed and functioned and curled up like a
wounded animal next to Harry’s psyche, like there had been a connection there and even now he
can still feel the echos .

He pushes the thoughts from his head. Stupid. Foolish. He stands, not caring that Harry rowses at
his movements. Green eyes widen, fixate on him, “You’re awake?”

Tom ignores him, fiddles with the remote to the dodgy television their flat came with, trying to find
the news channel.

“What the hell happened back there?” Potter scrambles to his feet, green eyes blazing like St
Elmo’s fire, “You were useless , you just shut down on me, have you any idea--?”
“Aw,” he croons, “Were you worried about me?”

There is definitely a note of disconcerted worry, but it’s buried under frustration and the fierce
righteous disgust that is almost the norm for Harry, “No,” Harry sneers, “You’re lucky I was able
to get us out in time. You’re welcome . What was wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” he says, pausing on the news channel. He spots DMA agents, a newscaster standing in
front of a house with a door broken off its hinges. He won’t meet Harry’s gaze, can feel Harry’s
annoyance boil and spill over.

“Don’t lie ,” Harry mocks. It’s hard to tell if he means to put his power into his words, but he does
and Tom feels his mind go hazy and it’s so easy to just answer him.

“I get emotional overload.” Tom’s jaw clicks shut on the words but too late. Harry ducks back,
away from the violence that festers like an old open sore in Tom’s tense body. “Don’t do that,” he
snarls, dropping the remote and rounding on Harry.

“I can’t help it! I get stressed! What do you mean you get ‘emotional overload’?”

He pauses to make sure there is no compulsion in the question, “People feel too damn much,” he
snaps, “I get trapped in the emotions, it’s overwhelming and I dissociate. I’m used to it, usually I
block it, but you had me trying to manipulate six people emotionally when the DMA showed up
and it threw my gravity off-balance.”

Frustration wars with amusement, “So you’re saying it’s my fault,” it twists to fondness and Tom
freezes in his fury to stare at where Harry is eyeing him up consideringly, “Does it always happen?
Is that why you keep complaining I’m giving you a headache?”

What’s he meant to say? That Harry’s emotions are comforting? That he doesn’t mind the feelings
when they come from the boy?

That he’s unused to being able to feel things so viscerally and Harry’s like a new colour he hadn’t
known existed and he hates that.

“It’s only happened twice before,” he shrugs, “Once at the orphanage, once at the facility. It won’t
happen again. I will not let emotions cripple me. Lord knows how you cope… your emotions …
You feel... so strongly . I'd never have thought a person can feel so much - how does it not cripple
you?”

Harry stares at him, as if the answer is obvious, as if he can’t quite believe Tom hasn’t seen it yet,
“It's called strength of character,” he retorts, clearly missing something in his explanation.

Tom laughs in both delight at Harry’s fire and the naivety of his words, “You’re so innocent, it’s
precious.”

“Feeling emotions is not a weakness,” he feels Potter’s frustration, watches the boy’s jaw tense,
“How ironic,” Potter mocks, “You, feeling too much.” There is far too much sick glee there and
Tom turns away, scooping up the television remote. The volume is muted, and for a moment he
stares in numb silence at the headlines.

There’s nothing good there, and this is, Tom reflects, how it would have been had magic been
revealed to the world. Too many rules, too much hate, too much discrimination - this is the
pureblood and mudblood war taken to extremes except this time the once-magicals are all on the
same side, blood be damned.
On the news the headlines flash. It’s still muted, but both Tom and Harry’s eyes drift to the
declaration pasted there, the smug smiles of the bureaucrats and the slick letters of ‘Sentinel
Services’.

“I’ve got the details of Barty’s job,” Harry speaks into the silence, tearing his gaze away from the
TV to Tom’s, “I’m up for it, if it helps other mutants.”

“Criminals too--”

“Fine ,” Harry says, “I just want to… I want to help. We need the money anyway--”

How quaint, Tom thinks, of course Harry wants to save people . He wants to argue because Tom
doesn’t want to waste his time helping mutants. He wants to rule . Tom is not nice , Tom is
kindness like barbed wire wrapped cruel around your flesh. He opens his mouth to mock Harry, to
call him out but he pauses because the emotions don’t line up, they’re too sharp, too vibrant, too
angry and while there is righteousness there…

So is violence.

“Dumbledore’s precious little saviour,” he coos, and enjoys the way Harry’s emotions flinch away
from the words, the way dislike tempers in those pretty green eyes. Harry is no more
Dumbledore’s friend at the moment than Tom is his enemy. Oh, there is respect there, no doubt
about it, but there is betrayal that has been left to fester and grow and it’s rotting at the core.

“I’m not,” Harry snaps, “I didn’t ask to be the hero, Riddle, I didn’t ask for you to keep trying to
kill me, I didn’t ask to be stuck here with you --”

“So angry , Harry,” Tom clicks his tongue, “So much violence, who would have thought you were
so suited to it? Tell me, is it the piece of me that you held or were you always inclined towards a
temper? Did Dumbledore know? Don’t deny it , I can feel it pouring off you, at least be honest with
yourself, Potter. You want to make them suffer , the way I suffered, the way you suffered --”

“We should get out of London,” Harry tries not to rise to the bait, “This Sentinel Services is
starting here, we should get out, we should--”

“But you don’t want to, do you?” Tom says, mocks , taunts almost gently.

And it’s true. He meets brown eyes and shakes his head.

“I want justice,” Harry says, tone firm, morals like iron clad pillars, but trying to bend them is the
most fun Tom’s had in ages, “I want equality, and I want them safe. Besides… Barty was a useful
contact, the least we could do is look into breaking him out of wherever they’re holding him-- and I
want to get the others out. There must be more facilities like the one that we were in. Other
children, other mutants, hell, maybe even people we know - I want to… to help… to--”

“I agree.”

“What .” Harry is so surprised at his ready agreement he can’t even put the infliction into the
question, it’s flat.

Tom turns to him with a battery acid smile, “I agree,” he says, “What they do to mutants is foul. It
needs to change but shoving you in front of some MPs and coercing them isn’t going to do anything
in the long run. No, we need to go straight to the source of the problem. The DMA branches.”

“You’re being serious?” he stares, weighing up Tom’s words. He doesn’t have empathy to taste the
 sincerity of his words but Tom makes his seriousness evident in his body language, in the way the
air tastes like sea salt and Tom shifts like the tide; movements full of purpose as he stalks up to his
once-horcrux.

The boy barely appears to realise how close he is; he can feel the warmth and beat-beat-beat of
Harry’s heart as brown eyes meet green. “Of course. Would I make this up? No, believe me, I want
to see them burn as much as you do.”

Harry doesn’t even try to deny it. His emotions lift in determination, giddy and resolute.

“But--” Tom enjoys the way that hope dwindles, holds it for a moment and then puts the boy out of
his misery, “Oh, relax, don’t get uptight… I’ve a valid point. We’re only two people, Harry, even
with our mutations… we need resources, a plan, people on our side and the easiest way to get that?
Money.”

Harry raises one eyebrow, “And your proposal?” he asks, as if he already dreads the answer.

Tom’s grin is blinding, like someone trying to swallow the sun, “It’s okay,” he croons, “It’s just a
small thing, don’t worry so much, sweetheart, it’s giving me a headache--”

“Tom.”

Sunlight flickers. “I want to rob a bank.”

Chapter End Notes

[Harry wonders whether to point out that he has a better track record in bank robbing
than Tom does but decides not to draw attention to any more of his criminal exploits;
the other boy would probably be impressed.]
 preparing the crucifix
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

(Two years later)

Severus Snape approaches the rundown tattoo parlor with apprehension. It’s a dingy place, and
despite the artwork scattered in the window it doesn’t brighten. Maybe it’s the area of London it
chooses to reside in, or maybe it’s the presence of criminals that cling to it’s walls like oily fumes.
He pauses half a second, his mind and memories telling him to wait for the illusion to drop, for the
magic to kick in.

Nothing happens. Magic is dead and yet waking up one day convinced his throat has been torn
open by a giant snake does not change that.

The very thought still sends shivers down his spine, like melting ice. He wishes he could rid
himself of the hazy half-memories that thrust themselves upon him unwillingly, unwantedly. They
have made a home for themselves, settled themselves in the dark corners of his mind until they
taint the world around him into this new world.

This magic-less world.

In his dreams he still dies with green eyes staring at him and a snake’s venom in his bloodstream.
He likes to think he died for something, but not even Granger and Weasley - whose memory is far
the most extensive out of everyone - remember how everything ended.

He imagines this world is like what the old one would have been like had muggles found out about
magic. Cold and cruel and a reminder of all the reasons Voldemort and Grindelwald and ilk like
them had become so popular in the first place.

He pushes open the door to the tattoo parlour. It creaks, not ominously, more out of disuse and
neglect. He feels dirty just touching it.

Inside the lights are dim and dust coats the oddest of surfaces. A shadow shifts and a hunched-over
man appears, eyes widening until Severus can see the whites of them in the gloom.

“Mundungus Fletcher,” he drawls, enjoying the way the man startles. Severus basks in the feeling
for a moment; at least the sepia-toned images in his head are good for something. The man looks
like he wants to flee and Severus clears his throat, “I don’t want to spend longer here than
necessary so please don’t try to--”

The man makes a dart for the door.

“Run,” he finishes, and watches almost lazily as the man makes it three steps before freezing. His
pupils dilate, and he reaches out blindly in front of him.

Coat billowing out behind him in mimicry of the way a cloak used to do the same along a dungeon
floor, he steps neatly in front of the man and takes a hold of his neck in a bruising grip. “Have a
little problem seeing , are we?” he growls, steering Mundungus straight into a chair. The man
topples, still groping blindly.

“What did ye’ do?” the man babbles, sightless eyes looking around, “Look, whatever you think I
stole, I didn’t do it--”

“Save your protests,” he’s not interested in them, “I know you’re a bottom feeding criminal.”

“Now that hurts,” Fletcher, even with Snape’s mutant power ensnaring his senses still having the
audacity to clutch his chest in mock pain, “I mean ya’ right, but still--”

“It so happens,” Severus hums, considering the man, “That I need to find another criminal, and I
heard you know everything about everybody. You talk and don’t try and stab me with that pencil
you’ve transmutated into a switchblade and maybe I’ll give you your eyesight back.”

The blade drops to the ground, bouncing back into a pencil as it hits the tiles. The thief raises his
hands in the air, harmlessly, “Sure, sure, ask away--”

“I want to know about the twins.”

The man’s blase smile drops so fast it’s like it was never there. His laugh is strained, Severus notes
the hesitancy, “No,” he says, “No, I don’t know anythin’ abou’ them.”

So Severus takes the man’s hearing with a pointed thought, listens to the man’s audible gasp, his
babbling and sudden silence when he realises he can’t hear anything.

Mundungus clutches at the air around him, claws at his throat and feels the vibration of his own
throat, “You asshole,” he slurs, “You really want to know?”

Severus gives the man back his sight and his hearing, enjoying the flinch as the man’s senses rush
back in all at once. Fletcher cringes from the light, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows
nervously, “If I hadn’t wanted to hear,” Snape drawls, in the same tone he had once used to talk to
dimwitted Gryffindors, “I wouldn’t have asked .”

“It’s just…” Mundungus shudders, “Well, they-- they give me the heebie jeebies, alright? They’re
weird , even for mutants. Something about them feels… off… and that’s wivout the stories ya’ hear
about pissing them off and ending up naked the other side of London with no idea what happened.”

“They’ve single-handedly broken into half of London’s big-name companies and banks, and that’s
without counting the DMA facilities they’re slowly working their way through,” Severus couldn’t
sound more unimpressed if he wanted to, “They’re drawing attention to themselves, to us, and my
boss wants to recruit them before they end up dead or captured, especially after that debacle with
Grindelwald on the continent.”

Mundungus sneers, “You think I would know where they are? The pair keep to themselves, work
alone, have a few contacts--”

WIth a sigh Severus takes the man’s sight again.

“Okay, okay, stoppit, stoppit, I’ll tell ya’ I’ll talk! They hang around the indoor market, down
Charing.”

His lip quirks. The market is a new addition, it had sprung up within the last year or so and it had
almost definitely originated from someone who remembered the location where Diagon Alley once
used to reside, hidden in the back-alleys and cobbled streets that still existed amongst London’s
busy modern roads. He wondered if this was another tally to Dumbledore’s foolish bet that the
twins were ex-magicals.

He knew Dumbledore shouldn’t have abandoned the city so easily. The mutants here who had
slipped through the old man’s fingers had their own pecking order, their own loyalties, their own
regime , practically.

WIth a wave of his fingers Mundungus blinks back his vision. “Is that it? Ya’ done?”

“Is that all you know?”

The man deliberates but as Severus raises a hand he blurts it out, “One’s a manipulator,” he says,
“Gets in your head, makes you do what he wants. Ya’ don’ stand a chance.”

“We’ll see,” he says, as he stalks out of the shop. The words are nothing, only confirmation of
rumours they’ve already heard.

Dumbledore had been looking for one Tom Riddle.

He might have found him.

In Harry’s defence he didn’t mean to start a career in criminality with Tom Riddle.

It just sort of… happened.

No , he had told Tom with his fever-glazed eyes and eager tongue, No, we are not robbing any
banks are you high ?

But like a cantankerous sore Tom is persistence personified, silver tongued and serpent blooded.
Harry is not hapless prey, but when faced with Tom’s vicarious enthusiasm he feels helpless to
resist. “Give me one reason it’s a bad idea. Just one. I’m waiting.” Tom looks like something
unholy, beautiful and perfect like a marble statue but with something under his skin, behind his
eyes just waiting to break through. A mad reflection of the monster that exists in the shattered
shards of his soul and god help him if Harry can’t see a piece of himself in the blood, the body, the
whole soul in front of him.

“Why won’t you just accept ‘no’ as an answer?”

“Because nobody ever says ‘no’ to me,” Tom says, plainly, and Harry half expects to look up into
crimson red eyes but no. They’re human and brown and his skin is warm as he keeps Harry pinned
in place, a restless sort of energy to him, “And I’m bored . I’m sick of living off our powers, sick of
these small-time gigs - why limit ourselves, where’s that Slytherin ambition of yours--”

“I was a Gryffindor--”

“Were you.” Tom’s tone is flat and something in Harry’s head (soul) catches the light like a stained
glass window reflecting all the wrong colours and it wasn’t a question. “If we use our powers
right,” Tom adds, cautiously, “I promise nobody needs to get hurt.”

“You promise , you mean of course nobody is going to get hurt--”

“Says the boy with a kill count higher than mine in this world.”

Harry’s jaw snaps shut. His eyes are acidic.

“You just have a petty desire to rob the world of it’s belongings.”

“Yes, fine , I want to steal shit,” Riddle doesn’t even try to deny it, “But you do too, and don’t tell
me you don’t. You said we have to do something... well, this is my proposal to do something. A
starting point. It’s you and me against the world at the moment, Potter, and we need that to change-
-”

“There are laws-- ” he struggles weakly, half-heartedly, fingers sinking around Tom’s wrist but
unable to pull the older boy off him.

“Forget legality, we’re already wanted criminals,” Tom shrugs, “Why not give them an actual
reason? We’re not here to play by the rules. I have no interest in preserving the status quo. I want to
overthrow it. Let’s shatter it ,” his voice is crooning, his empathy unintentionally rolls his
emotions over Harry with a cold wild joy about him, “Just think of it; your power and mine
combined, it will be easy . Come and make the world kneel.”

Tom Riddle is damning. His grin is devastating and Harry can’t help but fall.

Of course, Harry thinks, he had forgotten.

There are no gods here.

They are the gods.

(Now)

“You’re going to forget that we were here. And you’ll wipe the security camera s for us too, right?
Just leave those files on the desk on your way out, drop your keycard--”

Tom was right. It is easy .

His power curls like a snake around his neck, just waiting to strike. The more he uses it, the easier
it becomes. He’s become well-practiced at compelling, and though occasionally his stomach
churns in guilt-ridden nausea, it usually settles. This had to happen eventually, and he can’t quite
help the thrill of the control he holds at his fingertips as he watches the DMA guard obey his
instructions. They’re like puppets dancing to his strings and he’s not an empath, but even he can
feel Tom’s glee as he slips into the room the moment the man steps out.

Tom remains as impossible to read as ever. There are days when he’s still convinced Riddle wants
to corrupt him, others when he thinks Tom wants him just for his powers. And then there are times
like these when Tom has this mad gleam in his gaze like he just wants to drag Harry along for the
rollercoaster.

“Guess who’s finally found the blueprints of their facility,” Tom practically crows as he saunters
into the room, “You good?”

“Sure,” Harry enjoys altering their own records to throw the DMA off track. It’s dangerous and in
the two years since they fully embraced being on the run from the law they’ve only ever found the
courage to venture into a DMA base three times. The sensible thing to do would have been to get
out of the city, not stay and live on the run, not to antagonise them--

Harry’s always had a twisted sense of his own self-preservation. Tom’s just trying to tear them
down. It works surprisingly well.

“Done,” he tears the USB stick out of the computer, “Want to torch this place?”
They stumble out of the facility laughing, adrenaline pumping through their veins. The fire alarm
rings in the air, a screaming howl to the winds. The flames are warm on Harry’s cheek, rain
pouring from the sky and clinging to his cheek like tears. At his heart he’s still that child
abandoned for his mutation and to lash out, to leave his mark upon this world unrestrained,
unimpinged with no consequences--

He’ll never admit that he likes this, had enjoyed this lifestyle he’s forged for himself with Tom
freaking Riddle. He’d like to blame the other boy, it’s easy to blame Tom. It’s Tom’s fault,
everything is Tom’s fault in reality except it isn’t, not here, not now, no…

No, this is all Harry’s fault.

They’re three blocks away when Tom stiffens like a hound, head twisting unnerving to face
something unseen in the darkness. Harry feels his heart skip a beat, ice sinks into his veins,
“Tom?” he asks, “What is it? Wha--”

Warm fingers curl into his arm and a finger presses against his lip, “Hush,” he silences the younger
boy, ignoring the way green eyes flash with indignation. Harry bats his hand away, cyanide curling
around his tongue in preparation but Tom’s next words stills them cold in his throat. “Someone’s
following us.”

Nobody can lie to Tom. Nobody can lie without that frisson of adrenaline or nerves and he picks
up on it without even thinking about it.

Nobody can sneak up on him either, unless Tom’s distracted or in a bustling crowd with emotions
pressing down on him from all sides. Right now, in the dark and rain behind one of London’s
once-DMA bases, the bright curiosity and tenacity are like glaring beacons springing up on his
radar.

Harry is his usual whirlwind tornado of emotions. Panic flares for a moment, settles into resolution
and determination. Tom takes in the maelstrom like a starving man. Harry is like the worst kind of
addiction. They warn you about alcohol and opioids, but emotions ? It’s like seeing the world
through technicolour; Tom’s so attuned to Harry’s emotions that he feeds almost vicariously off
the boy’s emotions. He hadn’t comprehended how many spectrums of emotion existed before he
spent extended periods of time in Harry’s company.

“Come on,” Harry grabs Tom’s hand like it’s natural, like their shared soul hadn’t once made the
very action pain and horror-filled, like they’re just two teenage boys who have spent the past hour
shoplifting and not robbing government secrets, “We’ll have to take the scenic route home.”

The rain is warm slickness against the back of his neck, uncomfortable and soot-stained against his
skin. He slips like a shadow after Harry, aware of the person following them continue after them
with a dogged determination and uncanny ability not to lose them. “They’re a mutant,” Tom says,
tilting his head.

“Their emotions tell you that?” Harry sneers. He’s spent too long with Tom, his words are too
sharp and cutting nowadays, but it wipes a moment later to bright green-eyed mischievousness,
“Come on, I’ve got a plan!”

Harry’s plans are quick-thoughts and unconnected ideas that spin together in elaborate and
nonsensical ways and somehow work .
“What?” he blinks, still amazed at Harry’s propensity for quick in-the-moment ideas as Harry nods
his head towards an underground station. Harry meets his gaze, grin infectious and for a moment
he looks like the teenager he is as he starts for the station.

The only clue their stalkers have noticed is the alarm that flares as Tom starts after Harry. They hit
the station; it’s barely a room with some ticket machines, a line of elevators and the stairs. “The
stairs,” Harry says, not even look at the elevators.

“Are you kidding ,” Tom asks, tone flat, “We’re at Covent Garden, Potter , have you any idea how
many stairs there are?”

“195,” Harry shrugs, “According to that notice, come on --”

He follows Harry down the stairs. He can still taste the sharp salt tang of those tracking them, he
hears the shouts and the footsteps hit the stairs. They know they’ve been made, “Stop!” a voice
shouts, tone deep and male, “Stop, we mean you no harm!”

Harry wavers, freezes like a deer in the headlights, confusion blooming across his face. He wavers
and Tom grabs hold of the younger boy to stop him overbalancing but Harry has already jumped
down three steps of the spiralling fire exit and continuing further down.

Tom almost wishes they’d stuck to the street, but Harry’s right. This is the easiest way to throw
someone off their trail in London. The cloying heat and smell as they descend reminds him
stepping off the train at King’s Cross in May of 1942, the way the dust had clung to the air and the
sounds of war had echoed around him. His head spins and it’s only Harry’s grounding presence that
keeps him stable.

He hits the bottom, the sign along the wall cheerfully informing him of their descent 15 stories. He
skids to a halt, and Harry almost runs into him at the sight of a woman standing in their way.

Tom skids to a halt because he had clocked onto one set of emotions. He hadn’t noticed the second.

“Nice chase, kids,” the woman says with a cheeky grin. “You must be the twins, right? Little birdie
said you’d be raiding this place tonight, nice job. Heard the DMA wants you something bad --” the
light above her flickers, and with it her hair shifts colour. Much in the way Barty’s form had shifted
and twisted shape, her hair blooms a brilliant bubblegum pink and Tom’s close enough to hear the
ragged gasp that tears it’s way free of Harry’s throat.

“Tonks?”

Her head tilts to the side, gaze sliding over to where Harry stands the moment the other pursuer
appears. Dark-skin, bald head, smart suit, “We’re not going to hurt you,” deep, almost calming
voice, “We just want to talk - you’re drawing too much attention..”

“Don’t you get it?” Harry asks, “That’s the fucking point .”

There’s a beat in which Tom senses the recognition flare at Harry’s voice, sees both adults startle
and he’s preparing to reach out, to manipulate them into fear or distraction--

Harry gets there first, “ Don’t move ,” he says, voice breaking slightly as he glances between the
two adults.

“Shacklebolt,” Tom says, eyeing up the man, his eyes hazy under Harry’s sway, “ Shit , Order
members--”
He can see Harry’s shock, hesitation, the way his coercion stutters and Shacklebolt blinks in slow,
tired recognition through the mental chains, waits for the moment Harry steps forwards in joy and
relief at having found the Order Tom has tried so hard to keep him away from--

“Forget you saw us .”

Tom’s gaze settles on Harry who is staring with a blank emotionless kind of grit at the man. His
emotions are oddly flatlined too, like he’s pulling from Tom at the moment.

And like little dolls shoved into place those under Harry’s sway move to his tune. There’s a second
of resistance, of recognition and purpose that fights Harry’s command and Tom crushes it cruelly.
It would be horrifying in the ease at which those they meet fall under their sway had they not
perfected it to a fine art years ago.

The woman fights it, Tom sees her mouth Harry’s name and Tom doesn’t think twice about
twisting her emotions into grief like a physical punch that has her reeling, lets Harry’s gasoline
slick power slip slide over her thoughts.

“Go to sleep ,” Harry finishes, “Forget this past hour .” He reels back, spins away too quickly and
not even looking as the man drops like a lead weight to the ground. Shacklebolt hits his head; he’ll
have a nasty bump. Tom doesn’t care, he has eyes only for where Harry is walking as far as
possible away towards the underground platform.

“What the hell ?” he snarls, it’s ripped from his throat. His hands sink into Harry’s damp jacket as
he whirls on the younger boy. The rain has trailed damp fingerprints down the soft fabric, and now
he claws into it, tugging Harry towards him, “What the fuck was that, Potter?”

“I just saved our asses,” Harry snaps back, all Gryffindor fire and fury. “You bastard, can’t you be
grateful for a change. Oh, wait…” Tom feels the anger twist into spite, “I’m sorry, I forgot.
Mummy dosed Daddy with a love potion so he’d marry her.”

An animalistic growl is torn from Tom’s throat and he lets go of Harry’s wrist to sink his fingers
into Harry’s collar. Harry doesn’t flinch; he can still wrap cyanide around Tom’s mind to turn him
away and Tom knows this. “Are you running , Potter? I thought you wanted to find your precious
Order?”

Harry bristles, “Don’t be ridiculous,” he bluffs, confusion wars with nerves and happiness, “I do,”
Harry says, clearly conflicted, and Tom wants to stare in open-mouthed disbelief but he doesn’t
because he’s Lord Voldemort , he doesn’t gape at a teenager in confusion, “Stop reading my
emotions, you dick ,” he hits Tom in the shoulder, “I do but…” he shakes his head, “Not here. Not
after---”

Guilt, more nerves and fear twisted into bitter anger. It makes absolutely no sense to Tom who
struggles to understand human motives on a good day.

“Besides,” Harry shrugs off his own reasons, “Can’t have them finding you here, even if you do
look like a posh Eton boy. Come on,” and he steers Tom towards the platform. Tom goes, oddly
touched, oddly… reassured? Happy? There’s a fierceness to it, a sharp sting of pride and triumph,
the kind he always got when he stole something successfully. The kind he gets now after a robbing.

Harry has said multiple times he does not want to seek out the Order, and somehow Tom has not
believed him until now. Because Harry makes no attempts to contact the two friends he’s coerced
into a drugged sleep behind them, instead he picks Tom over them. There’s something the boy’s
hiding, a discontent, a guilt gnawing at his insides but there’s also--
Thrill, contentment, peace, a settled state of being that settles beneath Harry Potter’s skin giving
the boy a purpose he did not know the other could have, still too used to the flashes of memory of
the boy as an awkward teenager still trying to find his way in the world.

This Harry Potter knows his place. He knows he is a criminal, a mutant, accepts it and together
with Tom they are taking the first steps to fighting back.

“Why do you care?” Harry changes tack suddenly, sailing into the wind, “It’s not like you want
them to find me , ” he says, the accusation lacking inflections but a bite to it nonetheless.

“Yes,” Tom admits, freely, and whether it’s some twisted sense of possession or cruelty in keeping
Harry to himself and separate from his pack he can’t tell. Tom eyes him warily, like he’s still
waiting for Harry to spin around and sink his fangs in, “Maybe I want to keep you to myself. What
good did they ever do, Harry? They sent you out to fight their war.”

“Against you.”

“I was an adult. I knew what I was getting myself in for, but you… you were a boy they were
already preparing the crucifix for.”

Harry doesn’t quite manage to hide the flinch, because isn’t that the truth? It hits too close to home
even after all this time. The raw hurt is still fresh even as Tom digs the heel of his palm into the
wound.

“Where’s that Gryffindor righteousness, Potter? Where’s that anger, that famous temper--?”

“You and I both know,” Harry says, slowly, anger glittering in those green eyes, “That had the
Sorting Hat sorted me in this lifetime at eleven I wouldn’t have ended up in Gryffindor.” There’s
still that odd undertone of guilt that Tom can’t shake. The boy is hiding, avoiding something. He
tries to push away but Tom catches his wrist.

“So that’s why you ran? Because you’re scared --”

Harry tears his wrist free, “Why don’t you tell me?” he snarls, “Use your cute little power, Riddle,
and tell me --”

“I don’t understand ,” he retorts, because isn’t that the problem. He can’t understand how Harry
functions with that many feelings , there is still too much guilt, too much hope that sours like old
fruit rotting, “I don’t understand, you , you feel too damn much all the damn time --”

Harry coos, mockingly, “Baby Dark Lord doesn’t understand human emotion, how pitiful --” A
hard shove sends Harry stumbling and he laughs in delight, vicious joy flaring, “Look at you, so
inclined to mundane fist fights, so inclined to getting down in the dirt with the peasants. I thought
we were beneath you--”

Tom’s fist connects solidly with the boy’s cheek, sending him to the ground, hard. Harry lies
sprawled there for a moment, and the second of triumph at seeing the boy brought low twists
unpleasantly in his gut. There’s no fight suddenly, the boy chokes for air, words clinging to his
tongue and gravel studding his palm and it’s no fun , he thinks. Where’s the brave hero now?
Where’s the competition --

“You don’t know when t’bleedin’ quit, do you?” he drawls, messily, hair in disarray, all mirth and
vicious amusement like rot that spoils perfectly good meat. “You’re free to leave, Potter. I of all
people can’t stop you with your silver tongue. Your friends are right back there… go on. Go to
them.”
“I can’t,” Harry chokes. He’s broken the boy, Tom thinks, but no, that damn guilt is still there, “I…
you don’t understand … I can’t… it’s my fault . I--”

Tom looks down at him, just as with a loud whine and displacement of hot fume ridden air blown
towards them a train appears. Harry flinches, cringes away from the sight as it draws to a slow halt,
doors sliding open. The bright light of the late night commuter service leers like a grin at them and
he waits half a beat, not moving until with a loud engine roar and scream the train moves.

Harry’s shaking, all anger gone now. Tom cards careless fingers through the boy’s messy hair,
lingering on where the once-horcrux had been before he grabs the boy’s shirt and tugs him up,
“The world doesn’t revolve around you, Harry,” he tilts his head, fringe falling over his eyes.

Harry laughs, a knife sharp blade that’s sole purpose is for cutting, “Doesn’t it?” his head cocks to
one side, “What if I told you I did this? All of this… this world, you , you’re like my own personal
punishment.. .” His voice is a drawl but he sounds washed out. Rain strewn. Puddles on a dry day.
It’s not nearly as intimidating as it’s meant to be.

Tom pauses, examining Harry with far too much scrutiny, “Am I?” he asks, no hope of beginning
to understand what the boy is thinking. He holds out a hand, a mimicky of the facility and although
he must know it is damning, Harry takes it. He’s pulled up to standing, a warm body there to stop
him stumbling and Tom doesn’t let go. He reaches out, emotionally nudging the boy. He’s not
manipulating him - Harry’s reinforced about half a dozen repeat compulsions not to - he just
stablises him, offers out a hand to help balance him and the boy practically sinks into the feeling
like he had once dived so easily into his thoughts. The boy thinks nothing of boundaries, it is like
he has always been a part of Tom, a torn fragment coming home.

“You trust me?” Tom asks.

No , he sees in Harry’s eyes, and yet-- “Yes,” he says, warm fingers curling firebrands into Tom’s
shoulder, because if there is one thing Tom Riddle prides himself on it is his ability to survive.

The older teenager is almost tender, almost kind, as if Harry is something precious. Maybe he is, to
Tom. A once-horcrux. Maybe if Harry is right and he’s Harry’s punishment, then maybe Harry is
Tom’s salvation.

Another rush of warm air, heated fumes and another train appears with a roar. Harry still flinches,
but hides the movement as he pulls away. Tom misses for a moment the soft warm butterfly pulse
beneath his flesh, “We should go. Before they wake and figure out they were coerced.” His skin
feels flushed, pulse jittery and Harry’s emotions still maelstrom in his head, but it’s not disturbing,
never disturbing.

“Harry?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” killing curse eyes blink open, an odd resolution settled in them, “Let’s get out of here.”

The doors to the train close and then they’re gone, the two Order members left crumpled on the
stairs.

He throws the door to his family’s home open with a loud crack that makes Remus leap half a mile
and Ron sneeze as some dust wafts into the air. He waits half a second for the expected scream
from his mother before he remembers that dead is dead in this world.

Sirius sighs, steps into the hallway and promptly faceplants the moulding carpet as his leg get
tangled in the old umbrella stand that for some reason, still looks like a troll’s leg. Ron almost
breaks a rib laughing as Remus and Hermione step carefully over him. “You are not,” Sirius clears
his throat, “Not allowed to tell Molly I brought you lot here. She’ll have a heart attack if she hears
you lot are in London instead of another made up Black property in Wales.”

“She won’t hear it from me,” Ron mimes zipping his lips shut.

“How fascinating,” Hermione has made it to the stairs where, instead of house elf heads, there are
several deer, stags and boar, “The family still has a propensity for poor decorating skills.”

Sirius makes his way through to the kitchen. He’s not sure what he’s expecting - Kreacher does not
exist here and he has not lived in this house for years , hadn’t even visited it following his mother’s
death. He’d been trapped in it in one world, how ironic that he return to it now. “You two are going
to have to take one of the upstairs bedrooms,” he says, “Dumbledore wants to use it for Order
meetings again, naturally, but given how much of an anti-mutant zone London is I doubt it’s going
to be the same it was when we were fighting against Voldemort.”

“You can sneak us out, right?” Hermione asks.

“I snuck you in,” Sirius says, “Don’t go do something stupid now--”

“Sirius, we’re adults, we’ve been adults for years , just because we look like teenagers--”

“We’re doing this for Harry,” Ron points out, and isn’t that the reason behind everything. They’d
been so close to him, right on his trail and then-- then nothing . Trail dead, cold and DMA making
arrests all around London and Dumbledore had pulled out. They’d stayed too long as it was, they’d
lost Bones and Burbage to the arrest spree. Sirius’ protests that they stay to look for Harry were
met with deaf ears.

Besides - they assumed he was in London. There was a whole country, a whole history of places he
could have been instead. Scotland, Forest of Dean, Newcastle--

Two years. Dumbledore doesn’t have to say he’s given up to make that obvious. They give it time,
maybe Harry’s memories came back slower than theirs, maybe--

Two years and there has been nothing .

Harry is James and Lily’s son. In his last life he had failed in many things but the biggest was
undoubtedly his ability to protect his godson.

He remembers the Veil, the brush of death like a feather tickling almost and the fall and--

And a forest and Harry’s face so so pale with a stone clutched in his fist and questions on his
tongue and so scared and alone and untouchable, a world away--

He can’t make the same mistakes all over again. Isn’t that the point of mistakes? To allow you to
do better the second time?

He has to find Harry.

Maybe he’s dead, Sirius thinks, but the hope of finding his godson alive and well is the only thing
that keeps him going and he refuses to even consider that possibility. Instead he sneaks in two of
Harry’s best friends to the biggest anti-mutant place right now, where one wrong move or scan and
they’ll be arrested.
One last chance, he thinks.

“Apparently the criminals defer to a pair of thieves,” Remus pulls up a seat in the kitchen. Sirius
jumps slightly - he hadn’t noticed the other man enter. The chair wobbles unsteadily but the wolf
shapeshifter sits there anyway, not saying anything about the empty mug Sirius has reflexively
clutched to his chest.

“Thieves?” Ron and Hermione have wandered in without Sirius noticing. Hermione looks
disgusted, “Mutants?”

Sirius shrugs, busies himself with trying to find an actual tea bag in the cupboards somewhere.
Remus sighs, hands clasped in front of him on the old wooden table, “I imagine so, otherwise he
wouldn’t be so interested in them. They’re on the top of most of the DMA and Sentinel wanted lists
and nobody even really knows who the pair are--”

There is a creak from the front hall and a muffled thump as someone walks into the umbrella stand.
“Huh,” Sirius says, “Useful that, like an alarm.”

“You should probably get one,” Hermione suggests, “Who is it--” she lets out a squeak as the
arrival steps into the doorway, form just as looming and ominous as it had been for all her years at
Hogwarts.

“You should consider locking your door, Black,” Snape sneers, “You never know when somebody
could just... wander in.”

“Looks like somebody just did,” he mutters under his breath, venomously. He glares hard enough
at Snape that the man stubs his toe and manages to put his hand down right on a splinter of wood
when he flails for balance. It’s almost comedic.

“Sirius!” Remus snaps in exasperation, “No powers.”

“Sorry,” Sirius says, not sorry one bit as Snape scowls around the room, freezing momentarily at
the sight of Ron and Hermione, “I gather,” he drawls, sniffing, “That Mr Weasley and Miss
Granger are not meant to be in London?”

“Of course we’re meant to be here,” Ron splutters.

“Ah,” Snape hums, unpleasantly, like oil spilling into water, “You want to find precious Potter, is
that right?” There’s a beat in which nobody answers, just tries not to look too guilty. Snape looks
like he would roll his eyes were such an action not beneath him. As it is he just closes his eyes and
exhales slowly through his nose, “Albus has found someone, but it’s not the Potter spawn.”

“The twins,” Remus spins in his chair. It’s not a question.

“Who even are these twins? You mean to say nobody has discovered their identity, not once?”

“Oh, but Dumbledore thinks he has,” Snape’s black eyes open, “He thinks one of them,” his voice
is slow, measured and tone distastefully, “He thinks one of them is the Dark Lord, reborn. Tom
Riddle.”

Ron flinches. Remus’ mug hits the table too hard and Hermione can’t stop the gasp that escapes
her. “B-but why--”

“He’s a mutant. A manipulator,” Snape looks uncomfortable, “Dumbledore wants to play the
phrase ‘keep your enemies close’. We’ve also had a lead on him, the district he likes to hang in.
 Dumbledore sent Tonks and Kingsley to try and track him down, see if they can establish a
meeting time and place--”

The words are barely out of his mouth than the front door slams open. “You shouldn’t leave your
doors unlocked,” comes the gruff voice of Alastor Moody. There’s a brief pause in which Ron and
Hermione try to throw themselves into the pantry and out of sight, probably forgetting Mad-Eye’s
mutation. Snape barely reacts and Sirius almost drops his still empty mug out of surprise.

Alastor looks practically identical to how Sirius remembers him. He’s still got a fake leg, and even
with it he navigates the umbrella stand with more grace than Sirius and Snape combined. He still
has a face twisted by scars, and his eyes are still uneven. One isn’t fake though - it’s just
heterochromia; one blue, one brown. He settles in the doorway to the room and his eyes wander
over the kitchen.

“The two kids can stop hiding, I can see through walls.” There is a hisses bloody hell from Ron as
the pair emerge, looking flustered. “You get to tell Molly,” Moody says to Sirius, not really caring
too much about the teenagers who have snuck away from home, “Anyway, Tonks and Kingsley
found the twins.”

“And?” Sirius asks, curious despite himself, “Did they find Voldemort?”

Moody shrugs, “Don’t know,” he says, “They don’t remember the whole hour. Woke up in an
Underground station, memories blank. Vance can’t find signs of memory tampering which
suggests they forgot themselves--”

“That’s oddly non-murderous for Voldemort,” Ron mumbles, only for Hermione to hush him.

“No, that boy’s right,” Moody hums, “Still, they let their guard down and look what happened.”

“Constant vigilance,” several of them chorus, although Moody just squints at them. Sirius
swallows a lump in his throat, he forgets that Moody doesn’t remember. How does it work, he
wonders, why does he remember when Moody doesn’t. Moody died a year after he did, and yet
Sirius was cursed to remember while the ex-auror wasn’t. He sighs, too many questions bouncing
around his head.

“Dumbledore wants Remus to come and track him down,” Moody chews on the end of a cigar he’s
pulled out of a coat pocket, ignoring the way Remus looks like he’s about to protest being treated
like a glorified nose, “You and the kids might as well come, it will be harder for this Vol de Mort
to manipulate you guys if there are more of you. Least that’s the theory-- I won’t tell Molly if you
won’t.”

Sirius is already on his feet, “Where do we start?”

Chapter End Notes

[Snape was not impressed when somebody noted the similarity between his mutation
and that of a sparkly vampire boy. He was mildly reassured when told the boy was
evil. Less when pointed out he was part of a cult.]
 punishment
Chapter Notes

I was really bad at responding to comments last chapter, but just wanted to say a huge
thank you to everyone dropping comments and kudos, y'all are amazing. Hope you
continue to enjoy as I stumble my way through something resembling a plot here.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Tom eyes up the man in the corner. He’s a mutant - the nod from the doorman indicates as much -
and there’s something about his form. Dark hair, oil clinging to his skin. He sneers around at the
room. The sneer made him ugly. His face was not unhandsome, but it was sallow, skin pale and
hair too dark and lanky to make him look like anything other than a slightly crow-like man.

Diagon Market is everything the Alley had once been and nothing like it. There is no magic in the
air, no pots self-stirring or brooms in windows. But there is a distinct undercurrent of power. The
occasionally hood that hides a physical manifestation of power, of scaled skin or diamond eyes.
Various stalls are set up selling anything from food to trinkets. It’s cute. It’s quaint. It is the closest
they’ll get to a safe haven in the middle of Sentinel Central.

A mutant passes too close to the sallow-faced man in the corner, jolting the table and sending his
drink sloshing perilously. The sneer grows - his emotions are oddly stilted, forcefully controlled.
Like they’ve been piled into a cardboard box and had the lid slammed closed.

He could just be someone with remarkable self-control. He’s almost the opposite of Harry, who
wears his emotions on his sleeve. Who, even after all these months, is still impossible for Tom to
lose to track of even in a crowd.

Except Tom known legilimency and occlumency, and although there is differences in this world -
there is no magic shield or route through into someone’s thoughts - the principles of arranging your
thoughts and memories stay the same. It had helped with Tom’s emotional overload in crowds and
he suspects it is the source of this man’s calm, slow moving emotions.

The man remembers. This man… he eyes him up in his peripheral vision and it takes him a second
too-long to recognise him. He sees the image behind his eyelids of a torn throat, blood and venom
mixing black on the wooden floor of dust and--

Tom watches Severus Snape stand with slow, deliberate movements, forgetting his drink as he
begins to skulk around their hub of activity. Tom slips closer, biding his time for a moment before
stepping forwards with a greeting, “You’re looking a little lost - I haven’t seen you around here
before.”

He enjoys the man’s flinch of surprise as he turns to find Tom right there. But more than that he
appreciates the blank look of indifference, not a single spark of recognition flaring. It’s not
unusual, not for him aged out by fifty-odd years and ventures into dark magic. “Aren’t you a little
young to be hanging around in establishments like this?” Snape drawls, tone irritated and just like
Tom remembers.

He shrugs one shoulder in a smooth movement, a habit he’s picked up from Harry and refined,
“Owch, so much judgement from a stranger,” he smirks, content in his own skin, in his disguise of
his own youth and the traitor looks right through him and then turns away, gaze scanning the
crowds. Tom can pick out Harry with ease, but the younger boy’s acquired a knack for not being
noticed. He’s lounging by the pool tables, one of those leather jackets with soft, fleeced arms, hood
pulled up and form slouching as he chats to one of the kids there. He’s almost the same age he was
when their last world jarred to an abrupt end yet there’s a sharpness to his face, his expression that
rings haunted differences between the worlds.

Tom doesn’t doubt that the Harry before would not have spent the last two years playing Tom’s
little games. He had to much moral quandaries that have already been brutally extinguished here
and oh, it’s glorious to see.

Snape doesn’t look twice at Harry. His gaze scans the crowd, curiosity and impatient desperation
faint in his emotions. He’s looking for them - he’s looking for the twins as people call them. For
leaders, for criminals, not teenagers.

“Maybe I can help?” Tom offers, plastering on a charming smile.

“I don’t think so,” Snape narrows his eyes unpleasantly, “I was just leaving.”

“Were you,” Tom’s voice is flat. It’s not a question. Black eyes bore into his and then flicker to one
side as a woman steps up, glasses and a tight bun. With the same shatteredness that haunts most of
his memories there is that few seconds pause in which he eyes up the woman who looks like she
should be teaching and not hanging around in the Market.

“Tom Riddle,” she greets him by name as the face slots into place in his memories. McGonagall .
Tom stiffens, smirk sliding off his face. Order members . “We’d like to speak to you.”

McGonagall’s face is pinched, expression strained. Snape takes an involuntary step back, eyes
widening in recognition at the name. A bead of sweat forms on his forehead.

Tom tilts his head, taking the pair in. Both look deeply uncomfortable, and that’s even before there
is movement behind Tom as a tall, muscular man steps forwards. His features are twisted into
animalistic wolfen-like and wild. Greyback holds variable respect for Tom on a good day, his
once-lord turned teenager but still with that bite, still with the ambition - the wolfman doesn’t
know how to treat Tom on a good day, but right now his looming presence is well-timed.
“Problem, boss?” he growls out.

McGonagall raises a hand as if soothing a wild creature, “We just want to talk--”

“That’s adorable ,” Tom croons, backing up slightly. A tactical retreat is not running. He hovers,
enjoying the pure raw terror that sparked in Snape at the sound of his name. His smile grows
satisfied, “Do you, Minerva, or does Dumbledore want to talk?”

There’s no point in pretences now. He feels the emotions of Severus settle, feels McGonagall’s
spike to irritation and an omnipresent wariness that get shoved into a box as if bracing himself. A
part of Tom is itching for the fight but another part--

The Order is here. In London. In the heart of the business they’ve set up, Dumbledore is here --

Across Snape’s shoulder Tom meets shadowed green eyes looking panicked. Slim seeker-agile
body already twisting around patrons as if to swoop in and rescue Tom. Harry’s gaze settles on
Snape and McGonagall for a long moment, and for a second Tom is convinced Harry is going to
open his mouth and speak up. It is, after all, the logical thing to do.
But Harry steps to the side, head jerking towards the door, green eyes flinty when he looks at the
pair. What has made you so vindictive , he wants to ask Harry, why avoid your once-allies, but he
doesn’t want to question it.

“Dumbledore just wants to talk. Not fight. There is no need to be enemies - you’re not Voldemort
here.”

Tom pretends to be lazily interested, following Harry’s path across the indoor Market with such a
brutal efficiency that at least two people throw themselves out of the way which suggests he’s
coercing them, “And yet you still quiver with fear,” he mocks, pretending to consider their options.
Greyback has started growling next to him, like an actual wolf.

“We’d be fools not to,” there’s half a second pause in which Tom can hear the ‘my lord’ that
should fall there but doesn’t. He tried to remember anything else about the man but all he can think
is how satisfying it had been to watch Nagini tear out his throat. How useless.

“I’m not interested,” Tom turns away, “Better watch yourself, you’re in my territory now.”

Snape grows more confident, eyeing up Tom’s lanky teenage form, “If you think we’re scared of
your half-mutated mutt--”

“Why don’t you say that to my face ?” Fenrir’s teeth are too big for his mouth. Snape scoffs, eyes
darkening and Tom can only begin to ponder at his mutation before McGonagall is stepping
between them, distracted by the pair’s growing argument and Tom slips to one side, stalking off.
It’s not running away if it’s tactical , and right now avoiding Dumbledore is very, a very very
sensible decision to make. It’s too easy to flare up the anger in Greyback, to shove a load onto
Snape’s nicely organised box of emotions and to step away from the brewing argument.

Bright throbbing emotions, lit like a sun, appear next to him. “Are you okay?”

“I am perfectly capable of looking after myself,” Tom drawls to where Harry is shooting worried
glances at the pair who are still dealing with an angry Greyback who looks seconds away from
ripping out their throats. He turns back, green eyes like the killing curse.

“I know,” Harry shrugs, “But I still don’t trust you not to murder anyone.”

Tom rolls his eyes. It’s an old, almost fond excuse now. It’s almost warm, like a soft candle against
his mutation and so naturally he’s acutely aware of the moment it’s snuffed out leaving a cold, dark
void.

Snape and Greyback looks seconds away from tearing each other’s throats out, and a few of the
other people Tom and Harry know are getting curious now. Harry tugs open the side door to the
market, hidden behind one of the stalls and steps out, turning to where Tom has frozen oddly.

“Something’s wrong,” Tom says, following Harry out into the cool outdoors, the older boy’s brow
furrowed and gaze oddly fixed on Harry. He reaches forwards as if to cup Harry’s cheek and
reassure himself that Harry is still standing there, “We need to go, we need to--”

Harry’s already mentally plotting out routes, shortcuts and ways out, can’t quite pick up on what
has Tom so anxious, not until another voice interjects into their conversation. “No,” the person
steps slowly into view, face pointed and thin and eyes stern and Harry walks into Tom’s back as he
pulls up sharply, “No, you two aren’t going anywhere. Don’t try to run, we just want to talk.”
It’s like a punch in the gut, vicious cruel hurt digging in. Dumbledore does not look at old as he did
in their previous life which makes sense - not even mutants live to be over a hundred in perfect
health. He still looks old, beard still white but cut shorter, neater, clothes still bright and painful to
look at but painfully muggle, not a robe in sight.

He’s grown to accept the decisions Dumbledore made but the hurt attached is still raw, still
painful, the sight of him standing there alive and--

Shapes shift in the shadows, faces he recognises even as he hears the click of the gun and
Shacklebolt appears, “Don’t speak,” he says, warningly.

“Come on,” Tom drawls, “No need for guns-- ” he stops suddenly, and Shacklebolt glances
sideways at Dumbledore who just nods. Tom chokes slightly, and Harry steps sideways into the
warmth of his body, confused, his back still turned to the Order. He reaches for his power, the
warmth at the base of his spine. Tries to reach out and loop it around Kingsley’s thoughts but it
slips away from him--

“What--” he can’t use it. He can feel it there but it…

There’s a glassy, slippery wall in Harry’s head. Bile stings his throat. The words are there but the
power isn’t.

“Minerva turned off your powers,” Dumbledore observes, eyes twinkling, “It’s why we sent her
and Severus in first, I do hope they’re still okay in there. Your powers won’t work within a certain
radius or until she turns them back on so no more manipulations, right, Tom?”

Harry’s close enough to feel the way Tom stiffens, the way he turns into a statue next to him. A
stone already made ruin, Harry feels his own cracks grate like chalk on a blackboard as Tom flicks
down his hood with careless ease that does nothing to betray the way his pulse flutters and muscles
hide ingrained flinches. “Dumbledore,” Tom says, tone more even and balanced than Voldemort
ever was, it would be pleasant almost were Harry not familiar with the polite disdain rotting at the
edge of the words, “I’d say it was a pleasure, but--- well, I don’t want to lie…”

“This is him?” Kingsley asks, gun wavering and glancing sharply at Dumbledore, “He’s a teenager
--”

“Yes,” Dumbledore searches Tom’s face, but for what it isn’t clear. “What did you do, Tom? Did
resurrection grant you the immortality you so desired?” he sounds sad, confused and searching for
answers that aren’t coming.

“I didn’t think mundanes lived long over 100,” Tom drawls, “You’re looking good for your age,
old man.”

“Let’s just get it over with and cuff him,” someone shifts behind Dumbledore, and it’s like ice
stabbing into Harry’s heart as Sirius steps into view. “Minerva’s powers don’t last forever--”

Dumbledore sighs, like he’s observing an errant child doing something wrong, “Sirius,” he says,
“Did Remus tell you--”

“Alastor.”

“Ah, and your entourage… I trust Molly isn’t aware---”

“You’re going up against Voldemort!” another male adds, “We deserve to be here more than any of
you, we were this close to defeating him last time--”
Someone takes Harry’s heart and squeezes it in their fist. He sees Ron, fingers gesturing as he tries
to indicate how close they had come on their horcrux hunt, sees Hermione next to Ron, expression
hovering between anxiety and stone cold determination--

It hurts, just a bit. A wolf claws its way down his throat and make it’s home; all winter-ragged pelt
and stick-thin bones. A wolf, alone, without it’s pack and that hurts but his pack are here. Relief
sinks in, just a bit.

His friends are here and alive and--

Harry can’t find the words, his throat is closing up with hurt and they were together, they were all
together and they had left him --

It’s like fifth year but a hundred times worse.

Logically he knows things aren’t that simple. The way the die fell left everyone in different places,
different lives and Harry has not exactly tried very hard to find them but still--

Loneliness is a wound that never quite heals right.

“Come with us quietly, Tom. Don’t fight, we know what you can do. I just want to talk to you and
your… friend?” a pause, Dumbledore’s head tilts, “I didn’t take you for one to share power in your
domination of London’s criminal underground.”

“Does it matter ?” Sirius asks in frustration, “Just shoot him already, he’s a genocidal maniac --”

Kingsley’s gun moves and Harry’s spinning to face the Order fully, stepping forwards before he
even realises it, shoving Tom behind him, “ Don’t ,” he says, but there’s no power to the word no
matter how much he tries to slip it in. “That,” Harry says, in response to Dumbledore, “Is a fucking
exaggeration, we’re not running anything --”

“Well--” Tom likes to rub salt in the wounds.

“Shut up,” Harry snaps, and Tom, surprisingly, does. The silence hangs heavy in the air. He’s
almost glad that right now Tom can’t feel his emotions, can’t tell how helpless and lost he feels in
that moment. His hand trembles and he looks up, meeting Dumbledore’s clear blue gaze, “You
have proof of nothing ,” he says, and he’s covering his own back as much as Tom’s, hiding his
own crimes and shady past.

Dumbledore looks like he’s been punched. It’s enjoyable to see the old man reeling, an out of
control teetering ship in the high seas for a second before the guilt settles oily and greasy in
Harry’s stomach. “ Harry ,” he barely breathes, but it gets a reaction from the Order. Shacklebolt’s
jaw drops, Sirius lets out a pained whine and Ron and Hermione both takes steps forwards.

“Harry?” Hermione repeats, so much hope packed into that one word. “What--?”

He meets Dumbledore’s gaze again and wishes he hadn’t. “ Harry ,” The man’s expression just
cracks , and it feels like Harry’s looking at the mirror, cracked around that ice blue gaze that stares
back at him. It’s weight is that of a black hole, condemning and gravity dragging him in. The
scales already weighed, impressions already made the moment he realises who stands before him
and that’s before Tom takes an automatic step back, drawing the old man’s attention to him,
“You’ve been with Tom. All this time...”

He didn’t think it was possible for that tone to grow colder, but it does.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” he tries to joke, tries to make his voice light and airy but it
comes out like a lead weight.

“But it’s Voldemort ,” Ron chokes out, “Do you remember us? Does he remember us?” he turns to
Hermione and Sirius, “Maybe his memory is still addled, why else would he be hanging around
with a young Voldemort--”

“He’s a manipulator,” Sirius says, and Harry flinches, “He’s manipulating you, Harry--”

His breath catches in his throat, chokes him. They think Tom’s the manipulator , that Tom’s
controlling Harry--

“Harry, step away from Voldemort. I’m your godfather, these are your friends, we’ve been looking
for you--”

“Have you?” it comes out blunter than he intended. Flat and dead sounding. Sirius flinches.
Dumbledore is watching with too-knowing eyes, gaze flickering to where Tom stands still smug at
Harry’s back. “I remember everything,” he says, “And I’m not being manipulated--”

“That’s just what someone being manipulated would say,” Ron points out, and the hint of a smile
curls at Harry’s lip as he meets the redhead’s gaze. Relief and happiness shines there along with
pure joy at seeing Harry.

“Harry,” Dumbledore steps forwards and the smile falls of Harry’s face to be replaced by nausea.
That sick heady feeling of walking into the forest with the press of Snape’s memories and
Dumbledore’s words still on his conscience, “Tom’s manipulating you,” his words are carefully
enunciated, like that might make it clearer, “He’s been controlling you, but Minerva’s turned your
powers off. If you think it through, if you give it a few minutes you’ll be able to see clearly.”

“Me? Manipulate Harry ?” behind Harry, Tom can’t quite stop the hysterical laugh that wells up.
Glancing at the other teenager, Tom’s eyes are a shade to bright, fevered and darting around
looking for an escape, “You’ve gone senile, old man.”

"He's not ," Harry shakes his head. “Manipulating me, that is.” To Tom: “Stop it, you’re not being
helpful.”

Tom gives him a look that clearly says he doesn’t care whether to be helpful or not, because right
now they’re surrounded and without powers. Had he his empathy he’d probably enjoy Harry’s
emotional conflict, the sadist. Their current situation would be intimidating were they not Harry’s
friends, and even then there is still this distance between them, this gap of months, years , a lifetime
that gapes like a giant bridge between them.

“Of course he’s not helpful,” Sirius protests, “It’s Voldemort .” It’s a lifetime away but Ron and
Kingsley still flinch at the name, “He’s got Harry--”

“Sirius,” Hermione’s voice wavers, “Sirius, I don’t think he’s got Harry, I don’t think… they’re the
twins --”

“No--”

Dumbledore’s gaze is too piercing and sees far too much. “Harry, even if he’s not Voldemort and
even if he’s not using his mutation on you, Tom Riddle is still charming. You cannot trust him, and
this criminal spree is drawing attention--”

Harry wants to snap at him, fury with Dumbledore rising and years in the making, “It’s not like
that,” he shakes his head, feeling raw and vulnerable. Like he’s under interrogation. Like he’s weak
and defenceless without his words holding power, “I know he’s a sociopath but he’s more sane
than Voldemort ever was--”

“Rude,” Tom chides, “But true - I’m a bit more… put together, shall we say?” the words are heavy
blows, “And I’ve got Harry, of course,” he adds, twisting the bullet deeper, “It’s not like any of
your cared enough for your precious saviour given how I found him…”

“You little piece of--”

“I told you to shut up,” Harry interrupts Sirius before he can start. “All of you,” he says when
Sirius opens his mouth to - to insult or beg or plead, Harry doesn’t know. He just knows that if
Sirius keeps talking, keeps looking at him like he had in the forest with that all-encompassing love
of a parent Harry has never known then he’ll break. He can already feel the tears prickling and he
can’t -- “Just shut up, I can’t think ; what do you mean McGonagall turned off our powers?”

“She controls power frequencies,” Hermione explains gently, “She turned your mutations off in the
market.”

“Then turn them back on!” Harry demands.

Dumbledore looks grave, “You understand why we can’t do that, surely. Harry, Tom is not
trustworthy.”

“Well at least he never turned my mutation off without permission!”

“Harry,” Hermione asks warily, “Will you come with us? We’re sorry we didn’t find you earlier,
but we found you now… please ---”

“Turn our mutations back on,” Harry says, “And I’ll go with you.”

“No,” Ron says so quickly it's in response to something else, not Harry. Chess-sharp eyes focus
and then unfocus, "No, that's not a good idea. Mate, reformed or not, you're standing besides an ex-
Dark Lord, genocidal maniac. We're not going to give him back the power to manipulate us and
string us along like puppets. He's got free access to a built-in Imperius Curse."

Harry stares at Ron, "Then give me mine back," he says, bluntly, "Tom’s mutation stays turned
off... come on, guys. You... you trust me, right?" his voice wavers. It's not an act. The distrust
directed at him chips at his heart. Betrayal and hurt because why didn't they find him, they found
each other easily enough.

He doesn't think about the next step. He's aware of the way Ron tilts his head, aware of how the
mutations twist traits he had once thought funny quirks. Hermione's always had a skill with flames,
and Ron's always been good at chess. He doesn't make a plan because he's best at thinking on his
feet in the heat of the moment and Ron's good at strategy and so he meets their gazes earnestly, his
question still hanging in the air.

"Do you trust me?"

"Oh Harry," Hermione says, "Of course we trust you. It's just--"

Dumbledore glances at Ron who just nods, hesitantly, "Okay," he says, "Tom's powers stay turned
off, Minerva will turn yours back on." He nods to someone over Tom and Harry’s shoulder, and
Harry glances back to see McGonagall standing in the door they’d exited the market from. He can’t
see Snape, hopes the sallow-faced Professor is still in a brawl with Greyback.
There’s a pause and Harry waits for something to change or to feel different. He catches Tom’s
dark eyes, wary and unreadable. This time when Harry reaches for the cyanide power, it comes
springing up as if it wants to be used. He shudders, sees Tom take half a step back as Harry makes
his decision.

Ron, standing over by Hermione, stiffens suddenly, head snapping up as if he knows what Harry’s
going to do next, as if he’s seen five moves ahead of the chessboard.

“Harry, don’t --”

“ No powers ,” Harry says, words curling off his tongue like milk chocolate, “Professor
McGonagall, turn Tom’s mutation back on .”

Dumbledore flinches , “Harry, you’re--” Shacklebolt and Sirius both takes steps forwards even
before Harry wraps mental tendrils around them to keep them in place. The cyanide strands waver,
emotional upheaval making them tremble. They won’t hold for long. “You’re a manipulator,”
Dumbledore realises, “You--”

“ Stop talking ,” Harry snaps. It’s in his voice, it’s pouring off his words so strongly Dumbledore’s
teeth click closed almost biting his own tongue. Harry shakes his head wildly. “I don’t want to hear
what you have to say right now, Professor.”

The Order’s eyes are accusing. Condemning. That's a murderer, they say, that's Voldemort, a
monster and he doesn't know how to explain that Tom isn't Voldemort.

“Harry,” Hermione starts talking, as if not sure she still has control of her tongue and that frisson of
fear is painful , “What are you doing? That’s Voldemort . The monster that killed your parents, that
tried to kill you --”

“He’s not Voldemort,” Harry lies. And it is a lie, at its core - Tom was Voldemort. He can’t deny
that, it’s irrefutable fact but right now the boy standing behind him is less monster and more
human than Voldemort had ever meet, “He’s not ,” he reiterates, “And he was there for me when I
didn’t even know if you were alive or not. I’m… I just…” he can’t put it into words, can’t explain
the way his thoughts tumble over each other. He can’t do this now, he needs space, needs time,
needs to be somewhere where he doesn’t have the pressure of Sirius looking at him with those
pleading eyes, the heart-wrenching tear of seeing Ron and Hermione alive and breathing, and the
cold ice in his veins from seeing Dumbledore’s judgement.

“Harry--” Tom speaks up slowly, as if by speaking somehow he’ll change Harry’s mind.

“Let’s go,” Harry says, I’m sorry, he mouths at Ron and Hermione, sees their confusion, their
devastation and--

Guilt claws at his stomach and he doesn’t hesitate. He turns away.

“Harry, you don’t need to do this,” Dumbledore presses through Harry’s mutation, worn thin over
too many minds, “We’re here to help, my boy--”

“Don’t play that, old man,” Tom sneers, “He’s not your boy , you sent him out like a sacrifical
lamb for slaughter . He’s not yours , anymore--”

“Tom,” it's not an instruction, just a warning but it forces Tom's jaws shut with a definite click.

He looks annoyed, like a cat who has been poked instead of petted, but remains glaring at
Dumbledore for a moment before spinning around, "Let's get out of here," he says, gesturing at
Harry.

The line between Tom Riddle and Lord Voldemort has to count for something.

Harry will defend it, will nurture and care for the human part of Tom Riddle that he knows. It
condemns him, in a way, to be so damn caring for the man who had made his old world a series of
disasters one after the other. It makes him just as guilty, defending his crimes, but he stands his
ground and doesn't move.

“ Don’t follow ,” he says, leaving one last instruction. It’s not permanent, it will wear off and he has
no doubt they’ll chase him down. He almost hopes they do, they deserve to be the ones on the
other side of this for a change, a small part of him thinks vindictively.

He sees the fond annoyance and bewilderment in Ron and Hermione’s eyes; that understanding
that has come from years of friendship that think they know why he’s doing this. It’s the same look
he sees in Tom’s eyes except there is bewilderment there too because this isn’t just anyone, this is
Voldemort .

They all think he’s trying to save Tom’s soul; Ron, Hermione, Tom himself. He doesn’t know how
to explain how that he’s not trying to atone for Tom’s sins.

He’s trying to atone for his own.

Tom’s angry.

Harry is not the empath, but he can sense it. Like an extra limb, Tom’s body is tense, eyes too-
bright and the silences stretch too long as they leave Dumbledore and the Order behind. Harry
can’t understand why he’s so angry, indignation flares because Harry saved his damn hide . “Did
you want to get interrogated by the Order of the Phoenix?” he snaps, rounding on Tom earlier than
intended. He is expecting to be met with teeth fully bared, not this terrible sort of rawness to Tom’s
expression.

“Why did you do that?”

The question hangs in the air. Voldemort… Tom … stalks behind him, his very character and
personality a dissonance. A crack in space and time and a formulation that still makes his head
spin. A similarity hangs between them, a connection he knows has Riddle irritatingly persistent,
present and there . Whatever souls are made of, Harry quotes in his head, his and mine are the
same.

He doesn’t answer the question, stumbles away through the daylight savings time gloom of
London, ignoring the drizzle. Tom slides into his footsteps like a dark shadow Harry has never
managed to shake.

“Potter-- Harry--” Riddle’s voice grows irritated, a hand catches his shoulder and spins him
around, “Don’t walk away from me ,” he snarls, too old for the seventeen year old visage he haunts,
“You turned away from your precious little Order. To Dumbledore. Why ?”

Harry tries to shove him off but fingers curl around the thin skin of Harry’s wrist feeling the
butterfly pulse there. His heart thumps against his chest, ribs made of glass, teeth made of
porcelain, a delicance about that moment that can know no permanence. “If I leave you…” he
searches for words, “We have plans, things to do and… If I leave what then? What do you
become? What do you do ?”
 Tom’s face twists, handsomeness broken into cruelty. “What am I to you; a pet project ? Making
sure I don’t become Voldemort again? Do you think I’m some sort of punishment? Some sort of
demon sent to haunt you? I’m not your responsibility , Potter.”

Harry’s laugh is a twisted thing, “You think I care about your redemption? You, who has the blood
of hundreds on his hands--”

“Wrong world, Harry, darling,” Tom’s head tilts, too perception, too in-tune with Harry’s
emotions, “That’s not it, no… no if you don’t feel responsible for me, then what do you feel
responsible for, huh?” Harry’s jaw clicks shut and Tom’s smile grows, “That’s it, isn’t it? I’m right
?” a note of triumph creeps into his voice.

“No,” he shakes his head.

“Li-ie,” Tom mocks, too smugly, too confidently.

“I can’t,” Harry chokes. “I… “You already said it, you’re my punishment,” Harry sneers, anger and
guilt still warring within him but it’s draining. “Aren’t you?”

“What do you feel responsible for, Harry?” Tom says, quietly, “Why were you avoiding your
friends?”

Harry doesn’t flinch or hesitate. He eyes Tom up for a long moment that seems to last forever
before nodding slowly. And maybe it’s easier to admit this to Tom than it would be to tell
Dumbledore or his friends, “I did this,” he breathes, like he’s kneeling in a confessional, “This
world, I did this .”

“You think a lot of yourself,” Tom narrows his eyes, suspicious and confused.

“No, you don’t understand, I did this ,” his voice is determined, stubborn and resolute, “This is my
fault, Tom, I did this to us. I destroyed our old world in one foolish thought and… and… how could
I face them, knowing that?”

“You’re not making sense.”

Harry’s laugh is hysterical, “Of course not. You didn’t know. You didn’t care , you just wanted the
wand , you didn’t care about the other two. The cloak was mine and Dumbledore gave me you
fucking ring , like a prize , like a consolidation , here you go Potter, you get to die but at least you
can talk to your dead parents once more--”

“You’re not making sense ,” Tom says again, grabbing Harry’s shoulders, wanting to shake the
smaller boy but the way Harry’s green acid gaze is cracked makes him still. “Harry--”

“I united the Hallows,” the words sit in the air between them, sickness clinging to them, “I beat
you, I know you don’t remember but I killed you. I won the wand; I already had the cloak and the
stone and then I had the wand and you were dead and everyone was dead and I… I just wanted it to
go better, I wanted us to have another go and… and... “ he can’t talk, the words stick to his throat,
blood coated and sour. “Don’t you get it, Tom? This world ? You? This world is my punishment.”

Chapter End Notes

[Tom will never admit it, but losing the Elder Wand might have been the best thing he
ever did if it gave him this life, soul whole and...well...mostly intact.
He's got Harry, that's intact enough for him.]
 ink stain that he can't voice
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Does dying hurt?” Harry asks. It’s childish, but it slips out anyway. He feels like he’s five, not
seventeen and about to die. The forest is dark around him, misty in a way that feels like it isn’t
there. The colours make it flat, a single dimension and the only real thing among the trees is his
own flesh and the shadows of his family around him.

“It’s quicker and easier than falling asleep,” Sirius tells him, and Lily holds out her palm as if she
might be able to hold her son’s hand in death as she never could in life.

The stone is hoarfrost in his hand and it’s the easiest thing to curls his fingers around it, tightening
his grip until it digs an imprint into his skin. The cloak is shoved into an inner pocket of his jacket
and he faces death with his head held high.

And he dies.

And he wakes up.

He fakes his death, lies so so still until he can’t feel his heart beating. And then he stands up and
fights .

Voldemort’s nostrils - what’s left of them - flare in rage. His eyes are scarlet red. This monster has
terrified and haunted Harry for years .

The body of the snake lies in pieces . Words fall between them like ashes from a fire that’s been
burning for far too long. They curl sooty on his tongue, and in contrast the words of the disarming
charm are sharp gasoline.

People would think it was stupid, using a disarming charm. It’s weak , pathetic ; they don’t get it.
It’s not about beating Voldemort. Harry has already won. It’s not about magical superiority, or
making sure he gets knocked out. There’s no need for a stunner or blasting curse or even an
Unforgivable were Harry so inclined. It’s not about that, it’s about the wand and the wand…

The Elder Wand knows --

Harry is it’s Master and it dances free of Voldemort’s grip, a wildly spinning killing curse flying
out as it spins across the Great Hall towards Harry. It hits his hand, wood against flesh and
everything--

Everything stops .

Hogwarts shudders around him. The Hallows burn in his hand. Harry meets Tom Riddle’s red red
eyes in the seconds before the green of the killing curse explodes and thinks this could have all
been so so different .

Harry’s shaking and Tom’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. “ I did this ,” Harry is
saying, looking like a thin leaf will blow him over. “I united the Hallows and I wanted everyone to
live. I just wanted the war over , I didn’t want this .”
“But isn’t it better?” Tom grabs tries to steady the younger boy, “Isn’t the war over?”

“Is it?” Harry just stares so so desolately, “My parents still died. Grindelwald’s still raging a war,
except it’s on mundanes and not muggles. And I… I destroyed an entire world, Tom,” his voice is
barely a whisper, a leaf falling in a forest that cracks dry and broken, “I did this; this whole world is
my creation. Is it all a lie?” his head tilts, eyes wide and the green red-rimmed.

Tom can feel the cliff edge he’s standing on. This world, the prospects, the potential here is
limited, yes, but also it’s infinitely more than he had before. (Then again anything is more potential
than his own imminent death). Harry wavers and his emotions flare warm and bright and of course
they feel familiar, a part of Tom has been pressed against them for years . In that instance Tom
sees the boy in front of him, war-haggard and triumphant .

Harry had won . Harry had won and Tom had fallen and maybe that’s why he’s destined to chase
after this infuriating boy who still thinks all the crimes of the world should fall onto his shoulders.
He drops Harry’s wrist in favour of sinking his fingers like claws into the boy’s shoulders, “Snap
out of it,” he says, not gently (because Tom doesn’t do gentle) but stabilizing. Giving back a little
bit of that support that Harry had unconsciously been providing his soul-torn soul. Harry meets his
gaze, eyes hazy and out of focus, “Harry, we are real. This is real .”

“Is it?” a tone so desolate, beaten and trodden down into the dirt, “I united the Hallows, Tom. I’m
the Master of Death. This? This is my punishment.”

“Does it matter?” Tom snaps, “That other world? It’s gone. It’s not coming back, move on --”

There are a hundred oil-slick compulsions in his head from Harry with the explicit instruction of
‘don’t mess with my emotions’ but Tom’s always been good with words, and technically he’s not
messing with Harry’s emotions; he’s imposing his own on the boy. Or more accurately his lack of
them.

He’s not a complete void, but in comparison to the hurricane that is Harry, Tom is a spot of calm in
the storm. Harry flinches, eyes focussing on Tom, flecks of brown in the green of his eyes. Harry
hitches a breath, as if gearing himself and bats rather uselessly at where Tom is still holding onto
his shoulders, “Let go of me,” he mumbles, no power to it.

“Are you done with the guilt trip?” Tom demands.

“Fuck you.”

Tom lets go, smugly satisfied and peels away his emotions from where they’re pressed over
Harry’s panic and self-loathing. “I guess this explains how Dumbledore hitched a memory ride,
then? He held the wand once-- and your parents knew too--”

“Of course they knew,” Harry says, “I used the stone to summon them, they were there in spirit if
not body. Dumbledore too… yet even being there didn’t save them in this world…” he trails off.

“Fate’s a bitch,” Tom says, cockney accent slipping through, rough and crass and it’s like he’s
eleven again standing on the platform next to a scarlet steam train surrounded by strangers.

And then the hat had called out Slytherin and he’d been thrown in the deep end. He wonders, for a
moment, how things would have turned out had he known Harry then, or if he’d even cast the other
boy a glance, Gryffindor and too too good .

Harry lets out a breathless laugh, eyeing Tom oddly, “Yeah,” he says slowly, “It is. Coming from
you especially, it really kind of is.”
“There’s no prophecy here,” Tom shrugs, besides it’s not like he even remembers what the last one
said. “This world is what we make it. It’s all about the potential.”

Emotion is a weakness, he thinks, but no, emotion is a strength but only if you use it right, harness
it, refine it, chip away the weak points (and there are always weak points). He doesn’t reach out,
just let’s Harry’s emotions surge around him. Reassuring in their familiarity, they pulse like a
heartbeat before settling on something not quite anger, and yet too strong to be fondness. “It
doesn’t change the fact that I destroyed the last one.”

“If you’re looking at it like that, we both did. I tore it down and you wiped the slate. But why tell
me? Why not explain this to your friends?” he is still unsure of Harry’s emotions at the moment.
He tests the waters, head tilting to one side, still chasing down an answer to the enigma that is
Harry Potter, “Why run, Harry? Are you telling me that you think they won’t believe you? Or that
they’ll blame you?”

“Wouldn’t you ?”

Tom’s lips crack into a smile, “Why would I? Without you apparently I’d be dead.”

Harry’s close enough Tom can feel the heat of the other boy’s body against his skin, flushed and
heart still thudding with every soft swirl of his emotions, like the tide in a storm. His expression is
still odd, emotions still that odd fierce thing, “How appropriate,” Harry says, and it would be
almost thoughtful did he not sound so lost and bitter, “Because without you I’m nothing. You
defined my life, Tom Riddle. Dumbledore raised me to kill you, forged me into his perfect little
weapon, ready to die on command. I guess it’s only suitable that we made each other, right?”

Memories come like nightmares in the night. He skulks down back alleys and he’s eight , maybe
nine he’s not sure what the date is and--

Runaways do not last. They just don’t. This is not some Enid Blyton book and this is not the 1940s
where kids can survive on tinned spam and ginger beer. It’s rough and hard and gritty and he stinks
. He can’t remember the last time he’s bathed. He would probably not remember the last time he
ate either except his velvet words ensure at least he does not starve.

There is a man scurrying down the London street. Shabby. Greying tips to his hair, even though the
face is youthful. There are three parallel lines across his nose and cheek. Like a claw mark.

He’s familiar. In Harry’s dreams at least. And some part of him wants to go to the man, run to him
and speak to him and--

The man’s grey gaze flickers over him, lounging like an errant child waiting for a parent and
moves on. If there is recognition it is not obvious.

Of course there isn’t recognition. This curse that haunts him; it must be a part of his mutation or
something because it’s not like he’s met anyone else who remembers a second life. Or maybe he’s
just crazy.

Or maybe it’s real --

Reality hurts though. Reality is cold streets and cobbles and a man he thinks he knows and a siren
wailing in the distance and he slips away. Survival instincts that are more half-remembered
memories slip through and he turns with that hunted haunted feeling that crawls along his bones
like a skittering spider. He does what he is best at.
He runs.

He misses the moment Remus turns back to stare for the child with hauntingly familiar green eyes.

“I mean, it’s Harry , of course he’s trying to help the guy. You know he has a saving-people thing-
-”

“It’s V-Voldemort … not even Harry would try to save You-Know Who .”

Hermione stares rather helplessly at Ron who is still shaking his head in denial.

“No, he’s been manipulated. Or maybe he doesn’t remember, properly. Or maybe--”

“Or maybe,” she interrupts his tirade, “Maybe he isn’t any of those things. Maybe he’s just being
Harry.”

The silence between them hangs heavy in the air, and Hermione barely realises that she’s reached
out to grab Ron’s hand until he gives it a reassuring squeeze. She thinks about all the chances that
happened to find him again in this life, the many tiny things that fell into place and then thinks that
no, this would have happened anyway.

Maybe it was the same for Harry and Voldemort. Tom as he had called the other boy, handsome
face and dark eyes and a smile that was too smug, knew too many secrets. It was hard to match the
teenager together with the monster she remembers only catching glimpses of before.

There’s a slam of a door from downstairs. It’s loud enough to make the whole house shake slightly,
old Victorian structure creaking as someone moves around downstairs. Ron takes the few steps that
separates him from the door and creaks it ajar. Loud, raised voices can be heard. Sirius’ angry
demands, Snape’s sneers, Dumbledore’s calm reassurances that they’ll find him, they’ll rescue
Harry and deal with Tom , that name again hanging in the air and it’s easy when it’s a mockery of
the boy the Dark Lord used to be, but that handsome teenager…

It’s no longer a taunt, truth bared for all to see. It’s reality, made flesh and brown eyes and a smug
curling grip around Harry’s neck like a collar. Except no -- it’s not a collar. Tom Riddle does not
hold the leash, “He doesn’t need rescuing, does he?” Hermione asks, as Ron closes the door on the
Order’s meeting that they’ve been kicked out of. Like they’re children, when they’re really really
not.

Everyone keeps forgetting that.

Sirius’ voice rises through from the floor below. “If we just get him away from Riddle--”

“Riddle’s not the problem, Black, the brat has an unforgivable at his beck and call and he clearly
abuses it, didn’t you hear --”

“Severus, please--”

“Maybe he’s being blackmailed. We don’t know Riddle’s mutation, maybe he’s threatening Harry.
Maybe he can kill --”

Ron shuts the door, “I want to get out of here,” he says through gritted teeth, “I can’t take them
trying to plan stuff downstairs, I just keep seeing various iterations of the same argument. They’re
not going to get anywhere.” His blue eyes keep drifting in and out of focus as he unconsciously
focuses on the fragments of possibilities that spring into existence from the debate downstairs.

“Your mum would murder you,” Hermione worries at her bottom lip with too-large front teeth,
“That’s if you didn’t get caught by the DMA.”

“Come to my funeral?”

“Stop being so dramatic.”

He flops onto the bed, looking as useless as Hermione feels. This is nothing like they envisioned.
They had all the horror nightmares of finding Harry dead, of finding him in the DMA facilities,
under the grip of Sentinel Services, or even the more promising thoughts of him surviving and
living, of finding other mutants, other people who remembered--

Hermione had never considered Tom Riddle to be one of them. Honestly she’d never even really
thought about what would happen to Voldemort. He was dead, or as good as. At least he had been
but now…

They’d found the body of the Lestranges, but since then no sign of any ex-Death Eaters. Voldemort
had not once been her consideration.

“Dumbledore knew,” she says, dully.

“What?”

“Dumbledore. He knew Harry was with Tom. He didn’t look surprised, didn’t you notice?
Disappointed, judging, but surprised? Not once. He knew and didn’t say anything.”

“He knows a lot of things he doesn’t voice,” Ron says, sighing, “He’s always got so many things
switching around him, it’s hard to tell what he’s planning but he’s always thinking things through. I
guess that’s what you get for living so long.”

Hermione opens her mouth to respond when Ron sits bolt upright, half a second before there is a
loud, almost apparition-like POP and a piece of paper materialises in mid air. It floats, like ashes,
taking it’s time to drift to the soft bedspread and both Hermione and Ron freeze, staring at it.

“What the--” she starts to say.

“I saw it appear, but--”

She picks it up. It’s a single A4 sheet, folded in half messily and lined, like it’s been ripped out a
notepad. She unfolds it already but she doesn’t need Ron’s short-term predictions to know who it’s
from.

Harry’s messy scrawl has not changed. There’s not much to it; a time and a date, a place and a
postcode. Come alone , added to the end like an afterthought, like he doesn’t trust them not to tell
and that hurts, almost, except Hermione knows it’s well rooted since her first instinct is to tell
Remus or Sirius.

“Useful power,” she says, voice thin and not voicing anything she’s really thinking. She doesn’t
know what to think, how to voice it, because this is a hundred bad ideas written on one piece of
paper and yet… “Well,” she says, grit and determination, “You said you wanted to get out of here,
didn’t you?

*
Ron considers bringing along Sirius. But the moment he tells Hermione he’s filled with growing
dread and regret. No images, but he knows it’s a bad idea. He doesn’t even think to bring up telling
Dumbledore.

Outside the air is cold and fresh. London smog clings to the back of their throats, almost
welcoming in it’s sticky embrace. The pavements are damp from dew, a plane flies overhead and
there are distant siren wails. Their walk is slow, a meander through streets with terraced houses
and parked cars and occasional dodging of the black uniformed DMA agent on patrol. They make
it to the cafe named in the note without incident. It’s a small thing, located in the middle of a
bustling London street. It’s hard to spot anyone coming but also easy to lose someone.

Hermione slips inside to grab seats and order Ron a coffee on instinct. He’s never picked up the
knack of how to order coffee, even knowing what the drink is. He cranes his head - they’ve arrived
early so Ron can try and scry out Harry and his decisions before he arrives, but when Harry does
appear it’s unexpected.

Futures shift and he startles with the suddency of Harry’s appearance. Harry slips out of a shop
awning adjacent to the cafe, green eyes hidden behind unfamiliar shaped glasses and face carefully
blank yet still unable to hide the nervousness in his body. He doesn’t spot Ron initially, shifting
nervously and gaze scanning the crowd.

There is no sign of Tom Riddle.

“Harry?” Ron asks from the doorway and his friend spins around, almost dropping his phone.

Ron takes another moment, waits for the impact of Harry stepping out to hit him or speak or…
or… something but there's nothing further. No hints that Voldemort is joining him, no signs that
Harry's going to run.

Ron takes a deep breath because this is Harry . This shouldn’t be difficult. “Hermione’s grabbing a
table,” he says, offering up a weak smile, “She’s getting drinks - I think she already ordered for us,
you know how she is--”

“Yeah,” Harry looks like he’s been punched, and he clears his throat and speaks again, “Sure, that
sounds good, that--” he stops as Hermione appears next to Ron.

“I’ve got us a--” she doesn’t get the sentence out, a small gasp escaping her as she spots Harry
lingering there. Her brown eyes widen, “You came?” she asks, like she wasn’t sure he was going
to.

“Of course, I asked to meet, didn’t I?” Harry asks. His smile is too wonky, lopsided and unsure,
“It’s good to--”

Brown bushy hair blurs and Harry chokes on a mouthful of Hermione’s hair as she throws herself
at Harry. He looks alarmed, seconds from bolting but relaxes into the hug, shooting Ron a
desperate look as if hoping he’ll rescue him.

Ron doesn’t. He wraps lanky arms around both of them, “You’re an idiot,” he says to Harry, “A
blood idiot , what on earth were you thinking --”

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione pulls away, “I’ve got--” she’s suddenly aware that they’re standing in a
public place, and it’s hard not to miss the way Harry’s tensed as if prepared to bolt, “I’ve got seats-
-”

The way Harry follows, checks around and eyes them up, so uncertain, so cautious hurts just a little
bit. He sits across from them, separated by a table and stirring his drink distractedly with the air of
one who has no intention of drinking it. There’s an awkward silence Ron is almost hesitant to
break, there are so many possibilities swimming in the air. The potential for hope, for joy and for
everything to go wrong all hangs there.

“We thought you were dead,” Hermione speaks up, “Once we remembered and had the resources
we… we couldn’t track down your relatives. And Sirius said Lily and James ran--” Harry shrugs
half-heartedly, not commenting as Hermione continues to talk, “And then the Order got the
instructions to avoid London-- and you were here the whole time-- with--” she trails off, not sure
how to broach the subject.

Harry doesn’t have the same aversion. “Tom,” he says, the name familiar in his mouth, and Ron
can almost see the regret for meeting them here blossom, “He’s not the issue here. I’m not here to
talk about Tom…” Harry’s decisions skitter like he’s got five plans on the go and all
simultaneously alternating from one to the other. The flashes it gives Ron is almost-headache
inducing, except none are concrete enough to give him anything more than mere impressions. He
sits there, half-scared, half-hollowed out like he’s waiting for a blow that doesn’t come.

He’s thin, Ron thinks - but the he’s always been lean. Once again Ron is tall, he towers over both
Harry and Hermione with ease but there’s definition in the way Harry stands, or a sheen of health
that suggests despite a rough childhood Harry's managed to settle. Managed to make-do, to live, to
eat, to--

"We were so worried," Hermione mumbles, wringing at a serviette, not realising that she’s tearing
it into shreds. "I'm so sorry we didn't find you, we wanted to, we really did and we tried, we spent
so long searching with Remus and Sirius--"

"I'm not angry," Harry says, "I'm not-- I'm... I should have found you, tried harder but I... I
couldn't..." he shakes his head, won’t meet their gaze. “The Dursleys…” the flash of something
dramatic that he shies away from, “They moved when I was eight. Didn’t take me with them,” he
shrugs, “The DMA picked me up when I was thirteen--”

“Shit,” Ron says.

Harry’s smile is too wry, “Pretty much. Got caught trying to steal something by convincing a
shopkeeper to let me leave without paying one too many times. Didn’t think about cameras, the
DMA caught wind and they stuck me in one of their facilities. I was there about a year and it…” he
shakes his head, like a fly is bothering him.

“Was that where you met Vol--Riddle?”

He dodges the question entirely, “Luna was there, did she… do you know what--”

“She’s fine,” Ron says, and Harry visibly relaxes, “We figured out you were there, but had no idea
of whether they’d moved you or where you’d ended up. You were gone when the Order raided the
place.”

“I got out before then. Escaped. Barely got away from Umbridge…” he cuts himself off, “They
used to give me something - made everything hazy, to stop resistance. To curb my powers but she
liked this mask… I got too mouthy one day and they… I don’t know what they were going to do,
but Tom got me out. They had some sort of chip inhibiting his mutation, so we--”

“You left it in, right?” Ron can’t help but ask, even though he knows Riddle has his powers, Harry
had demanded McGonagall turn them back on after all.
Harry’s face twists, “No, that’s foul ,” he says, “Are you saying you’d want a piece of tech in your
brain that stops your--” he pauses, “What is it, anyway? Chess strategies?”

“Possibilities,” Ron says, oddly defensive, “Short-term divination, I guess… who’d have thought
huh, given Trelawney and everything that I could get glimpses of the future. What about you, the
Imperius Curse ?”

Harry can’t quite hide the flinch, “It’s not like I get to pick,” he snaps, defensively. Too many
thorns that cut that Ron didn’t even know were there to avoid them, “Besides, it’s been useful. You
don't get to judge. I may not always have liked it, but manipulation is the only thing that's gotten
me this far alive. I'm sorry," he says, again, uselessly.

Hermione shakes her head. There are tears glistening in her eyes, “You don’t have to apologise,”
she says, “Like you said you don’t get to pick. I… I start fires. And control them but I… that part is
hard. I spent most of my childhood starting accidental fires whenever I was stressed, and that was
before the memory bleed through started when I was about 10--”

“You do remember everything, right?” Ron checks, even though the answer should be obvious,
“Some of the Order don’t, and we’ve known for years but Mum thought I was making it up. Fred
and George used to tease me for making up a world about magic for months before they started to
remember.”

Harry takes a sip of his drink, as if to avoid answering, “The Battle of Hogwarts,” he says, meeting
their reaching, searching gazes, “Everyone within the wards remember, eventually.” He offers
them a small smile, “I’d glad you’re alive,” he says, and it sounds like he’s changing the subject
but Ron gets the feeling he isn’t really. “I… I used to have nightmares about that battle, and I
couldn’t remember if you were alive or dead, I just remembered that forest and a green light and it
was like I was holding ice--”

“You went into the forest,” Hermione says, “You stupid stupid-- ”

“It worked,” Harry interrupts, tone harsh, “It got rid of the horcrux in me, I ended up duelling
Voldemort in the courtyard and--”

There’s silence, “And nobody remembers anything further,” Ron says, shortly, “Dumbledore
thinks Hogwarts’ wards tried to protect everyone, but that doesn’t explain why Sirius remembers.”

“It’s not Hogwarts,” Harry says, bluntly.

“That’s the best theory we have,” Hermione chides, gently, “Dumbledore’s the only person buried
on Hogwarts grounds, so that would make sense. Sirius less so, but he fell through the veil so that
might have influence on events--”

“It’s not Hogwarts,” Harry repeats, “Sirius and Dumbledore don’t remember because of the Veil
and Hogwarts, they remembered because I summoned them with the Resurrection Stone.”
Hermione opens her mouth but Ron stops her interrupting with a hand on her shoulder because
Harry’s still talking, “That’s why my parents ran in this world, they remembered too. Their spirits
were on the grounds when I… when the Hallows united. The backlash caught everyone within
Hogwarts’ wards at the time with me as a kind of...centrepoint, I guess, which is why you guys and
Tom remembered sooner. You were closer to the crack. To me. This is my fault,” his green eyes
are dull, flitting from Hermione to Ron and full of uncertainty, “This whole thing, I’m so sorry --”

“Why-- why are you apologising?” Hermione asks, “How is this your fault--?”
Ron can already see the answer. The only reason he doesn’t ask is because he sees the words in the
air already, can see the symbol on Harry’s tongue, an ink stain that he can’t voice, “You united the
Hallows,” he says for his best friend, and Harry shoots him a relieved look. Hermione lets out a
gasp of surprise, and Harry just nods, “You actually-- all three--?”

“I used the stone in the forest. I had the cloak in my pocket. And then Voldemort and I were
duelling, and our wands kept making spells rebound, even though he didn’t have the phoenix
feather and an expelliarmus hit him and… I just wanted everything to be better , but this… this isn’t
better. I destroyed a whole world, how is this better? This world is of my making and it’s anything
but better.”

A part of Harry had hoped Ron and Hermione wouldn’t show. Another part had hoped that they
would.

Fear and doubt had plagued him. He’s relieved they turned up alone, he doesn’t know what he
would have done if Sirius had been there. If Dumbledore had been there.

He examines their faces, so uncertain, so cautious, so alive . Not a trace of the war-stained
expressions he remembers. Their expressions waver as they try to comprehend the bombshell he’s
dropped on them and he almost wishes he had Tom’s powers so he could figure it out, tease the
emotions apart that are flitting across their faces. “But you’d had the stone for months. It was in
the snitch, wasn’t it?” Hermione is frowning.

“I’d had the wand for weeks too,” Harry points out, “Dumbledore was disarmed by Malfoy who
was disarmed by me. Voldemort never had it in the first place, it was already mine and the moment
I held all three everything just…” he shakes his head, words failing him for once in his life, “I
didn’t mean to,” he adds, wildly, “But I did and I… I didn’t know how to tell you, to tell anyone.
I… I caused this shift in reality. It’s like I time travelled and erased hundreds of people from
existence and everything is different and yet the same and--” he trails off, not sure how to explain
the jarring guilt that claws at him.

Why did Harry get this power, this one wish and get it twisted so far from what he had meant?

“It’s not worse,” Ron seems to be trying to reason it through, “Not the way the wizarding world
was going--” but his voice is trailing off, because it’s an impossible concept to comprehend, really.
Harry destroyed an entire universe . With one errant thought he ripped it to shreds and reforged it.
And sure, he thinks, glancing around, there’s nothing superficially wrong with it and few people
realise the document has been edited and re-saved but he knows --

Hogwarts, magic - it had been his home , his life , and he had torn that into something unfamiliar
and terrifying where they were all in the middle of a war for their rights and lives.

"This world is better,” Hermione says, voice strong, “Everyone is alive--"

"Are they?" he interupts, harshly.

“Yes,” she says, frowning, “Fred, Tonks, Remus…”

“My parents aren't."

Hermione's rant chokes and dies.

"They still died," Harry says, a horrible terrible gnawing at his stomach, "People close to me still
die, that's how it works. They remembered what happened and they ran. They ran and they got
killed for it." He laughs and it's hysterical bordering on a panic attack, "I mean, look at you - you
guys remember way more than Dumbledore does. Tom knew magic was a thing the moment he hit
eleven. At least I didn't care about him, but you... you guys... I'm not good for anything other than
dragging everyone else down with me."

“Is that why you’re hanging out with Voldemort?” Ron’s face lights with understanding, “You’re
trying to punish yourself for something you couldn’t even control?”

“I’m not here to talk about Tom,” he says, uselessly, “He’s not… this is about me. About this
universe , about the Order being in London and the DMA - you’ll get in the way, we have a plan--”

"But that’s the real problem, isn’t it?” Ron interrupts, seeing how Harry’s sentence probably
finishes and answering before the words can breathe air, “You’ve been playing at being a criminal
with Lord fucking Voldemort ,” Ron’s anger is enough to overpower the stigma of the name, sneer
spat out between them. His tone softens slightly, but there’s still that hard cold edge of a knife in
his question, "Why the fuck are you making nice with Voldemort?"

“I said I didn’t want to talk about Tom, he’s not something that’s easy to explain,” he snaps back,
defensively. He knows he can’t even begin to broach that topic. How can he? He had been nothing.
He’d had scattered memories, a penchant for survival and twisting words, no identity documents,
no money, nothing . No friends, no family, no job. Umbridge could have locked him in a dungeon
and thrown away the key and he’d have been lost. Bellatrix could have murdered him and left him
in a ditch and nobody would have even noticed he was missing.

He’d had nobody other than Tom.

And now they stand there and judge him.

Tom is both everything Voldemort was and nothing that Voldemort was. There is murder on his
knuckles and poison in his blood. He is destruction wrought human and vice given gravity. He is
potential , and charming and smart and it’s easy to see why so many respected him.

“It’s Riddle , Harry,” Ron says, like that should make everything clearer.

"He's not Voldemort!" he shakes his head, because he can see already they’re not going to give up
on this. He pushes his still full coffee away from him and it slops onto the table as he makes to
stands, "Okay, yes,” he’ll give them this much, “He’s a horrible person. But I know him; better
than he probably knows himself. Do you really think I’d play house with that psychopathic
monster who murdered so many? He’s a teenager, all mid-puberty and angst and--”

“Harry, Tom Riddle’s teen angst bullshit has a body count.”

“So does mine,” he snaps, and the words turn to ash the moment he says them, but they’re there,
they fall like snow cold and ice encrusted. He steps towards the door because this has already gone
further than he’d have liked. Tom was right this was a stupid, emotional decision--

Ron just looks disappointed and somehow that’s worse , “Harry, you’re running a criminal
enterprise with the guy who nearly manipulated my sister into suicide."

That hurts . He reels backwards with hurt. He hasn’t thought of Ginny for so long. Wonders where
she is, if she’s okay, if she’d look at him with equal disappointment for his choices in conspiring
with his murderer. He shakes his head, spinning away, running , like a coward.

He’s no Gryffindor in this life, that much is for sure. Survival is the name of the game.
“Harry--”

“This was a bad idea,” he says, half-twisting, “Look, I’ve given you my information. I’ll get
another message to you-- this was stupid, you have no idea, none at all--"

"He's a psychopath--"

"Shut up," he snaps and Ron listens, eyes widening as Harry whirls on them, "He was there. He
was there when none of you were! He saved my life, and like it or not I owe him."

"Harry--” Hermione whispers, a gasp echoing her words, “Your mutation--"

"What?" he catches sight of Ron, trying to mouth words, nothing coming out and realises what he
did. He flinches away, feeling nausea churn at his gut because how could he have been so careless
, he should have known better .

Words can kill. Especially Harry’s.

He should have fucking known better. This was dangerous and stupid and--

A flare of panic sparks within him, not his own. It’s unfamiliar and sparked with warning. “Who
did you tell?” he turns back to them, “I told you to come alone… you said you came alone--”

Hermione looks wide-eyed, deer in the headlights, “We didn’t! What’s wrong, why--?” she stops,
eyes settling on something behind Harry, “What did he say , we didn’t--”

“You told someone ,” he snarls, “The Order are here--”

“What? How do you know that? They’re not--”

“They are,” Tom’s there suddenly, next to Harry and gaze scanning around, “Black’s here with
Dumbledore, I picked them up along the street, Black’s like a soppy puppy --”

Ron and Hermione’s reactions are instantaneous, Ron looking alarmed and not sure what he’s
meant to do with Tom right there . He reaches for a wand that isn’t there while Hermione jumps
back in surprise. “Riddle’s here,” Ron mumbles, “You told Riddle, what was he doing , stalking
our conversation--?”

“I was keeping a lookout, you think I’d let him meet Order members without backup? And
evidently it was needed since you obvious told someone--”

“No!” Hermione shakes her head, bushy hair spinning wildly, “Harry, you have to believe us, we
didn’t tell anyone, we--” she looks to Ron for reassurance but the redhead has his hands pressing
against his closed eyelids.

He drops his hand, “The note,” he groans, “I left Harry’s note in our room… Sirius must have
found it… shit --”

“Clearly someone found it,” Tom sneers, unimpressed, “Given the presence of an overeager
godfather and fucking righteous old man who is convinced he’s right on the warpath, it’s making
me sick , ugh,” Tom pulls a face. “Harry, are we done here--?”

“You can’t go with him!”

Harry feels like he’s drowning. This should have been simple, why couldn’t his life just be simple ,
“No,” he shakes his head, and for a moment Hermione and Ron look relieved, before he finishes
speaking, “No, I’m done, I can’t do this now--”

Tom’s smile is smug, yes, especially when Hermione’s spluttering protests drown like a fish on dry
land, but there’s something hopeful in his expression that Harry doesn’t think Tom himself is
aware of. Under all that triumph, that confident arrogance of someone who’s won this little tug-of-
war over Harry there’s a stark vulnerability and Harry thinks he’s the only one that sees it, the tiny
note of relief that Harry’s still with him.

It’s confusing, it’s conflicting, it’s the wrong damn time for this ---

“You can’t just let Riddle force you--”

“He’s not,” Harry snaps, “I’m not some helpless damsel in distress, Hermione. Tom’s not
manipulating me. He can’t, I’m the one with the Imperius Curse, remember? But I won’t do this
now. I can’t… I want to see Sirius but not now. Not like this… Not with Dumbledore--”

“They’re nearly here,” Tom steps to the entract, gaze scanning the crowds even as he tracks the
emotions moving towards them, “I’d say lovely to meet you, Granger, Weasley, but that would be
a lie--”

“Harry, please--”

“I’m sorry, I’ll contact you--”

“HARRY!”

He’s outside and following Tom in a moment, Hermione and Ron left floundering in the doorway.
Ron’s gaze tracks him for a moment, futures probably spinning in his head before Harry loses sight
of him, trying to duck away from where he can see the beard bobbing along the pavement. His
breath catches and bitter resentment wells up and he’d always been better at using his powers when
he was angry, so the freeze that he manages to wrap around Dumbledore’s thoughts shouldn’t make
him feel sick but it does.

“This way. Thank Merlin you let me convince you to meet your pals where there was somewhere
with a quick escape--”

“Harry!”

The call rings out down the street. Harry shouldn’t turn, but he does, sees Sirius’ form, wavy hair,
grey eyes and for a moment he wants nothing more than to run over to his godfather and embrace
him in a hug--

He feels seconds away from an actual panic attack. He’s not sure if it’s Tom, bristling next to him
with anticipation or adrenaline, or the eternal weariness that wells up inside him because he’s so
tired --

But he has a plan. He’s seen what this world brings and the Order is not the way to go about this.
He meets Sirius’ pale gaze and steps away, seeing the hurt and odd resignation in his godfather’s
gaze. Sirius’ head jerks and at that moment there is a yelp from nearby. A woman trips over a cat
that throws itself out of the nearby doorway. Her form shimmers, like an illusion dropping and
Harry sees bubblegum pink hair before he’s grabbing Tom and throwing himself down the nearest
alleyway.

He hears the curse of Tonks trying to right herself, Sirius’ barking question and feels the moment
his coercion over Dumbledore slips but by then it doesn’t matter. London is Tom and Harry’s
playground, with all it’s shortcuts and hidey-holes and twisted backwater paths. It’s an old city
turned new far too fast leaving it ugly yet beautiful, crowded yet oddly empty. The Order could try
to catch up but they don’t really stand a chance.

“I told you meeting them was a bad idea,” Tom says, as they clamber up a metal fire escape that
leads to the back of their apartment, “But did you listen - do you ever listen--”

“Ron and Hermione weren’t the problem. And look, Dumbledore’s going to be chasing you
regardless, so really whose fault is this, here?”

Tom curls his lip and doesn’t answer, fishing out the key they have stashed in the crack where the
mortar between two bricks has crumbled away and jabbing it into the lock with more force than
necessary.

“It was lucky we didn’t walk straight into Tonks. You didn’t notice her?”

“Lucky for us. Unlucky for her,” Tom sounds considering, “No, I don’t see her. She shifts like
Barty but she must have something else. It keeps her under my radar - she just doesn’t crop up.”

“Inconspicuous,” Harry hums, “She passed disguise and concealment with full marks. Sirius must
have done something--”

The locks gives and the door creaks open, safety illuminated by the soft grey light of the city. “I
can’t believe we pulled one over on Dumbledore again,” Tom’s grinning wildly, triumphantly and
still with that damn smug look like he’s pulled a fast one over on the Order and stolen Harry out
from under their noses, “Did you see his face ?”

“Was too busy trying to hold a coercion over him,” Harry admits, adrenaline still pumping through
his veins, heart racing . He laughs, a little wild from the sheer idea that he could hold Dumbledore
still for even a few moments. The absurdity of the situation is not lost on him.

Harry just helped Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort reborn, escape from justice. He’s fully aware of all
the irony of that. And yet he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to find the emotion to care. He
briefly contemplates the idea that Tom is manipulating him but--

Tom is staring at him, eyes dark. Maybe it's the adrenaline pumping through his veins like liquid
fire. Maybe it's the way his heart is racing, the way their laughter rings through the air and his
power curls comfortably at the base of his spine, warm and content and his.

Harry isn't sure what it is that contributes to it, but one minute he's meeting Tom's grin - not a
smile, never a smile, Riddle doesn't smile, no it's a grin of triumph and power and satisfaction like
the cat that caught the mouse and found the cream too. One minute Tom's grinning, wildly,
exhilarated, then next Tom's right there, breath warm against Harry's skin and their lips are
crashing together. It's messy. Clumsy. Tom's eager and inexperienced and Harry hasn't kissed
anyone since Ginny in another life. Teeth click together, noses bump and laughter is still caught in
Harry's throat, because who would have ever thought Lord Voldemort was bad at kissing--

He tears away, rolling happiness curdling and draining from him. "What the hell?" he asks, staring
with wide eyes at his fate assigned murderer.

"You were magnificent," Tom says, like that explains it. “I can’t believe you did that for me.”

It doesn't.
 "What are you doing?" he tries to push Tom away, but the older boy is larger, stronger--

"I'd have thought that was obvious," Tom sounds almost disappointed, gaze searing as it rakes up
and down Harry's form.

“Uh, no, it-it really isn’t--”

“Harry, we’re literally soulmates--”

“That’s not how it works--”

“Isn’t it?” Tom tilts his head to one side, “Tell me you don’t feel it, tell me you don’t want this,
because I can tell when you’re lying and feel what you’re feeling and you crave it.”

Harry’s breaths come in short sharp pants. His fingers are splayed put against Tom’s skin, pulse
fluttering like a trapped butterfly beating its wings. It would be so easy --

He pulls away, “It’s a side-effect,” he says, voice too-hoarse, “From the horcrux, and because
you’ve been using me as a damn emotional crutch--”

Tom doesn’t push. That almost makes it worse . “Of course,” he says, tone too polite, pupils still
blown, “My apologies--”

Harry almost sways closer, fingers curling into his own skin and nails digging in, he wants to spit
out another excuse but they’re all dry on his tongue. The adrenaline is still making his heart race.
That’s the only reason, he tells himself.

“We need to get Dumbledore and the Order out of London,” Tom says, eyes still bright but acting
as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just tried to--

“What?” Harry blinks, unable to follow Tom's train of thoughts, mind still lingering.

“We’ve done this your way,” Tom’s smile is not-nice, “Now it’s time to do it my way.”

Chapter End Notes

[Harry thinks it’s unacceptable that Tom Riddle used to be hot, it’s slightly
distracting.]
 business to settle
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Renown Oxford scholar publishes controversial paper regarding mutants-- no, here it is. Mutant
Activist opens school-- oh, they’ve definitely got someone on the inside keeping its location under
wraps but this should be enough,” Harry triumphant waves around the newspaper clippings he’s
amassed. Tom’s perched on the arm of the sofa, examining Harry with dark eyes.

He can feel the weight of Tom’s gaze, like hands curling around his spine.

“They’re not even trying to be original,” Harry says, searching for something to say, “But at least
he didn’t call the school ‘Hogwarts’ I don’t think I could have coped with that --”

On the newspaper a younger Dumbledore stares out with a soft smile, beard short and neatly
trimmed. The photo is still, unmoving.

Tom is still not saying anything. Harry’s anticipation twists to sour wine, and he knows Tom can
feel it. Ethanol burns easily though, and he glares challengingly at Tom.

“Don’t look like that,” he chides, “This was your idea - I’m just here to keep an eye on you and
make sure you don’t murder Dumbledore.”

“Me? Murder that old man? There’s hardly a point, is there, he should drop dead in the next
decade.”

“Unless his mutation really is longevity in which case you’re out of luck.”

Tom’s lip quirks, worryingly, like he’s actually considering the logistics of murdering Albus
Dumbledore. Given Grindelwald’s own age Harry is pretty sure they either ran into someone with
the ability to improve lifespans or their mutations interlink somehow. He doesn’t care, he refuses to
care about Albus Dumbledore and his miasma of problems that Harry hadn’t even begun to be
aware of, let alone entitled to know even when they apparently concerned him. “I will,” Tom says,
and Harry tilts his head, questioningly, “If you want me to, we can get rid of him, it would be so
easy --”

Silken words, like he’s not suggesting murder . Sweet and poisoned like a soft yellow laburnum
branch and yet they come from a place of almost good intentions.

The closest Tom gets to good, anyway.

“He’s not worth the effort,” Harry says, because that’s true, and also he wants answers, years in the
making. He’s long past anger and resignation, just some sort of tired curiosity that exists more for
curiosity's’ sake rather than any real importance.

After all, that world doesn’t exist anymore. Harry made sure of that.

“Are we going to talk?” he asks instead, looking up at the boy-teenager-man he’s fate entangled
with in any world, “About…” he doesn’t quite know how to voice it, and he almost wishes he’d
never said anything when Tom gets a predatory look in his eyes and steps forwards. Harry refuses
to look away first, meeting brown eyes.
“Is there something to talk about?” Tom asks, and yes , Harry wants to say, wants to put it into
words because that’s what you’re meant to do, that’s what he had done with Ginny but--

But this had been a while coming, a part of him realises, and this is Voldemort a part of him
screams but it’s not all Voldemort and somehow that’s an important definition in his head because
the handsome teenager standing before him might reek of sociopathy but there’s ambition and
drive there too that right now slots so well with Harry’s own plans.

Ugh, Harry has got to stop thinking of him as handsome, it’s really not helping matters.

Tom is dissonance at it's finest and it confuses Harry, the boy - young man - he has come to know
with quick thoughts and sociopathy like a second nature compared to the insanity that was
Voldemort. They are still the same and he still remembers the boy and the basilisk.

Maybe Harry is just badly calibrated in this world. This shouldn’t be so appealing. Tom is as
callous, superficial and cold as a dusting of snow on the hard frosted ground.

Maybe Tom’s right, maybe he is masochistic, or maybe he just misses the danger that dogged his
footsteps and the soul that wrapped around his own.

He tries not to think about the implications of that.

“You’re feeling too much,” Tom says with a tilt of his head, and Harry wonders at what point he
had allowed the other boy’s voice to become so familiar.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Harry retorts, “Look at you worrying about Albus freaking
Dumbledore, like he’s a problem. Do you really want to do this?” he waves around the newspaper
article, years out of date but hopefully enough for a trace on a location. Hopefully enough to give
them their way into the Order’s base of operation.

“There are just a lot of risks involved,” Tom points out, mildly, “If it gets them off our backs it’s
worth it. But if something goes wrong, if we make a mistake…”

“You won’t,” Harry says, staring at the sleep-deprived teenager in front of him, “You’re literally
perfect, nothing is going to go wrong.”

Tom spins around, fatigue lining his every move. An exhaustion that comes from living in the
shadows like a vice, clamping down and chaining him. “Why?” he snaps, “Why are you so damn
optimistic ? Is it a Gryffindor thing or is it just you?”

Harry forgets, more often than he should that Tom can read his emotions. He leans against the door
frame, trying to find the words to explain something he knows Voldemort never understood, “Hope
is what gives us reason, Tom. Hope makes us live.”

He looks unimpressed, this boy who society abandoned and so decided to burn down society,
“Hope,” he sneers, “Is simply what dies last.” Scorn and bitterness.

“Sure,” Harry agrees, “Then my hopes you can be redeemed will die when I do. Come on, let’s go
to bed , Tom.”

Tom tilts his head, lips quirking in a smile, “Was that a offer?” he leers.

Harry’s torn between blushing and shoving Tom violently in the chest. He manages to just kind of
flail awkwardly instead, “Shut up,” he splutters, “Don’t make me compel you.”
A hand closes on his wrist and Tom is right there suddenly, looming over Harry. Harry’s just
started to hit his growth spurt but Tom is still somehow tall, no matter how much he grows. “Don’t
you dare,” he says, but there’s no fire in his voice, “We have business to settle with Albus
Dumbledore, you and I both. But I’ll play nice. For you.” Tom’s staring at him, head tilted to one
side and staring at Harry with an odd expression on his face. This is the murderer of Harry’s
parents, and yet there is nothing of that man in the look on his face. Voldemort is dead, given soul,
and Tom is here and the past is gone.

“I’m not asking you to play nice,” Harry shrugs, carelessly, “Just don’t kill anyone.”

“We are slaves to the gods,” Tom murmurs, “Whatever gods are. I make no promises.”

It’s the closest Harry will get to assent.

“We’re the gods here,” he reminds Tom, quietly, “We make our own fate,” and Tom’s grin is
damning in it’s agreement.

“Ready?”

“Yes.”

Harry’s giddiness twists into rot waiting to happen as the nerves sink in. A quaint feeling of lost
overwhelms him - it’s almost unusual, Harry is one to dive straight first into everything and yet
somehow this makes him stop and question his every move. Tom doesn’t like it and the sooner
they can get this over with the better.

Harry is his .

Tom has established his empire and sure, it could use some work and expansion but the
foundations are there and sure he didn’t anticipate Harry playing such an important role--

He hadn’t anticipated Harry . That was, in retrospect, the problem. Nobody can quite predict
Harry, and certainly not Tom when faced with the pure emotional drive that is part of his soul.

Because that’s it, surely, this connection he feels with the boy. Harry can deny it but the soul left
scars on both of them.

“You sure about this?” Harry wavers, and the boy has avoided literally all of the reminders of his
past life, too used to running, too used to never looking over his shoulder. Even Tom is a facsimile
of his past self, different enough that Harry takes it and keeps moving. The link between them
some undescribed thrumming thing that is just under the surface, present but impossible to put
words to.

“We’ve done this your way,” he points out, “Time to do it my way.”

Their past like chains shackling them, dragging Harry away from him. Tom intends to break them
once and for all because the mere idea of Harry leaving…

It’s unacceptable.

Besides, Harry has made his choice and his point is valid. Tom would probably last a week before
bodies started dropping and it would be such a shame for Tom Riddle to end up in mutant prison
somewhere.
They utilise the tracking abilities of the younger Lestrange brother, still alive and made blissfully
ignorant of what happened to his brother and sister-in-law. Although not to the same skill of
Rodolphus at tracking specific people, he can find objects and scry visuals, and it’s enough to get
Harry and Tom a location. Much like Greyback he follows Tom less because of fear of who
Voldemort used to be and more respect for who Tom is now.

His and Harry’s reputation precedes him.

Dumbledore’s precious school is a distorted mirror of what Hogwarts had once been. It’s been
purposefully built not to resemble the school, but somehow manages to anyway. It’s located in the
Peak District, four hours north of London and not as much hidden as just reclusive amongst the
rolling hills and soft valleys. Nobody bothers the rich wealthy man’s estate house turned private
school, and nobody has quite made the link to who owns the property yet and his abilities.

“Their security sucks,” Harry says, with the air of one who had to learn very quickly how to rig
and disable security cameras, alarm codes and various other technical hazards. In comparison to the
various facilities and banks they’ve ventured through in the past two years, they practically walk
in.

It’s all too easy.

The last thing Albus Dumbledore expects that morning when he enters his office is Tom Riddle to
be lounging in the chair.

To the old man’s credit he doesn’t react dramatically, just arches an eyebrow, gaze skimming
across the room as if to ascertain how Tom got in and if he was alone. The room just as cluttered
with trinkets and curios as his old one was, outrageous purples and reds decorating the curtains that
trail across the windows. “Tom,” Dumbledore says, slowly, and looks like he’s about to say
something else but can’t quite help the, “How did you get in here?” that slips out.

“Please, Professor , breaking into places is currently my job description,” Tom’s smile is not
pleasant, “Take a seat,” he gestures, and given he’s stolen Dumbledore’s own seat, desk drawers
clearly open and rifled through, Dumbledore is forced into the seat usually reserved for his
students. “And don’t think about trying to contact anyone,” Tom adds, head tilting to one side
feeling the old man’s adrenaline spike, “Mentally or whatever other little trick you were
contemplating.”

“Telepathy, then?” Albus sighs, relaxing into his chair and reaching for a jar on his own desk. Tom
doesn’t react as he unscrews the lid and offers it to him, “Lemon drop?”

“Eternal youth?” Tom fires back, ignoring the sweet, “You look amazing for over a hundred.”

“The follies of youth,” Albus helps himself to his own sweet, popping it in his mouth and sinking
back into his chair with the air of one who is in complete control despite the situation saying
otherwise, “Everything over fifty is considered old. No, I’m afraid my mutation is far milder than
that,” he hesitates half a second before offering up the information freely, “I see memories. I can
even control them to some extent and rewrite them, although I am loathe to do that.”

“A human pensieve,” Tom drawls, “How useful.”

“Quite,” Albus’ smile is thin, “But far more dangerous than you might think.”

“Obliviating someone of their memories is as bad any one of the unforgivables,” Tom says, and
even as he says it he knows that while it’s true - tampering with memories can be wrong and
intrusive and can twist who a person is - yet it can also heal.

It had healed him, hadn’t it, erased the years of madness, he has nightmares about lacking a body,
about being a wraith, an impression of a soul-torn spirit pressed against the fabric of the world and
wakes in a cold sweat, thankful he knows nothing but flashes of his own foolishness scarring
punishment onto his psyche.

Immune to Tom’s contemplation Dumbledore tries to look like he’s not unnerved by Tom’s visit.
His tone is polite and a stage too calm. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Tom, of you hunting down
my school and me for this conversation?” Try as he might to hide it his blue gaze flickers, curiosity
spikes.

“Harry’s not here,” Tom lies, although it’s technically truth, Harry is not in the room, “He doesn’t
want to speak to you, why do you think he met Granger and Weasley alone? You and the mutt
unfortunately interrupted before he had a chance to pass on our message so here I am. Establishing
boundaries. London’s ours. Keep the Order out .”

Dumbledore barely reacts to the threat, “Is Harry okay?” he asks instead, “What did you do to
him?”

Tom laughs. It’s an ugly thing. “What did I do to him ? You mean ‘what did he do to me ’?”
Dumbledore’s face flickers in confusion and then clears in a moment, “He’s so goddamn good ,”
Tom sneers, “Even with everything that happened to him, even with his occasional bouts of anger,
and you know why he avoided you? Because he felt guilty over what happened at the battle.”

“Guilty?”

“Of course,” Tom plucks up a pen from the desk, begins spinning it between his long fingers, “You
weren’t there. Apparently you think Hogwarts gave everyone another chance or some bullshit.
You’d been so busy playing god, trying make sure that the Elder Wand stayed out of my hands that
you never contemplated the fact that it would end up in his.”

He enjoys the flurry of emotions that spin through the old man. They’re muted, blocked by an
occlumency shield that doesn’t exist, but it bleeds through anyway. The shock, the dawning
realisation and the facts that he juggles in his head.

“Don’t you see what playing god gets you?” Tom lets the words hang themselves in the air, “Don’t
you think it’s time you stepped back and let us play out our own fates, prophecy free?”

His words manage to right something in Dumbledore, “You don’t know the prophecy,” he says,
confident in the belief that he is intrinsically right . “You don’t know Harry , he’s good, better than
us both--”

“He was,” Tom corrects, “But he’s already died for you once and I won’t let him do it again. He
won’t throw himself off that cliff, not this time. He's not yours , he's mine. Do you understand?
He's mine, I found him, I saved him, I taught him. I was there for him when nobody else was. He's
of my soul and nothing you or any of your precious Phoenix allies do can change that--"

Dumbledore flinches at that proclamation and Tom enjoys the horror and revulsion that bleeds
through. “No,” he whispers, “You locked up your horcruxes in a possessive, greedy rage but you
treat Harry like…” he breaks off, and the whole train of conversation makes Tom uncomfortable.
Harry is useful . He makes no pretenses at that, and having Harry as an enemy with the power to
control people was a foolish move. Of course he’d treat the boy well, watch him grow into himself,
play nice , play the good guy on a crusade , it matched Harry’s ideals and it matched Tom’s plan
and---

“Do you…” Dumbledore pauses, as if uncertain, “Do you care for him?”

“Of course I care for him,” Tom smirks, leaning back in the chair, “He’s my soul.”

Dumbledore doesn’t react, face still and looking at Tom sitting in his office chair like he’s seeing
him for the first time. “You don’t love him,” he says, eventually, “You’ll break him.”

Tom wants to laugh. His lip curls up, slightly bitter. Truth bared real. Of course Tom doesn’t love
him. This isn't about love as in caring, this is about property as in ownership. That’s how these
things work , emotions are a shackle , a chain --

And even separated by wide corridors and many floors, Tom is aware of Harry’s emotions in a
steady, constant buzz--

They don’t feel like a chain. They feel like the closest thing Tom has felt to hope.

Harry doesn’t exactly try to be stealthy once he’s in and split from Tom. He stalks the hallways
with mixed curiosity and distinct lack of fear. This is, after all, just a school, not a government
facility.

The two students who are awake this early and pass him in the corridor barely glance at him. He’s
just another teenager, the school is large, it makes sense they haven’t seen him before. There’s a
chance they might recognise him from a previous life but his hair is shorter, less messy and more
spikes and he’s managed to locate contact lenses, as irritating as he finds them. There’s no scar on
his forehead to mark him out, not in this world.

The school is nice. A proper old English house with fancy fittings and old wood floors. The
doorwards are stone, window ledges warped wood and glass a layer too thin for the hills it sits in.
There are various shiny trinkets on the odd bookshelf but he doesn’t have Tom’s compulsion to
steal every shiny thing that is thrown in his path. He keeps wandering, because he knows
eventually--

“You’re giving me a headache,” Ron says, still wearing pajamas with one of his mum’s wool
jumpers as he appears in the doorway to the library-like room Harry is still trying to work out if it’s
a drawing room or common room. “Wondering what you’re doing and then I start getting flashes of
you wandering around in here like an idiot --”

“You say that like I’m wanted and on the run,” Harry quirks a lip.

“Uh, from what I hear,” a warm female voice adds, peeking out from behind her brother, “You
kind of are.”

Ron lounges in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the stone arch. Hermione lingers
besides him but Ginny strolls straight forwards, a fiery whirlwind. “Hey guys,” Harry says, almost
sheepishly, “Lovely place you’ve got here--”

Hermione shakes her head, almost exasperatedly. “What, exactly, are you doing? How did you
even get in, there are cameras and...and…”

“Breaking in,” Harry answers cheekily, “Hermione, I’ve been breaking into places with security
that is a lot higher than this for years now.”
“You can’t just break into places !”

“Oh, but Harry here thinks he can do anything he wants, isn’t that right?” Ginny’s tone is not quite
icy. It’s too fond for that, but there is definitely a note of distinct amusement, “The big brave
chosen one, found at last in the heart of the DMA with Lord Voldemort of all people.”

“No chance you could just be a dear, Gin, and calm down .” His smile is charming, stolen straight
from Tom and it flickers and fades when Ginny doesn’t move.

She crosses her arms, arches an eyebrow, and she’s only fifteen but there are already stubborn,
determined fiery hints of the woman she will be. “Nice try,” she says, “Mental powers don’t work
on me.”

“At all?”

“I got manipulated once, Harry, it’s not happening again.”

Harry’s eyes widen and the flinch is subtle but it’s there. “I’m sick of justifying myself,” he says,
voice bitter, and his gaze flickers with warning to where Hermione ducks her head away
sheepishly, “I’ve already heard it.”

Ginny shrugs, “Fine,” her voice is curt, “Sleep well with your bad decisions. What’s the occasion
for the visit? After all this time and now you try to track us down?”

“Well, by now Tom’s made it to Dumbledore’s office,” Harry shrugs, “And they’ve had a
conversation where hopefully nobody got hurt and everyone’s feelings are still intact--” Ginny’s
face is already falling, expression burning and Harry honestly should have seen the slap coming.

“Ginny!” Ron lurches forwards in alarm.

“I probably deserved that,” Harry says, pressing one hand to his smarting cheek.

“Oh, you definitely do,” Ginny says, but any fight that had been sparking there drains out and she
drops one one of the lounges, “But it is good to see you again.”

“You lot are ridiculous,” Hermione sniffs, “And Harry you need to stop annoying everyone,
eventually you’re going to bump into someone who doesn’t have control of their mutation and is
going to turn you into ash.”

Harry’s smile is so wide it makes his cheeks hurt, “You haven’t changed, Hermione,” he says.

“You have,” she says, quietly.

His smile flickers.

“But I don’t think that’s a bad thing,” she adds, tilting her head to one side, a slow realisation
seeming to dawn there, “I can’t say I approve of everything but--” she trails off, shaking curls out
of her eyes, “How did you find this school anyway? I mean, it’s not hidden , but it’s not public
knowledge.”

Harry shrugs, knowing he’s irritating her by not giving a clear answer, “I know someone,” he says,
tone blase, “It seems like a nice place though, fancy - someone’s clearly got the money to spend.”

“You’ll never believe it,” Ron says, the voice of one who is still horrified by this fact, “But
Malfoy’s are loaded in this world as well. And I don’t know what they remember of the Battle of
Hogwarts, but they were shovelling money in the way of mutant protections the moment they
heard about this school.”

Ginny chews on a piece of her hair, and doesn’t appear to realise she’s doing it, “It is nice,” she
says, “Bill, Charlie and Percy all went to public school, it was a nightmare hiding their mutations -
but by the time Fred and George came around to schooling Ron had already started insisting magic
had been a thing. Managed to make contact with Dumbledore--”

“He had no idea,” Ron says, slowly, “About any of it-- don’t look like that, Harry, it wasn’t your
fault--”

It really sort of was, Harry wants to argue, that was how it worked , he was the key to all of this,
but he keeps quiet, lets Ron talk.

“The twins, Ginny and I were allowed to board and study here. Nobody remembered, but here I
found Hermione,” Ron steps forwards, wraps a hand around Hermione’s shoulders and she leans
into it, expression soft. Harry’s gaze flickers, and he’s missed something here but at the same time
there’s not exactly anything to miss, this had been a good few years in the making last time, he has
no doubt it was the same here.

“My parents had a nightmare with me. Fire-starting doesn’t lend itself to subtlety. Thankfully
Dumbledore had started a recruitment drive for mutants who stood out, McGonagall tracked me
down. Ron turned up a year later. And then Dumbledore sat us down and asked us what we
remembered.”

“Bits and pieces,” Ginny shrugs, “A mix between everyone watching a movie at the same time and
wanting to talk about it to compare notes and this odd feeling that you’ve already seen it and just
going about your day to day. It was fine but then you’d reference something. One person would
look confused while someone else would just respond normally. Some of the students here were
Hogwarts students during the battle. A good chunk of them...just don’t care. They did the pre-
mandated session with Dumbledore or McGonagall to talk about it and moved past it - they don’t
remember enough to be impacted by it. And then the rest of us just… accept it. The other mutants
here think we’re weird, and we are, I guess--”

“Neverwere,” Hermione says, “Because that reality… never was.”

Harry swallows. His throat is dry and he’d thought about the other people this curse must affect,
had never really imagined the full extent of the impact -- “I’m glad it’s okay here,” he says, “Even
if Malfoy is here.” he adds to Ron who looks very put-out by that fact.

“What about you?” Ginny asks the question Harry can see she’s been dying to ask for a while now,
“Where were you? What happened...what were you doing--?”

“That,” inputs a new voice, low-pitched, the tang of an off-potion to it and the roughness of black
pewter as Severus Snape steps into the room, still as ominous as he had managed in his last life,
“That is a very good question and you are not the only one who wants an answer to that question.”

“Oh good,” Harry says, dryly, “You’re just as pleasant as I remember.”

He’s spent to long around Tom, tongue too-sharp. Ron tries and fails to hide a smirk, Ginny flat out
laughs and Hermione looks aghast.

Snape looks distinctly unimpressed. “Mr Potter,” his black eyes are bottomless pits and his lips
curl downwards. Even after all these years he still manages to butcher Harry’s name into a
mouthful of distasteful vulgarity. “Use that Unforgivable you cause a mutation and you’ll find
yourself blind and deaf in less time that you could say Gryffindor .”

Harry holds up his hands in mock surrender, “I’m not fighting,” he says “No need to play the bully,
Snape.” No formality, no Professor , this man doesn’t deserve it. No matter what he does, no
matter what decisions he made or how much he sacrificed, it doesn’t excuse his behaviour. And
while Harry respects the man, he is only a man.

“I thought better of you, Granger, Weasley. Letting this thief into the school--” Snape’s unpleasant
drawls have no changed one bit.

“We didn’t!” Hermione protests.

“I mean, it’s not like we told anyone about him being here,” Ginny points out, unhelpfully.

“And I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again, your security sucks --”

“ Enough ,” the man snaps, “You’ve been playing the attention-seeking liar once more, wasting all
our times. Come with me, no powers, Dumbledore wants to talk to you.”

Harry snorts, “He isn’t leaving you to play messenger again with all his dark and dire news?” he’s
baiting Snape, pushing at open wounds and raw nerve strings just to watch the man flinch. He
moves past it, this is pitiful and petty of him and that’s not why he’s here. He glances at his watch,
“Sure,” he says, “Let’s go, probably best to check he and Tom haven’t murdered each other yet.”

Snape’s pace increases half a step.

If walls could talk, they’d have interesting things to say about the tension that sits in the room
between Tom and Albus Dumbledore. It’s like a storm waiting to arrive, like Dumbledore’s
expecting an execution. Like he’s waiting for the moment that Tom strikes out with violence.

It’s almost worse when he doesn’t, keeps lounging in Dumbledore’s chair, enjoying the emotions
swirling around him like a fine wine, “He beat me, you know,” Tom remarks, calmly, “Harry. He
beat me, but in doing so claimed the last Hallow. And boom,” he mimes an explosion, fingers
exploding outwards, “New world. He blames himself but this is on you as much as him, you and
your orchestrations.”

“So what?” Dumbledore asks, “Instead you’ll trick him into allying with you? Make him think you
want the same thing, that you want to help mutants, use him and then stab him in the back?”

He’s saying these words like a taunt, but they’re oddly empty of emotion. He’s fishing, testing the
waters, he doesn’t really believe what he’s saying but the vowels and consonants have their
intended effort as Tom slides to his feet. Like a cat uncoiling, he stalks around the desk to where
Dumbledore sits, fingers tap-tap-tapping on the heavy mahogany wood, “Why bother tricking
him,” Tom muses, “When I can just align our interests? It’s not like he needed much pushing--”

“He’ll realise you’re using him, and whether you’re immune to his powers or not, I doubt you’ll
win against him a second time--”

“Win -- I’m not… this isn’t a fight, Albus. I’m not going to try to kill him, not now, I know what he
is now…”

Tom’s using Harry, of course he’s using the boy, he’s a filter to the emotions of the world around
him and a well of power that Tom would be stupid not to utilise. The only thing is Harry’s been
using him too, even if Harry would never admit to the stability and support Tom has brought him, a
familiar beacon in the dark.

“Your horcruxes don’t exist in this world, Tom.”

Tom takes a slow step forwards towards Dumbledore, “They don’t need to,” he hums, brown eyes
flickering over the old man, “Immunity,” he ponders, “Is that what you think I have? Immunity to
Harry’s coercion?” He enjoys the widening of blue eyes, the surprise--

“You wouldn’t stay with him if you didn’t have some way of ensuring your own power,” Albus
reasons, but appears to realise he’s wrong even as he says it, “Something else then? Some other
mental ability?”

Tom laughs, leaning back on the desk, “Of sorts,” he says, “I mean - you assumed I was the
manipulator, and you’d probably be right, so what would you have guessed Harry would have?
Three guesses, but I’ll give you a hint. It’s your favourite reason, old man, your best excuse--”

Tired eyes flicker closed in dawning realisation, “Empathy,” he says, “You’re an empath…” eyes
blink open, “Because Harry was meant to be an empath? Or on your own merit?”

A shrug. “Does it matter? Maybe it’s just ironic, one giant cosmic joke. Me, the sociopath who
likes to manipulate people, able to feel and control emotions while Harry, the kind-hearted morally
rigid stubbornest person I know gets to control people's will tighter than an imperius curse ever
could." His lip quirks up in a smile, “But I will admit something, Dumbledore. You were right.
Emotions… well… they do have a certain power, don’t they?”

A single, salt-laden tear wells in Dumbledore’s eye. It rolls down his cheek and he lets out a gasp, a
sob strangling itself in his throat as he blinks back watering eyes.

"People underestimate empathy.” Tom watches with a detached curiosity, playing the man’s
emotions like a tuned instrument, and it’s so easy to just twist the violin pegs out of tune, “I
underestimated Harry's empathy lifetimes ago, Lily Potter's empathy nearly killed me, her son's
did. Now mine? Mine can bring forth the worst nightmares to cripple men. Your deepest regrets -
because try what you might, Arianna still died, didn't she? And all that guilt, that sadness... it
drives some men to suicide.”

He twists the string of emotion, builds it to a crescendo, watches as Dumbledore lets out a shudder
of horror, of guilt, of so much pain --

Then he drops it, lets it go and sees the headmaster relax. “I was wrong, emotion isn’t a weakness.
It’s a weapon.”

“That’s hideous ,” Dumbledore chokes out, shaken. Tom doesn’t care.

“You see?” Tom asks, enjoying the way Dumbledore’s emotions flinch away from him, “I always
win. Stay out of London,” his tone leaves no room for arguments, “Keep your Order members
away. If the Order appear, Sentinel get involved. If they get involved they change their patterns. If
they change their patterns then we’ve wasted a lot of time for nothing. Keep out of it, or this? This
will be nothing , compared to the pain I can bring you.”

“It won’t win you Harry. He’s better than that.”

“Oh, but I thought you knew - I’ve already won Harry.”

The door slams open, “Albus, you should call Tonks and Moody back from London, Potter’s not
there. I caught him sneaking--” Snape’s voice fades as he sees Tom leaning against the desk,
Dumbledore sunk into a chair. From behind Snape, Harry sidles forwards, Ginny, Ron and
Hermione lingering behind him with gaping jaws.

“Looks like you had a stimulating conversation,” Harry drawls, “Did you finish?”

“Got sidetracked,” Tom shrugs, “Hello Severus.” If possible Snape pales even further. “Harry,”
Tom greeted, looking warm and utterly besotted for a moment that Ginny actually chokes and
Hermione has to start thumping her on the back. Dumbledore straightens, pulling himself to his feet
as Tom slips around towards Harry only for Snape to put himself in the way.

“I guess we’ll see if blindness affects you,” Snape drawls, “Would you like me to--”

“No,” Dumbledore says. He’s shaky on his feet, and Harry shoots Tom a glare, no doubt knowing
what had been going on in the room, “No, stand down, Severus, they’re here in peace.”

“In peace , they broke in , you look--”

“Severus, this is not the time for old grudges.”

“Old grudges, Albus , the Dark Lord is standing there alive and with full range of his powers--”

“Harry and Tom are welcome here,” Albus says, regaining some of his composure and stepping
around his desk to the chair Tom had vacated. How quick he is to trust them irks Tom, just a but,
he’d hardly been very trustworthy in the past ten minutes and it doesn’t make sense.

Yet Dumbledore’s gaze is resting on Harry and of course , he trusts his precious saviour, of course
he thinks Harry’s had some sort of positive influence on Tom or something ridiculous like that--

“Welcome ,” Snape is the only one whose reactions are in the right place, "Welcome them?
Welcome--" his sneer grows unpleasant like food rotting between his teeth, "I bet you haven't even
thought to check them for weapons, Albus, remember this is a school with children in it--"

At that point Tom quietly, and not discreetly whatsoever pulls out a handgun and drops it on
Dumbledore's desk much to the old man's dismay, "Well," Tom clears his throat, "Shall we
continue our conversation then? The extras can stay."

"What about Potter?" Snape demands, ignoring Tom’s dismissive tone.

"Harry's fine," Ron defends, stubbornly, and it's hard to tell if he can see the next few moments or
is just being loyal, "We trust him."

"You might trust him," Snape says, "But he's been running around with the Dark Lord for the past
two years."

"He's got a point," Tom says to Harry who shoots him a silent, mock-wounded look but dutifully
pulls out another handgun, three knives of varying sizes and a toothpick. Ron chokes, and it's hard
to tell if he's laughing or in disbelief.

"Happy?" Harry demands, a stubborn tilt to his jaw.

"Severus, leave it," Dumbledore tries to soothe matters.

"Are you sure that's all?" Snape ignores him, tone oily. Harry meets black eyes for a moment
 before with a sigh pulls out a letter opener.

"Ah," Dumbledore stares at it, "Is that from the common area?”

“Harry!” Hermione exclaims in mock-indignation. Tom’s lips twitch but he hides the smile,
enjoying Harry’s rolling annoyance bordering on impatience and poisoned indulgence towards his
friend’s whims and Snape’s distrust.

“Does that satisfy you, Severus?”

“No,” Snape snaps, “Are we sure he’s not under coercion? Are we sure Potter even remembers , I
mean it’s clear he’s not the same heroic little Gryffindor he once was. Allying with the Dark Lord
reborn, being involved with the Lestrange murders, bank robbings… Albus, you saw his file. The
boy killed his own Uncle --”

Harry flinches.

It’s like a gunshot, thrown casually into conversation but holding more weight than the man
realises. Surprise alarm flares from Harry’s friends, Harry himself grows oddly stilted, green eyes
widening because of all the worded weapons to use, that hadn’t even been considered --

Tom rounds on Snape with fury. The information does not surprise him. He had found that out
years ago , had been waiting for the day Harry would bring it up. He does not appreciate Severus
throwing it in Harry’s face, and he feels Harry’s pain and hurt flare up, “I’m sure you had great
control of your powers at eight,” he snaps, and he’s only vaguely aware of the arched eyebrow of
surprise Dumbledore throws at him, he’s too busy digging out the sore pus-eaten wounds in the
potion master’s psyche, guilt and loss of a love like open sores even after all this time--

Snape twitches, composure cracking, legs trembling-

“Tom,” Dumbledore says, and it’s his curiosity and surprise more than the warning in his tone that
makes Tom reign in the emotions he’s pressing on the black-eyed man.

“Perhaps, Snape, before you go around throwing accusations out you should make sure your own
hands are clean,” Tom turns away, uninterested. Snape isn’t important after all, he’s just a pawn
who dreams of one day reaching the other side of the board. It’s Harry that’s important, Harry who
is avoiding his friend’s gazes like the plague.

Because he can’t deny it. Tom’s known for years , he doesn’t care, but these precious innocent
friends of him?

He forgets sometimes that murder’s not socially acceptable.

And that sometimes? Sometimes words can kill.

Especially Harry’s.

Chapter End Notes

[When telling your friends your abbreviated life history, the fact you killed your uncle
is ranked surprisingly low on the list of things to tell them.]
 paint flakes
Chapter Notes

Heads up; next update would be due 1st June but I'm going to Australia on a
placement for 8 weeks which means first of all, I may not have WiFi to get the next
chapter out as per usual. Also for the next two months update times may change as my
time zone moves ahead 9 hours or I may delay posting depending whether I have time
to write.

Definitely going to keep writing though, thanks so much for the support!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

He doesn’t know how old he is when he starts to remember, only that there comes a time when he
realises that he remembers and the Dursley’s? They don’t .

Don’t remember what remains to be seen still, but he knows that whatever it is his uncaring
neglectful relatives don’t know it. Don’t have double vision when looking at events or pictures.
Don’t dream of a world with magic at their fingers. Don’t have an adult understanding of some
things and absolutely no understanding of others. Don’t have a haziness to the edge of his mind as
if he’s forgetting something important.

Human minds, after all, don’t work like a tape recorder. It’s not as easy as simply taping over
something. It’s more like one of those paintings where the artist reuses an old canvas, painting over
the painting originally there with a shiny fresh new painting.

Bits of the paint start flaking off and showing through.

There is no lightbulb moment of understanding. It’s not as simple as deciding reincarnation is a

thing, stuff like that simply doesn’t happen. It’s not until he’s presented with Tom Riddle that he’s
faced with the undeniable proof that he’s not crazy. He assumed his skills and memories are
simply an odd mutant manifestation. Vernon and Petunia still call him ‘freak’ and it takes him a
while to reason that it’s not because he’s magic but because he’s a mutant.

“Mutants are so cool,” Dudley says, and doesn’t understand their disapproval in his aunt and
uncle’s gazes. Harry does. He has been under that scrutiny for as long as he can remember.

“They are not cool ,” Vernon fumes, “They are freaks . Abominations.”

“But fire-breathing, dad,” Dudley misses all the warning signs, “Just imagine --”

“I will have no more talks about freaks in this house!” Vernon’s face is that of bruised peach, “Is it
cool to be able to control minds? To wash away half a city with a single thought? What about your
cousin, hmm, is he cool?”

“But Harry isn’t a mutant, Dad,” Dudley stares at Harry with wide, slightly scared eyes.

“Of course he’s a mutant,” Vernon sneers, “How could he not be when his freak father and whore
mother were both mutants? It’s gen-et-tic . The bad blood will show itself eventually. Tell him,
Pet.”
Harry’s throat closes in on him. The words are strange, harsh and rough and stick in the throat.
Mutant . Genetic . They don’t sound like song or music the way magic and Hogwarts had, but
somehow they carry the same meaning.

He sees for a moment a flutter of grief passing over Petunia’s face but then it’s gone, overcome
with vindictiveness. “Mother and father were so proud of Lily. Look at what she can do, they said,
as if they couldn’t see the demon that had crawled under her skin. That’s all they are, Dudders,
monsters. You should be glad you’re normal like your father and I. Human .”

Jealous, the older part of his brain whispers at Petunia’s sneer as she ushers Dudley away from
Harry and towards the couch. It’s hollowed her out into this stick-thin empty woman who is always
hungering for what others have and she wants.

“But I’m not a mutant,” he protests, “I don’t have any powers!”

“Oh, you will,” Vernon says, venomously, “Blood will out eventually, and you’ve nothing but bad
blood--” he reaches for the cupboard that might have been Harry’s bedroom in another life, and
pulls out a shotgun.

There is a good moment when Harry thinks the shotgun in Vernon’s hand is for him and that this is
it, they’ll finally make good on their threat of getting rid of him. The gun mostly lives in the
cupboard, locked up apart from the times that it sees daylight when Uncle Vernon takes Dudley
shooting. Marge and Vernon thinks it ‘builds character’ but like most things Dudley’s interest in it
wanes quickly.

“You see this?” Vernon waves the shotgun, threateningly but makes no move to aim at anything,
“If you do anything freakish to any of us, I won’t hesitate.”

“Put that away, Vernon,” Petunia snaps.

“I have to scare it into the boy,” Vernon sniffs, “Don’t know what freakish stuff he could be able to
do when he’s older, it’s best to teach them young--”

Harry does not remember his parents, does not know if what Vernon says is true or not but he
remembers magic and if that follows true then-- “What did they do?” he asks, “Their mutations--”

Petunia lets out a loud shriek, “Don’t say the ‘m’ work!” she snaps, hands over Dudley’s ears. It’s
‘mutant’ not ‘magic’ but it feels the same, “Lily and her accursed kindness , always so sweet, and
empathic and wrapping our parents around her thumb. Lily could do no wrong, not even when she
ran off and married that dratted Potter--”

Vernon shivers, and whatever interaction he had with James Potter was obviously memorable for
the wrong reasons. "Stupid woman,” he mutters, “A little freak whose stupidity got herself and her
husband blown into shreds --”

“She wasn’t!” Harry snaps, because if there is one thing he knows at any age in any world it is that
Lily Potter loved him and gave her life for his, “She--” his words are cut off as Vernon’s meaty fist
lands on his cheek, silencing him. He mouths words but nothing comes out, shock permeating
through him.

Vernon sniffs, “Don’t talk back to me, boy. If only you'd died with your mutant freaks of parents.
Mutants like you should be killed at birth. Did you know they drown puppies that are born with
deformities?"

Harry does, he has heard Aunt Marge complain about how it’s frowned upon these days.
"Should do yourself a favour and kill yourself like your good for nothing worthless parents did,"
Vernon sniffs, like Lily and James weren't even worthy enough to lick his boot.

Harry's temper snaps, "Maybe you should do everyone a favour and kill yourself . Save the rest of
the world from having to deal with you."

Vernon goes half-still for a moment, his moustache quivering. He sways in place. There’s a taste
like blood on the back of Harry’s tongue and a drain in his energy. Petunia reaches for the frying
pan, “We gave you shelter and put food in your belly and-- Vernon… Vernon, what are you doing -
-”

Dudley looks up from the sofa, eyes wide and Petunia freezes. Harry doesn’t move, stubbornly, he
won’t run, he won’t--

The shotgun Vernon had been brandishing wavers, then tilts up towards the ceiling.

"Dad?" Dudley asks, "What are you doing?"

Petunia's eyes widen, "What did you do to him?" she demands, "Boy, what did you--can you do
what she did? CAN YOU DO WHAT SHE DID?"

"I DON'T KNOW! I don't know what my mom could do! I don't know anything about them, you
wouldn't tell me, I don't know what I can do! I don't--"

Vernon appears to give in to the thrall, and Harry stumbles backwards as the shotgun is swung
around, but it isn't pointed at him.

"VERNON!"

Harry stops. The air is thin and though he breathes his head is dizzy. The world is spinning.

Maybe you should kill yourself, he hears himself say, and he hears the power in those words, had
heard them in bow to death and jump on the desk and he had taken them and made them his and
the blast of a shotgun rings out as Uncle Vernon shoves the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulls
the trigger.

Petunia is screaming. Dudley is covered in speckles of blood and Harry can feel spots on his face,
dripping down. He chokes on the smell, his ears ring with Petunia's scream and--

"Like my freak sister, like that boy of hers who messed with your senses, things always went her
way, they'll lock you up, mutant, freak--"

Harry runs.

“I didn’t mean to,” Harry protests, standing in Dumbledore's office with Tom at his back and Snape
sneering at him and his friends looking like their world has just shattered. He shakes his head,
barely managing to stay calm and Tom might boost that emotion, just a bit, giving him a chance to
catch his breath, “I didn’t… I was eight , I didn't know I had powers, let alone what...I...I… he
threatened to shoot me, said I should have been put down as a baby and I told him that someone
should put him down. I didn’t know what would happen; that he’d take it seriously.”

Ron’s staring, face pale. Hermione’s lips are pressed too tightly together and even Dumbledore
looks grave. Harry steps back, shaking his head.
Because he can’t deny it. Not really. Petunia will look after her sister’s child right up until that
child snaps out words of anger and conflicting memories and learns that actions and words have
consequences.

Hermione looks in shock, “You killed him?”

Defensive anger flares. “I told someone once to forget they saw me and accidentally wiped their
entire memories, don’t tell me you had perfect control of your powers!”

“I once set fire to an entire wing of my primary school,” Hermione snaps back, “I didn’t lose my
temper and tell someone to kill themselves --”

“No, you just tried to burn them alive instead--”

“Enough,” Ron interrupts, horror edging his tone. “Hermione do not start a fire--”

Her hand that had been curling open closes in a clenched fist, “I wasn’t going to.”

“Lie,” Tom chips out, too cheerily.

“What are you, a walking talking lie detector?”

“Basically,” Tom drawls, “Nervous spikes, it’s like a giant red flag--”

Hermione’s eyes widen in realisation, “You detect emotions ,” she breathes, but somehow just
looks more puzzled by the revelation, “You’re an empath ?”

“Surprise,” Tom’s tone is a perfect deadpan, Harry secretly thinks he’s enjoying the shock people
feel when he reveals that. “What, did you think I could fire out killing curses or talk to snakes or
something all dark-lordy?”

Hermione blinks and Harry can see Ginny mouth ‘dark-lordy’ like she can’t believe the words
came out of Tom’s throat. Ron’s gaze is flickering between Tom and Harry and back to where
Albus is glaring Snape into submission. Harry wonders what he’s seeing, what possibilities lie
before them. It feels like he’s standing at the intersection and there are multiple routes that they
can go. He and Tom still have full access to their mutations, they’d have the advantage if they
needed to get out--

But they don’t need to run. Harry’s been running for almost a decade, it’s probably about time he
stopped. “It’s okay,” Tom’s words are soft in his ear, stepping to stand close to Harry. They’re not
touching but Harry can feel the warmth of Tom’s body next to him, “Dumbledore’s curious, and of
course worried about his precious saviour --”

“I think he’s worried in general,” Harry says, because that had been the problem, hadn’t it. At
some point Harry had stopped being Dumbledore’s prophesied child and started being just Harry.
The old man had cared too much and for that reason he had tried to hide things from Harry.

Tom snorts, not understanding. His emotional capacity is greater than it used to be, but it’s still
almost cute how some things that seem so obvious pass him by completely. “You reckon if we
stay here, they’ll withdraw their patrols from London?”

“I think so,” Harry breathes back, “Last thing we need is Sentinel picking up on the fact there are
new mutants in London and adjusting, it would just…” he huffs a noise of frustration.

“Harry,” Dumbledore addresses him for the first time has his head snapping up, green eyes
meeting blue. He can almost feel them probing him, trying to figure out what Harry’s thinking but
without the success that legilimency would have brought. Harry meets the gaze squarely and
unafraid. Why should he be? All his secrets have been dragged into the open already. “You
understand that we need to discuss this. The Order, the teachers here…”

Tom shifts besides Harry, and both neglect to mention that despite this visit, they’re not staying.
Not forever. “Sure,” Harry says, “That’s fine--”

“And someone needs to tell the mutt,” Snape says, sounding unimpressed by this whole exchange,
“Weasley, go fetch him, I believe he’s staying in the guest quarters with the wolf.”

There’s a hesitation as both Ginny and Ron sway, but Ginny is the one to move, “I’ll get him,” she
says, slipping away, “Shall I grab McGonagall as well?” she asks, chewing on her lip and looking
uncertainly between Dumbledore and Harry.

“Yes,” Snape snaps at the same time Dumbledore shakes his head.

“Yes, but not for blocking off anyone’s powers.” He silences Snape’s protests with a glare. “That
won’t be necessary. Grab Remus too and if you can track down Alastor or Shacklebolt that would
be great.”

Snape’s black eyes are hollow pits. He’s terrified , Harry realises, fury and regret and fear all
mixed together in regards to Harry himself and the man who destroyed so many lives standing
besides him. He nudges Tom, the boy enjoying this far too much.

With a sigh, Tom clears his throat, “Would it help at all if I told you I don’t remember
everything?”

“Nobody does,” Snape sneers, “That’s the curse of it.”

“I remember less,” Tom corrects, bluntly, “My soul was in shreds, I’ve got partial amnesia.”

Hermione perks up at that, looking like she wants to ask questions. Ron’s still silent, still assessing
possibilities. Dumbledore hums, contemplatively, “I think we should take this discussion outside,”
he says, carefully, “Before an over-enthusiastic godfather gets here.”

It feels like someone’s started kneading Harry’s heart like bread dough. He nods, mutely, as
Dumbledore ushers the other three out of his office. Hermione still looks torn between horror and
curiosity, Snape has a look of general distaste.

The door closes on them leaving Harry alone in Dumbledore’s office with Tom. His heart is still
pounding in his chest and his hands are shaking. He’s had years to come to terms with what
happened with his uncle, but to have it dragged out into the open had thrown him.

This is me, Harry wants to say, here, look at all of it. The good and the bad. Is it horrible? Is it
awful? Do you still accept me, am I still Harry in your eyes?

Tom barely reacted. Tom had moved to defend him, callous indifference in his body language,
Tom has already seen every jaded cut diamond slice of Harry and Tom...

“You knew,” Harry says to the older boy. It’s not a question.

“You practically challenged me to find out what happened to them when we first escaped the
Facility, it wasn’t hard to put the pieces together,” Tom shrugs, “There’s a lovely newspaper article
on it, knowing your powers I worked it out. I’m amazed they didn’t. I don’t care. They probably
deserved it.”

Harry wants to roll his eyes at Tom’s callous attitude, and what does that say about him, really. He
just begins pacing in small circles as Tom drops into the spare seat, throwing his feet up casually
on Dumbledore’s desk. Harry runs an anxious hand through his hair, nerves getting the better of
him, “What do you think they’ll decide? Dumbledore seems oddly receptive, I don’t know what
you said to him but I thought he’d be trying to advocate throwing you into jail by now.”

Tom’s smile is thin, speaks of things Harry can only begin to guess at, “He came around, most do,
eventually. You certainly did.” He’s staring at Harry with that same intensity to his gaze and
Harry’s skin prickles uncomfortably. He can feel Tom's empathy on the edge of his emotions.
They're far too in tune for his own good, he thinks. Tom lives far too vicariously through Harry's
emotions for any of this to be healthy, and he hasn't cared, doesn't care, wouldn't if not for the way
his friends look at him.

Look at Tom . Tom who, Harry realises, he has come to trust far more than he should for a man
who had once murdered his parents. Tom, who he is far too entangled with.

Tom's watching his turmoil with narrowed eyes. He can pick out the emotions but the thoughts
evade him, he can only guess at Harry's mental state. Still, he knows Harry. They have shared
minds and souls before. "If they're your friends they will give you a chance," he says, "Let them
squabble it out for a while more," his head tilts, sensing it out, "I think they're still in the distrusting
stage."

Harry drops onto the desk shoving Tom's feet off it to give him room to perch. "Might take them a
while to get past that," he says, "It certainly did for me."

"But you came round," Tom shoots him a charming grin, "Must be my magnetic personality."

Harry stares at him, "You, using muggle idioms is still the strangest thing to me."

Tom's gaze is the closest to warm Harry thinks it gets, a fond, indulging look, a spark of something
in those dark brown eyes. He’s like lightning and that dancing blue flames that burn static
electricity across the masts of a ship. The air between them crackles. And though Tom denies it,
it’s not just the remnants of the soul connection.

Harry stares, trying to work it out, not sure when Tom crossed the line from indifference into
caring. Wondering how he hadn’t noticed it until now, witnessed Tom standing up to Snape and
Dumbledore like a snarling feline, possessive and overprotective and--

“Okay.”

Tom blinks, looking like he has no idea what Harry’s talking about. And of course he doesn’t,
Harry thinks, Tom doesn’t understand any of this and Harry doesn’t think he’s going to be the one
to explain, not like this anyway. “Okay, what- ?” Tom is asking, and Harry cuts the sentence off as
he straightens from his slouch against the desk and curls fingers into the older boy’s shirt, tugging
him up so their mouths meet.

It’s messy and awkward and it’s almost amusing how inexperienced the other boy is at kissing, and
he huffs a laugh against Tom’s lips as he curls his fingers into Tom’s shirt. Tom stiffens against
him initially, then relaxes, hands resting on Harry’s wrists like a manacle.

It’s unfair that Riddle’s so damn attractive, that there’s this stupid emotional link between them.
Harry wants to rip it out, wants to stamp on it until it’s bloodied and bruised and raw because it
shouldn’t be Tom that makes him feel this way.

He pulls back, Tom’s eyes are dark, pupils blown and smile like a corpse cruel seedlings in his
maw, “Changed your mind, did you?” he asks, still so damn smug , but it’s just cute because he
thinks he understands this but he doesn’t , neither of them do, but it’s thrilling. It’s like throwing
himself off a cliff with no clue what lies at the bottom and if Harry’s going to fall he’ll be damn
sure he brings the other boy down with him.

“Just… just don’t manipulate my emotions,” he says. It’s an old coercion, one he throws at Tom
from time to time when he lets it fade off, a general check to make sure there is still autonomy--

Brown eyes blink, eyes dark and Tom laughs . “Does that make you feel better?” he asks, because
the words change nothing. Harry’s pulse is still racing, Tom’s still pressed up against him warm
and human --

He wonders when the exact moment was that the empath slipped under Harry’s armour, smiles and
charm and vicious bloody steel and warm indulgence. Like if they press together in the right way
they might go back to being one soul again.

“Where is he-- Harry ?”

The door slams open and Harry drops his hands from where they’re still fisted in Tom’s shirt, gaze
sliding over to where Sirius stands framed in the doorway. His heart does a funny skipping beat and
he manages a weak smile, and it would probably be better if he wasn’t still standing inches from
Tom. He didn’t really think this could get more awkward as he and Tom break apart, and as
flustered as he is, it’s almost worth it for seeing the way Dumbledore’s jaw just drops .

“Didn’t anyone tell you it’s polite to knock?” Tom drawls, gaze flinty with amusement,
comfortable in his own skin despite the weight of eyes upon him. McGonagall and Remus appear
in the doorway behind where Sirius lingers, gaze fixed on Harry.

“Sirius,” Harry says, warmly, relieved because his godfather is alive. Sirius is alive and looking
healthier than Harry had ever seen him. The grin that splits his godfather’s face stretches from ear
to ear and Harry has no qualms about tearing away from Tom to throw himself at Sirius.

His godfather is warm and alive and smells faintly like dog, even without his animagus form. His
long hair tickles Harry’s cheek and Harry had missed this, just a bit, the feeling of having a parental
figure.

Someone clears his throat, “Uh… I hate to break this up but were you making out with Lord
Voldemort ?” Ron looks torn between amusement and pure sheer shock .

“Did you come to a decision?” Harry says instead before Tom can do something like answer yes to
that question. He untangles himself from Sirius. Dumbledore is still apparently doing rapid
recalculations in his head because he’s slow to answer, gaze too sharp.

“There’s no decision,” Sirius scoffs, ruffling Harry’s hair in a fond, familial gesture, “Of course
you can stay, Harry, we’ve been looking for you for years --”

“And Tom?”

Sirius falters, grey eyes flickering to where Tom lounges.

"We will give you a trial period," Dumbledore finds his voice, "For the pair of you, should you
wish to stay, but it will apply to both of you. If you vouch for him, Harry, then anything Tom does
is your responsibility."

“How wonderful, a babysitter,” Tom drawls, and Harry rolls his eyes, because it’s hardly anything
beyond what he’s been doing these past years anyway. “It’s okay,” he smiles beguilingly, “I’m an
honest criminal.” Harry can barely hold back the snort because that’s an oxymoron if he ever saw
one, Tom took a mastery in lies and deception.

“This is a terrible idea,” Snape drawls, “I want it noted, Albus, that I told you this was a terrible
idea,” Sirius looks like he almost wants to agree but won’t given who this is coming from. Snape
whirls around and he’s not wearing a cloak or robes but he still somehow manages to contain that
presence of billowing black as he stalks out of the office.

Sirius looks like he wants to grab Harry and tug him away from Riddle, grey eyes like a puppy,
pleading and Harry ducks his gaze, guiltily. McGonagall clears her throat, “I’ll show you the
school,” she says, “What you haven’t discovered already. And when we’re done, Mr Weasley,
Miss Weasley, Miss Granger, we’re having a conversation about the correct response when
someone breaks in .” The ex-transfiguration teacher has not lost her stern expression and teaching
tone. “And Mr Potter--” there’s a good pause as she contemplates Tom, “Mr Riddle,” she settles
on, the words strange on her tongue, “No powers. No manipulation, no…”

“Empathy,” Tom drawls, they all know now anyway, hiding it gives them nothing and Harry
suspects he enjoys the surprised cat-like blink from McGonagall, “I’ll be good.”

She gives a stiff nod, only somewhat appeased and Harry is well aware that Tom said that in the
singular. Harry himself has made no promises.

Tom straightens, all business now and glances over at Dumbledore. “Will the Order keep out of
London?”

For a moment Harry meets Dumbledore’s gaze. The blue eyes are far too judging and his lips
pressed together in a tight line. He makes no move to speak and Harry turns away. Once maybe
he’d have apologised, but he’s been through too much since that boy who walked into a forest to
die.

“Yes,” Dumbledore says, and Harry can practically feel Tom’s emotions stabilize, like a purring
cat. “Yes, the Order will stay away from London. For the moment.”

Tom’s triumph is clear to see, body language relaxed and at ease. “Perfect,” he says, smile like
razor blades, damning in it’s implications.

Then again wanting something like Tom is damning in and of itself.

“And you’re sure you’re okay? How many times has Riddle tried to murder you?”

Harry bats off Sirius’ barrage of questions, he’s like a dog who won’t stop barking. Remus feels a
fond look of exasperation as Sirius continues to try and mother the boy. He shoots Harry an
apologetic look.

Harry looks well. His green eyes are as vivid as he remembers, Lily’s exact shade of emerald. They
had been more noticeable when they’d first seen him, but he’s since removed the contact lenses
and is wearing glasses again. The shape is different from his old round frames, the more modern
squarer edge to them combined with whatever product Harry’s used on his hair means he barely
resembles James anymore.
He looks like Harry . Harry at sixteen, Harry who is almost as old as he had been when they had
all died last time. He still somehow doesn’t look like a child, and that fact is heartbreaking in and
of itself. He looks a bit too street-weathered, too-haunted to be a normal teenager, but he’s healthy.
Healthy and alive .

“I can punch him, do you need me to--”

“No, Sirius, forget about Tom for a moment, I can punch him myself. I can also tell him to back off
which I am very close to telling you now--”

“Awww, my pup has some bite --”

Sirius is delighted with Harry’s return. He looks more settled in his skin than Remus has seen him
in months now.

“I knew you’d be okay,” Sirius insists, “S’why I tripped Tonks up, I… you needed time, and I’d
kind of forgotten that, but I remember sneaking around, spending months on the run… letting other
people help was hard at first--”

“How did you trip her up? That’s a pretty rubbish mutation, tripping people --”

“No, it’s better than that, hang on, where’s Snape--”

“No,” Remus steps in, “Sirius, no .”

Sirius pouts, “Later, then,” he says. “A grim’s luck,” he says, cheerfully, as if nothing could knock
his mood down, “Bad luck on whoever I want. Could have gone really bad and morbid but instead I
get to watch Snape fall down the stairs and spill coffee over himself and that’s before a student
practicing telekinesis accidentally drops a tin of paint on him.” He sighs in joy.

Harry has a grin on his face, relaxing for the first time in what Remus suspects is a long while.
He’d been so tense throughout the whole conversation in Dumbledore’s office. He’s like a bright-
eyed street dog starved for affection yet wary of any hand that tries to pet it.

In a way, he and Sirius deserve each other, but Remus is smart enough to know it won’t last. Harry
isn’t here to make it last, not with Tom Riddle in tow, staring around with distrustful brown eyes.

Riddle had slunk off towards where McGonagall had showed them their rooms. His wolf senses
give him a scent of wariness and the hint of fear and beyond that a normal human. No snake. No
blood. Just teenager, recent growth spurt and an angle to his cheeks that suggests he could eat a
little more. Had it not been pointed out to him that Riddle was the Dark Lord, Remus would never
have guessed.

He doesn’t see a Dark Lord when he looks at the boy. Just a teenager too clever for his own good
who has decided to pick a fight with the world.

And to think Sirius and Dumbledore wonder why Harry stayed with him. To think they don’t see
it, the similarities between the boys abandoned by the world. It’s terrifying when he looks at it that
way, to see what the Dark Lord could have become if Fate’s di had rolled the other way.

Dumbledore still thinks the pair will fall into place and walk at heel, but Remus is a wolf at his
heart and he knows another predator when he sees one.

No, Tom and Harry have their own plans this time around.
 He wonders how Dumbledore will feel about being the pawn, for a change.

Chapter End Notes

[Harry and Tom somehow manage to avoid the emotion-filled conversation because
it’s the wrong time and place and Tom’s secretly still savoring Dumbledore’s
expression.
Ron on the other hand--
“But he’s Voldemort--”
“He is kind of hot,” Ginny considers, and she didn’t think it was possible for her
brother to look more horrified but he does. Harry better thank her later for hosting
Ron’s freakout for him.]
 like mice, still living
Chapter Notes

So this was not even written in time to post last month, never mind my recent travel
excursions. Still, enjoy this extra long chapter!

Tom Riddle is born at the death of the year. His mother dies giving birth to him. He is intimate
with death before he even takes his first breath.

Harry Potter dies with death bleeding off him. With death’s cloak and death’s wand and death’s
stone and death’s blessing all culminating in the death green of his eyes.

Death doesn't discriminate between the sinners and the saints. All those at death’s end remember
equally, good or bad. Harry is pretty sure he is no saint, he makes no pretense, but sometimes he
still thinks Sirius or Hermione look at him as if he is. He isn’t. And maybe he’s the other extreme,
he’s certainly not here to follow the rules. To follow the system.

He is not their sacrificial savior anymore.

Tom skulks around Dumbledore’s school in the hills and keeps his head down. He’s got the eyes of
most of the staff keeping an eye on him in wariness and the students staring in open curiosity. He
and Harry are new and strange and have spent too long on the streets. Rumours have spread even
up to this remote corner of the country.

A few know . Their expression is awe tinged bordering on wonderment at seeing Harry, like they
can’t quite believe he’s real. Their savior made whole again. The boy who lived and lived again
and yet, Tom thinks, doesn’t really know how to live at all. He’s always moving, committed to a
cause, perpetual motion trapped in human flesh. Even now, not even a full week in one place and
Harry is beginning to look uncomfortable with the attention, with the staring and the expectations.

Even surrounded by his friends Tom can see the twitch in Harry’s fingers, the flicker of green eyes
always casing the exits.

“Okay, seriously, does he have to be here?”

Ron Weasley is neither subtle nor appreciated, but even Tom can feel the solid trust that runs
between the annoying redhead and Harry. Blue eyes assess him with distrust and disgust, barely
concealed. His gaze flickers, wariness spiking and fading as curiosity rolls under his skin at
whatever his mutation shows him. How good is it, Tom wonders. Can he see their end plan
unfolding already or just the next minute of events? Does he know how long they intend to stay
here or is that still murky to him?

Harry looks conflicted when faced with this dilemma, the choice between his friends and Tom.
He’s already made this decision once, already turned away from them. He’s already chosen Tom
over them, and it’s that maybe that stops him tugging the younger boy closer in a possessive streak
that doesn’t seem to want to end where Harry’s involved.

Harry doesn’t answer, and Granger slaps Weasley ineffectually on the arm. “Do you really have
amnesia?” she asks instead, sounding not quite skeptical, more polite indifference than anything.

“Did you really accuse your best friend of murder?” Tom matches her tone, and Granger flushes.

“That’s not--” she says, “I didn’t mean--” she shakes her head, bushy hair escaping the ponytail it’s
been stuffed into, “I’m not calling you out on it,” she turns to Harry directly before turning back ot
Tom, “It’s just wouldn’t you question it, just a little?”

“I don’t care,” Tom says bluntly, leaving his position from where he had been examining one of
the bookshelves and stalking over to a chair. He sits like it’s a throne, confidence oozing off him
and that simple act makes Harry’s friends flinch.

“Stop it,” Harry sounds too fond to be annoyed. “Talk to me, tell me how your Mum is doing,” he
directs to Ron, “Are you parents still dentists? Has Bill still met Fleur?”

Their chatter is idle. Useless placeholders and Tom lets his attention drift. Lets his empathy
wander. The school is filled with a mix of childish unrealities and teenage aspirations. It’s a little
cloying and claustrophobic and it’s almost a relief to find Harry’s stabilizing silk spun happiness in
the middle of it.

Weasley is still shooting him looks, half cautious, half suspicious. He’s sharper than he appears,
he’d had the same look in Dumbledore’s office after he and Harry had sprung apart. Dumbledore
had looked shocked. In denial. Mildly reflective and seeing something else. Weasley has that same
expression minus the nostalgia. Like he sees something that Tom and Harry themselves are blind
to.

How cute, Tom thinks, that they think they understand. That they can fit labels onto this, Harry
himself has been avoiding conversation. It’s still subtext, still heated touches and that strange
intimacy Tom hasn’t experienced with…

Well…

Anyone.

Souls touch, he think, and souls remember even if Tom doesn’t. Even if he dreams of graveyards
and a killing light and a burning house, it always comes back to the boy with killing-curse green
eyes.

He doesn’t believe in destiny or fate. Prophecy, maybe, but Harry’s somehow inevitable.

He’s brought back to the conversation by Harry’s somewhat loud, but mostly just indignant
exclamation, “ Lessons ?” Harry’s nose wrinkles, and he looks simultaneously aghast and
confused, like the idea had never occurred to him. Neither he nor Tom have been to school in this
life for years . A combination of bleed-over from their last life and their criminal status in this one
means it’s something neither considered needed to happen.

“Of course,” Granger says, like it’s simple, “Education is--hang on, are you saying you haven’t
been to school? But…” her eyes widen in horror, jaw slack.

“I think you’ve broken her,” Weasley laughs, as Harry’s gaze flickers to Tom’s for half a second.
Tom’s lip twitches, because why not waste their time here being productive? This could be fun.

They will be the future after all, he might as well find out as much as he can about Dumbledore’s
precious Order and the children they are raising at this boarding school for mutants.
“It’s kind of like Hogwarts,” Weasley is explaining, “Except there is no potions or transfiguration
or charms; it’s all science and maths and how to write well.”

“That’s actually pretty useful,” Granger sounds reproachful, “I’m pretty sure most wizarding
children never got taught how to punctuate properly, remember I proof-read some of your essays
and some of them were truly hideous. These are all basic life skills and besides, it’s not like
household charms exist, nor was transfiguration really any use in everyday life… I mean how often
did you need to make a full dinner set from a cage of rats?”

“Oh,” says a dreamy voice from the doorway, “Are you talking about magic? Wouldn’t it be fun if
it were real?”

A beat. Granger clears her throat, looking constipated, "Uh... Luna…”

Tom’s not quite sure what to make of the girl lounging in the doorway. She’s staring at the group
with a soft gentle smile, emotions like the calm tide of an ocean at night under the full moon. The
relief Harry feels at seeing her is palpable. “Luna,” he says, “You’re okay?”

“Hello Harry,” the girl says, “You look better without--” she gestures to her mouth and the bitter
jealous possessiveness that had been stirring in Tom’s gut settles slightly. The girl at the facility, he
remembers, of course, the clairvoyant. “I’ve been fine. It’s very nice here. Several people even
dream about the same world we used to.”

The expression on Harry’s face is fondness tinged with nostalgia, “Yeah that… that’s pretty nice,
isn’t it?”

“I’m glad you’re okay too,” Luna says, and there seems to be more weight to her words than there
should be for such a simple sentence, and though her blue gaze doesn’t leave Harry, Tom is aware
of her attention on him, oddly judging and yet oddly accepting.

Tom’s not sure why but somehow this strange girl’s approval feels like a victory. Like fate might
actually be on their side. He shakes off that feeling; he doesn’t care after all, he controls his own
fate.

He and Harry already have plans to puppeteer Fate’s strings to their own use.

It’s almost like they’re still at Hogwarts, Ron and Harry begging her help with homework in the
common room while they’re late for potions.

Almost like it.

Key word: almost.

Shadows of memories haunt them, and it’s awkward more than anything because all three are
acutely aware of how it had been and how it can never be like that again. It’s not just Tom Riddle
in Hermione’s peripheral vision wherever she turns, nor the way that Harry always checks the
room’s exits when he walks through the door.

Things have changed; it’s undeniable.

“Don’t you hate him?” Hermione asks Ginny, “It’s Tom Riddle .”

“Of course,” Ginny looks at her like she’s crazy, but she had literally just walked away from a
reasonable conversation with Riddle about the weather of all things, “But he’s not Voldemort.”

“He is though,” Hermione says, “Just with amnesia. And besides… even at fifteen he was capable
of murder.”

“He was,” Ginny acknowledges, “And he’s a horrible person but right now he’s Harry’s problem.
We fought in a war, Hermione, and by sixteen I was capable of murder, so I’m in no position to
judge.”

So Hermione stays quiet and watches. Listens. Thinks that maybe Ginny is right about one thing.

Tom Riddle is Harry’s problem.

She doesn’t understand what exists between them, but the dark-haired boy with an edge of cruelty
in his eyes is keeping his claws sheathed. He’s playing nice. There’s an understanding there that
runs beneath what Hermione can see or understand so she stops trying to; it’s just frustrating her.

She sticks to what she knows. She sticks to facts.

“That’s not how you spell that,” she corrects Ron’s work over his shoulder as he attempts to make
notes in class. McGonagall teaches them English, she’s the only staff member Dumbledore has
located who teaches in this world as well. Tom spots some of the other Order members skulking
around on a regular basis, but they stick to different wings of the manor from the students.

McGonagall’s gaze holds a fond edge when she meets the gaze of those she had taught once before
at Hogwarts. Although, Hermione notes, there is a tinge of exasperation as she narrowly stops
Seamus exploding something as she shouts across the classroom, “Mr Longbottom, please stop
distracting yourself by growing flowers in my lesson!”

“It’s a succulent and it’s winter--”

“Mr Longbottom--”

“No, but seriously,” Harry whispers to her, “How does learning about the structure of a sonnet give
me any life skills more useful than knowing how to make a pincushion from a hedgehog? At least
in one scenario I have a pincushion at the end of it--”

“Mr Potter, please focus , Remus’ extra tutoring can only go so far--”

Hermione’s pretty sure Remus’ tutoring is just an excuse for Sirius to hang out with his godson.
Not that it matters. She thinks they should be allowed that much, at least.

Seamus and Dean keep shooting Harry curious glances. They’re some of only a few to hear
Harry’s plot-hole riddled excuse for his absence. His history in this world condensed to a single
sentence. Tom’s given less than a word, another mutant joining the fold is nothing new. That
nobody recognises him means he probably isn’t a reincarnate, that Harry seems to know him-- well-
-

Someone will question it eventually. Someone has to question it. Dumbledore can’t just let Lord
Voldemort slip into the flock like a wolf hiding behind the guise of a sheep and not tell anyone.

Can he?

This is, Hermione reflects, the headteacher who had set up an elaborate protection scheme as a trap
in a school full of children. No, no Dumbledore is not planning on telling anyone; he either thinks
he can keep an eye on Riddle, or believes Harry has enough control over him.

Looking over to where Riddle sits, lazily copying out notes from the board she thinks it’s neither.

She thinks he isn’t interested enough to cause trouble here. Looking at him right now, he just looks
uninterested.

Bored.

Clearly the pair are not here for lessons, and Hermione can only pray they’re here for something
good. That Harry is making the sensible decision, that Tom Riddle has not burrowed his way too
far into his head.

Because she sees her friend and she rejoices but she sees her friend who she had last seen dead, last
seen about to commit suicide and now here he is with the mechanism of his own destruction and
she fears.

She believes in Harry, but there’s always that doubt. That terror, the biting words, the what do you
mean you killed him that creeps out of her. Doubt is their biggest enemy, after all, because doubt is
what murders hope.

That could have been her, she sees Harry and thinks with horror. He’s got death on his tongue and
she’s got death on her fingers. One wrong move and she too could have been a killer and that’s
horrifying. It terrifies her. How close they all have come to crossing that line from hero into villain,
from the good to the bad. How close she sees Harry walk it right now.

She doesn’t apologise for her harsh, cruel accusations. That’s not Hermione, to admit her flaws
even though she knows she has them. She doesn’t know the situation, doesn’t know what happened
beyond the cold hard facts (Hermione has always dealt in cold hard facts).

No, she doesn’t apologise because she can see the way Harry revolves around Tom Riddle. Sees
the spark in his green eyes, the joys of the challenge and the almost fond tilt she thinks Riddle
doesn’t realise appears in his body language when reacting to Harry. There’s a bit of Harry that
reminds her of when he had been obsessed over the Hallows during their horcrux hunt. So
convinced that they held the answer.

Now here exists Tom Riddle, a new obsession, and a list of crimes that are a lot worse than a jail
break and a bank robbery.

Harry’s hanging out with a murderer, Harry is a murderer—

One is happenstance, she gets that, sure but twice—

Hermione deals in cold hard facts. She remembers the pain of ‘mudblood’ carved into her flesh and
she knows that people like that don’t just commit suicide. Don’t just fall to their death.

Nobody else has made the connection yet. Put it together. And she won’t dare voice it until she’s
certain, until she knows what it means. They were terrible people, sure, but where do you
stop? Who knows how far this goes, what Harry’s hero complex exists as now, because this is
Harry , who wouldn’t even step aside to let his parents' murder go avenged.

She trusts Harry. She trusts him to do the right thing but with two deaths and Tom Riddle in his
shadow, she's just a little bit scared of what they're planning next.

*
Harry had forgotten how tedious school could be.

It’s not dull per se, but there’s a tenacity to the way every day trudges along, the unchanging
monotone of a group of students who lack interest in the subjects they’re learning. Harry enjoys
learning itself, he has taught himself several skills, most of which less than legal, but sticking
twenty students in a classroom somehow manages to drain a lot of the enjoyment out of it.

That and half the students here know him. After growing up here in the shadows, unknown and
unnamed, to suddenly find the spotlight again is disorientating.

He hates it.

“You were in London?”

“Yes.”

“But Sentinel--”

“I avoided them--”

“Of course you did, our Harry, living under their noses--”

“I’m so proud, Fred, I never thought I’d see the day our reputation was outshone but ickle-
Harrykins--”

“And you’re not even twins --”

“I didn’t pick the name,” Harry says, to Fred and George with exasperation that is more fake
annoyance that true emotion. It hurts in the best way to see them together. Maybe Ron’s right, he
thinks, because maybe this whole new world was worth it if this is what allowed him to save
everyone. For the first time in a long time it's like Harry can breathe, seeing both Fred and George,
like a single name FredAndGeorge always together and not just George with Fred's cold unmoving
body.

George scoffs, throwing an arm around Harry’s neck, “Suuure,” he drawls, “You don’t have to
hide it from us, we know you were doing it in memory of your greatest role models.”

Fred clutches his heart, as if deeply touched, “That’s so… so… beautiful,” he takes a great
shuddering breath, “I can only hope we live up to expectations--”

“Give it a rest, you two,” Ron looks perpetually annoyed by them.

“What’s your thing anyway?” Harry glances between the redheaded twins, “Your mutation?” He
wonders if these things run in the family - Ginny’s got a mental shield, Ron’s got mental decision
precognition, he think he heard that Charlie had some sort of mental animal communications.

“Ah,” Fred says, winking, “That--”

“That would be telling,” George finishes for him.

Ron rolls his eyes, “They can-- get that off me ,” he flinches away from something. Harry catches
the glimpse of something hazy, half there like a projection, “They project illusions,” Ron says with
a yelp, jumping away from the unreal spider that appears on his arm, “Stop that, Fred--”

Harry muffles laughter, knowing Ron will not appreciate his mirth one bit. He’s all too aware of
the questions he’s dodged for now, but the simple fact of it is that Fred and George are not the only
one who have questions. He is, once again, the talk of the school. Harry Potter, he’s been in
London , stealing from Sentinel .

At least these rumours are true.

“I had a blast mimicking Peeves,” George says, “I can do sounds, voices, the ex-Hogwarts students
were really fed up and the newbies started thinking this place was haunted.”

“Their looks of fear as the rumours spread were glorious,” Fred sighs, “It’s a shame we can’t run
with the old joke shop idea here.”

“Or haunted house--”

“But McGonagall told us not to and threatened us with a power outage for a month if we went
through with it.”

“Halloween was predictably boring--”

“Halloween was peaceful and quiet,” Ron mumbles under his breath.

“Halloween was when I heard Sentinel Services got robbed,” a new voice cuts into their
conversation, high class British in any universe. Also nothing can quite manage to cause that level
of irritation on Ron’s face. “Apparently you’re running around with criminals , now, Potter , my
how the mighty have fallen.”

“You shut your smug face--” Ron narrows his eyes in displeasure.

“He’s not worth it,” Harry says sideways to Ron, pasuing half a second to make sure Ron isn’t
going to punch the blonde in the face before turning to the new arrival.

Ron’s right. Malfoy looks as smug as always as he saunters over. His blonde hair is gelled up and
his tone a class above the rest. Malfoy hasn’t changed, Harry thinks, observing the boy, confident
and content in his kingdom. His gaze is alight with curiosity as he comes to a stop in front of him.
“Guess some things don’t change,” Malfoy sneers, “You’re still an orphaned outcast and the
Weasley’s are still dirt poor--”

Harry can see the burning questions, the curiosity, that strange acceptance and respect that Harry
had seen in the last few times he had met Malfoy during the Battle of Hogwarts. “And daddy has a
lot of money, I hear.”

A one shoulder shrug, “Lots of money and mutations for several generations. We’ve learned to
keep our heads down, to find where the power is at and sit behind. We know better than to draw
attention to ourselves robbing banks or setting schools on fire --”

“Okay, you can insult me as much as you like but Hermione is off limits --”

“Ron, drop it ,” Harry snaps, the last thing he wants here is a confrontation. Thankfully the twins
get in the way of their brother. Harry watches dispassionately as Fred and George frogmarch Ron
over to where Hermione is sitting. She looks up, gaze settling on Ron then sliding across to where
Harry stands in front of Malfoy. Her expression takes on a tone of alarm, and Harry wonders what
she’s worried about - is she wary of Malfoy or of him?

That fact that he doesn’t know the answer to that question himself scares him just a little as he turns
to Malfoy, trying to be cordial.
He can handle Draco Malfoy.

Draco’s smirking, smug and arms crossed confidently across his chest. “Thought you were dead,”
Malfoy eyes him up and down consideringly, tone surprisingly honest, “Heard your parents died
and there was great to-do that they’d lost you.”

“I guess they found me,” Harry says, almost amused by Malfoy’s attempts to wind him up.
Malfoy’s nothing. He’s like a small fly in comparison to Harry’s problems right now, “Can’t say
I’ve missed you, Malfoy.”

“Guess they did find you,” Malfoy hums, “Like you’d die , that would be pathetic.” His words are
almost kind, and then he has to go and keep talking, “Rumours are flying. That you’re running
around London hiding from Sentinel. That you broke out of jail . Like - really, have they met you ?
Saint Potter, stealing ? Although I have heard one thing that is totally likely. I heard you ran off
after you killed your fat mundane uncle."

Snape, Harry thinks bitterly, might be a war hero but he hasn't changed. Just as cruel and petty
spreading that around, just as childlike in his bullying.

"Yes," he spins around, temper snapping because Malfoy still manages to get under his skin, "And
do you know how I did it? I told him to. Just like I told your mad aunt to throw herself off that
building. Just like I'm going to tell you to get out of my way ."

Malfoy leaps aside as if burned, and when the implication of what just happened hits he takes
another step willingly, eyes wide. "You can't do that," he snaps, "It's against the rules to use our
mutations with the will to harm--"

"Do I look as if I care about rules?" Harry scoffs.

"Rules are made to be broken," Tom's voice appears from somewhere behind Malfoy, tone almost
a possessive purr as he ignores Malfoy for eyeing up Harry almost hungrily, "You do amaze me
when you use your power, sweetheart."

Draco turns, arching one eyebrow at the teenager behind him, "And who are you meant to be?
Potter's boyfriend?"

Harry would deny it except Tom does somewhat give off that vibe, and also the suggestion in
context is hilarious.

Tom's gaze flickers with dull disinterest over Malfoy, "Blonde and pointy," he quotes something
Harry had said once, "You look more like your mother than Abraxas and his spawn."

Confusion sparks into anger, "Have we met?"

"Why, Draco," Tom's crocodile smile leers, come closer, little dragon, come rest near my jaws so I
can clamp my teeth into your flesh . "Don't you recognise me? And to think you once bowed so
readily, where was this backbone when you quailed on your knees while I branded you?"

Branded. Like cattle. Draco stares, goes ashen with horror and shakes his head, opens his mouth to
complain but stops. "Y-you're--"

Shut up , Harry thinks with enough force Draco's jaw clicks shut, eyes bugging out of his head. His
silver gaze slides over wildly to Harry and back to Tom, pieces slotting into place like a jagged
jigsaw made out of bloody memories and scars. He’s Voldemort , his eyes say to Harry, what are
you doing and Harry tilts his head in a slight shrug. Malfoy flails backwards, away from where
Tom’s clearly enjoying this too much.

Malfoy’s eyes dart to something over Tom and Harry’s shoulder, lips still pressed together and
desperation in his movements as the calming tone of the headmaster is heard. "That's enough,"
Dumbledore appears like a great white bird swooping in, voice a finality, "Tom, Harry--"

"I didn't say anything," Harry says, and oh , it’s an easy lie, a truthful lie. It’s obviously a lie but it
slips out anyway, and Tom just laughs .

“We were just having a conversation,” he says, Malfoy’s eyes still bugging out of his head, the
accusation still chained to his tongue.

“How wonderful,” Dumbledore says, and doesn’t sound happy at all, just oddly resigned, “Harry, I
was wondering if I might have a word?”

He feels Tom’s gaze on him, but they’d both known this was coming. Harry tilts his head in assent,
but is acutely aware of both Tom and Malfoy’s gaze as he slips into step behind the headmaster.

He hopes he finds Malfoy in one piece later.

It feels like the train station all over again. There’s a sombre silence between them, man and boy
except he’s far too old and made far too many mistakes and the boy isn’t a boy really. Not
anymore, their combined decisions have made sure of that.

He longs for castle grounds to stroll through, for the still lake and smooth stone and the thrum of
magic. Instead all he feels are the tickle of memories when he meets the mercury green gaze of
Harry, eyes far too jaded and old to be that of the sixteen, seventeen year old he looks, even though
he’s never grown much older in either lifetime. In Harry’s memories he sees flashes of Tom, the
other man - boy - so young, so similar to the one Albus himself had known and yet different and he
still can’t quite wrap his head around it.

He looks away. He is not here to pry out secrets by trickery and mutations. His gaze rests on the
rolling Yorkshire hills through the window as the pair come to a slow stop. He can almost feel
Harry’s impatience as he finally speaks. “What is this about, Professor?”

“I’m not your Professor anymore, Harry, not just do I believe the qualifications are different but
unless I am not mistaken you and Tom do not intend to linger here.” the boy doesn’t meet his gaze
and he knows he’s right.

He sighs. For a moment he blinks and he sees a young boy before him. At a ratty orphanage bed,
behind wide circular spectacles they blur together until he blinks and it’s just Harry, this young
warrior he has seen forged in fire and war.

“I needn’t tell you to be safe or be careful, as much as I wish to,” he says to Harry, “You know,
possibly better than all of us what Tom Riddle is capable of.”

“Then what did you bring me here to say?” Harry challenges, Gryffindor defiancy showing through
the Slytherin the boy has made himself into to survive this brave new world. O brave new world
that has such people in it. “I doubt you wanted a chat about the weather, Professor .”

He doesn’t drop the title, maintains that carefully established distance between them. “He’s a
murderer,” he says, just to gauge Harry’s reaction. “He’s as much a manipulator as you are, Harry,
make sure you don’t forget that in whatever things you have planned.”
“But it’s like you said, Professor,” Harry’s tone is a facade of politeness, “He’s not the only
manipulator.” His words dig and he flinches, just a little.

He looks at Harry and the boy’s mutation is terrifying, that’s true, but all mutations can be
terrifying if misused. He thinks Harry’s probably the best person to end up with coercion and
certainly the one he trusts the most, even having felt the effect of it.

But Tom…

Certainly not what he expected.

Tom Riddle, Dumbledore thinks, given empathy is a terrifying thing to behold.

But Harry Potter with the Imperius Curse at his beck and call may just top that.

“He’s not the only manipulator,” Harry says, and he’s not just talking about himself and Tom, he
thinks, as he looks at Dumbledore.

He’s tired of these games. Of this animosity.

Time for them to admit all their flaws.

Dumbledore flinches. Good. “Harry,” he sighs, as if a great weight rests upon his shoulders, “There
is so much… I have so much I need to apologise for.”

Harry meets blue eyes that aren’t twinkling, are just old and so tired. A lifetime worth of mistakes
except this time, this lifetime-- “It’s okay,” he says. It’s not, it’s not okay in the slightest but…

He still dreams of the cave and the lake with the dead bodies dragging him down. Of the mark
hanging above the tower, of that helplessness as he stands frozen, watching someone killed.

He’d realised before, that he would have to fight this war, but he thinks that was the moment it hit
that it was all down to him.

How dare he put it all on Harry?

How dare he die and leave it all on the shoulders of a sixteen year old boy?

But he died, he died , and Harry had died and died again and yet here they both stand and it...

It doesn’t matter. It’s in a different life now, and he sees Dumbledore relax slightly, appearing to
understand.

Harry is nothing to Dumbledore - a martyr, a weapon, a tool. Dumbledore cares little for people in
the overall picture - he cared little for himself too, in the end, falling from the tower with a green
flash was just another move on the chessboard.

Arranging your own death is the ultimate power move and it makes Dumbledore an amazing awe-
inspiring man, but it makes him just that. A man, full of faults and not the god he pretends to be.

Voldemort had thought himself a god too - indestructible, untouchable - at least until Harry had
torn away the last of his horcruxes. Tom in comparison is beautifully, painfully human. Harry sees
flashes of the dictator still there, the poise and disdain but there is such vision--
Harry has known ambition since he was a child in all lifetimes. Many would argue that he's
shortsighted and doesn't see the bigger picture, that sliding through by the skin of your teeth is not
ambition, but they don't see the final goal.

Killing a Dark Lord is damning in it's ambition.

Succeeding was devastating.

“I do not deserve this, but it warms my heart to see you alive,” Dumbledore says, and Harry relaxes
slightly, a weight he hadn’t known was there sliding off his shoulders. Dumbledore is, after all,
just a man. They’ve both made mistakes, got a list of sins a mile long. Hating the old man has
grown old, and Harry isn’t quite sure the moment when he had stopped but only knows that he has.

“It’s good to see you too,” he says, still tense but less so following Dumbledore’s apology, “Nice
school you’ve got here. Great meals.”

He’s bluffing, the only meals he’s had thus far are what Sirius has spoiled him with and he’s pretty
sure it’s not standard school fare. Dumbledore huffs a quiet laugh. “I did my best, even before I
remembered, to provide a safe place for mutants. A safe world… had been my dream for years --”

“Did you meet Gellert here, as well?” Harry asks, he’d never got the story last time and he feels
now he doesn’t need it. “Did you plan together. For the greater good ? Was he charming?”

“Is Tom Riddle charming , Harry?”

Harry laughs, “Tom is not Grindelwald and I am not you.”

“No,” Albus’ smile is too wry and he lingers by the window, gaze resting on the rolling hills
around the manor, “No, you are smarter than I ever was. I was a fool, both then and in this world
and Arianna--”

“Did she die? Here?”

Dumbledore’s head tilts to the side and he strokes his beard. It is not as long as it had been, not
trailing near his belt but still white with the hint of pepper grey. “Not in the same manner,” he says,
slowly, “Not everything is mirrored here, no matter how perfect the set up may be. Grindelwald
and Aberforth and I killed her in our squabble once before. This time our idealogies tore us apart as
they were fated to, and she was lost to us.”

“I hear Grindelwald’s still alive too,” Harry says, tone neutral. He knows better than to probe too
much, Dumbledore will get suspicious. He keeps his distance from the topic, lets the old man sigh,
lost in his own memories for a change.

“He believes in mutant superiority. I did too, once, but now I see co-existance is the only route to
our survival.” A pause, and for a moment Harry thinks he’s under scrutiny but Dumbledore doesn’t
push, simply says, “Don’t threaten that, Harry, there are more people than you and Tom involved
in this.”

“You and Gellert are not the only ones with the right to decide our future.”

“No. Which is why once again I lock myself in my school and Gellert attempts to make waves on
the continent with dreams of destruction. He retreated back to his endless war. I pray for your sake
that you are right and that Tom is nothing like Gellert.”

Tom hasn’t left him, Harry wants to say, Tom came back for him.
“You’re good for him,” Dumbledore notes, resignation and an odd respect in his voice. “And
you’re a better man than I, if you can see good in him after everything.”

Or maybe Harry and Tom are just using each other. For their own goals, for emotional stability, for
the challenge--

He just shrugs. “We’re good for each other,” Harry says, “This isn’t the Wizarding World, no
matter how much you try and make it. Tom and I just learned to adapt.”

“No, this is a new world. This is not a mirror, no matter how much our memories may decieve us.
It is both a blessing and a curse, and there are times I don't believe we were meant to remember at
all," Dumbledore says, sighing, "I believe Hogwarts protected us."

“Yes,” Harry agrees. He does not argue, does not shatter that sweet delusion. Hogwarts protected
them. How quaint , he can practically hear Tom’s sneer in his mind. That the sentient magic could
hold their memories intact, and maybe it did. One last gift from his own home, and not just a
fractured mistake of the Hallows. “And this world?” he poses the question, curious to see what
theory the clever man has spun, “What gave us this second chance?”

“Ah, well that’s the question, isn’t it? Sometimes, Harry, sometimes second chances exist for no
reason at all. Or maybe there is a reason and we don’t find it. The real question is not how we
came by this second chance. It’s what we do with it.”

Harry leaves his conversation with Dumbledore feeling less animosity towards the man, and yet
more frustration. The old man is a headache in any world; the conflict of dichtomy and peace
wrapped in a twinkling gaze. He understands a little why Tom hates him, that feeling of innaction
that Dumbledore presents to the world, but Harry knows he hasn’t even seen a glimpse of the chess
game behind the scenes.

He’s still contemplating it when something knocks into him. Hard.

The breath rushes out of him as his back hits the wall. He’s instantly tasting cyanide on his tongue
before he recognises the flash of platinum blonde, “ Malfoy ?” he hisses, “What are you doing, I
could have--”

Malfoy is not saying anything. That’s the first thing Harry notices. The next thing is that he’s
gesturing angrily. To his mouth. Miming words but nothing comes out--

Harry blinks, realisation slipping into place with something that is more annoyance than horror, “It
wears off eventually, you know that, right?” he asks, and he’s very tempted to leave Malfoy like
that. He wonders what Ron and Hermione would say - Hermione would be horrified, of course,
Ron would love it.

And Tom would be so proud --

With a sigh he squints at Malfoy for a moment, “You can talk ,” he says, because that’s the easiest
to do rather than trying to unroot his own coercion that has sunk in deep through too much
bitterness on his part.

“Thank fuck ,” Malfoy says, words crass, expression softened by relief as he steps backwards,
massaging his throat like the coercion had physically pained him, “That’s messed up, Potter, that’s
really--”
Harry scoffs, “You’re telling me?” he asks, shoving Malfoy away from him so he can continue on
his way, unimpeded by blonde brats, “You’re welcome.”

He makes it four steps down the corridor and Malfoy’s voice echoes along the walls. Portraits
stare down, unmoving, and curtains lining the windows soften the words but they still hang in the
air like the scent of rotting meat on bones already picked clean. “Why haven’t you killed him yet?”

He stops, head turning around but his back still mostly to Malfoy. Because it seems stupid, really,
but the honest answer is the idea hadn’t occurred to him.

That’s a lie, because of course it had . But never as a concrete plan, never to that extent, Harry
hadn’t needed to contemplate that as an option. He’d known he could and that had been enough.

Maybe a part of him enjoys the power he knows he has over Tom. The ability to make his life
tormentor dance at his words and apparently even without his mutation Tom will listen to him.
Dote on him like a cat who brings back dead birds and mice, still living for it’s owner. It’s
laughable because is that really how it works or is he just a puppet on Tom’s strings, playing to his
tune like a good little wind-up soldier?

Harry doesn’t know, and that should be terrifying, should be devastating in the uncertainty but…

It’s thrilling .

“He murdered your parents,” Malfoy continues, “He destroyed Hogwarts, hell, he’s probably why
we all ended up here, have you seen him ? We’re all here with nightmares about the battle and he’s
there, young and whole and--”

“That was me, actually,” Harry spins around to fully face Malfoy, because what’s the point in
hiding it now?

“The... what was?”

“Both, technically. The new world, although if we’re getting technical you had a hand in that. And
Tom being my age, again, my fault, but it wasn’t intentional.”

Malfoy mouths the name Tom like he’s expecting a snake to appear and strike him in the throat
should he dare voice it. He still looks confused. Fearful. That slice of bravery he does possess
presenting itself as ire directed straight at Harry. “You’re not that good,” Malfoy argues, “You
killed my aunt, killing the Dark Lord? Not much of a step. You like to pretend you’re the good
guy, the hero, but really you’re not. You’re still just a kid everyone thinks is special for no reason.”

Harry laughs, “We’re all special, Malfoy, that’s the problem. I? I never claimed to be a good
person but you know what? I’m a hell of a lot better than some people I could name that you hang
around with. Your dad. Vincent Crabbe. Parkinson. Bellatrix got what was coming to her.”

“Will the Dark Lord?” it’s a challenge, but also a question, “Will… Voldemort get his due?”

Harry shakes his head, “Didn’t you hear, Malfoy? Voldemort’s dead,” he spins away, “I already
killed him.”

He feels Malfoy’s stare following him down the corridor like an itch on his back but he ignores it.
He’s got bigger things to worry about than the grievances of Draco Malfoy. And maybe he’s taking
this burden onto his shoulders again unnecessarily, but that is after all his thing. Playing the hero,
they say, maybe it’s time to step back and let somebody else handle it, but that sense of guilt and
responsibility still clings to him.
He’s got to see the bigger picture.

It doesn’t stop that small part of him that wants to forget all that. The part that wants to stay here
and join Dumbledore’s super secret boy band. The part that wants to blank the world, wants most
important thing he has to worry about to be homework and lessons.

But that has never been him.

He’s almost grateful to Dumbledore in a way for allowing him a mockery of that for a few precious
years at least. He’d had a childhood, a normal school life to the extent that he’d been able to. He’d
resented Dumbledore once for trying to keep him in the dark, but now it’s stripped away he sees
what the old man had been trying to do.

And it would be so easy to slip into this life with Ron and Hermione and Ginny and Tom--

Tom doesn’t fit in this life. He looks out of place in the halls of the manor, wary of the children that
dash around him. Like a king out of his kingdom.

What had Harry done to form a sympathetic bond to Tom Riddle of all people? Who had he pissed
off in another life that this boy, man, mortal enemy turned ally turned something else still
fascinates him so, still gets under his skin and entangles them together until he can’t tell where
Tom ends and Harry begins. There are times he wants to rip out the roots, no matter how many ribs
he tears out in the process, but he can’t.

It would be like ripping his own soul apart. And sure, maybe Tom would not have been the one he
would have chosen ten years ago, but Tom is the one that found him, this brown-eyed boy with
grand plans and a lack of impulse control and velveted words and poisoned visions. He is a black
hole, maddening and inescapable and Harry doesn’t even want to try.

Tom Riddle sees all the parts of Harry that he tries to hide and accepts them. It may be rooted in
pettiness and cruelty that he wants to watch them grow, but there is no judgement there, only
wonder and a kaleidoscopic vision for something more. Something better.

He makes Harry want to live and not just survive.

He comes to a stop in front of the door, lingering for only a moment before knocking and pushing
it open. This is not Hogwarts, this is not home. That’s gone, destroyed in dust and ruin and in
Harry’s own will. He cannot stay here.

“Sirius?” he says as he steps into the room, his godfather looking up with a bright smile like
Christmas has come early. Harry weighs up his words for a moment, testing the waters because
this is why they’re here, family reunion aside, and he knows already their stay here is trying Tom’s
patience. “Sirius, I was hoping you could tell me about how my parents died.”
 calculating suspicion
Chapter Notes

So this remains somewhat rambling, but this story is wandering in the right direction
now. Hopefully updates speed up, my 23hr return flight is today. Thanks for the love
and comments!

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Harry thinks he might as well have punched Sirius in the face, it would have had the same impact
as his demand. It’s not even a coercion although he’s so close to just spitting out ‘ tell me ’ so he
gets the full story without lies, omissions or hesitations.

Remus lingers in the shadows of the fireplace, while Sirius starts up wearing a hole in the carpet.
His pacing is anxious, but also just pained. Harry’s glad he’s not Tom with his empathy, feeling
the full brunt of Sirius’ grief, two lifetimes’ worth weighing on his shoulder.

“If Voldemort didn’t exist then I don’t understand how they died,” he says, into the tension-filled
air, “Tom was three , and stuck in an orphanage with no memories.”

“The truth is that we don’t know fully,” Remus says, slowly, “They ran. They were spooked. We
didn’t remember but… it was like déjà vu at times, something just resonated, and something must
have worried them because they ran. From us. From Dumbledore. From everyone, no note, no
goodbye, nothing until their deaths.”

“But you must know something ,” Harry says, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Of course they
remembered bits and pieces, they were his parents and he’s the link. He’s the one who united the
Hallows, he’s the key to all of this. He remembers first followed by those closest to him. Those
whose spirits he tethered to him, his enemy whose soul was entwined with his…

“Sure,” Sirius finally stops pacing, “We know the situation. But it’s not the same as before – there
wasn’t a war, we’d lost contact with Peter years before--

Dumbledore is right, Harry thinks, despite first appearances this world is not a mirror. They are not
distorted reflections of their old selves; they are new beasts entirely.

“Lily worked in research. Everyone loved her. She was a… kind of a backwards telepath, except
with empathy. Impressed all these feel-good emotions onto people, always knew the right thing to
say to make you feel better, or to make you really hurt--”

Like Tom, Harry thinks, his mother had her own brand of power but it was empathy when it came
down to it.

“James could lie. The most outrageous sentences could come out of his mouth but if he wanted it to
you would think it was true. You’re like a combination of their mutations, coercive instructions, I
guess. Lily always saw through James’ lies though and he of course thought that was grand--”

That would be nice, to have got his mutation well-deserved instead of through some magical
backlash or personality trait given reality. He can’t tell which it is and he doesn’t think he wants to.
“They didn’t go to the same school. James and I went to the same school - this high end, posh
private affair our parents’ thought was a good idea. Lily went to the local public school, but she
used to study in this cafe and James saw her one day and that was that. She went on to study at
University - a degree in biochem with a special interest in genetics. She took a few modules, found
a research project she joined that investigated mutants. What made us different? What made our
powers tick?”

“We have to hide Harry ,” Lily shouts in his head, and that’s not all, there’s still more to the story.
“And then you joined the Order,” Harry prompts.

“Then Lily joined the Order. Dumbledore worked in science before starting in the whole politics of
mutant rights. Lily ended up working for his team for her PhD. Dumbledore approached her at
some point about her research.”

There’s a pause as Remus hands over a picture he’d fished out from somewhere during the
conversation It’s dust covered and crinkled over still faces. Harry can see Lily almost immediately,
smiling at the camera. A mix of others, he doesn’t recognise most of them, but spots Arabella Figg,
sees Dumbledore looking about forty, sees a young woman with coppery auburn hair, sees the
blonde-haired man next to Dumbledore with mismatched eyes and a wild laughing grin—

“She worked under Grindelwald.”

“And Dumbledore,” Sirius says, like that makes it better.

“Yes,” Remus says, “The project was a collaboration looking into mutant genetics. Don’t ask me
about the science of it, I run a bookstore.”

Sirius offers a lazy shrug, “It was pretty high security anyway. Hush hush stuff, so much political
play and as you’ve already spotted, Grindelwald jumped straight out of science into politics with
Dumbledore on his heels.”

“Was this before or after my parents were murdered?”

Harry already knows the answer to that question.

Remus takes over the storytelling as Sirius restarts his restless pacing. “We don’t know what Lily
found out. She told James and then dropped off the grid, taking you with them. Dumbledore tried
to find them, but James was a detective for a reason. Nobody was going to find them unless he
wanted them to. The next thing we heard was that they were both dead and you’re gone.”

“That was when Dumbledore brought me in,” Sirius sounds tense, “Or, y’know, I almost knocked
down his front door to join the investigation. And it was too damn late. Again.”

Harry feels awkward. He wants to comfort his godfather, but he doesn’t want to feel like the child
Sirius thought he had lost. “What was my mum working on?” he asks instead, sombrely.

“Wish we knew,” Remus shakes his head, “She destroyed her research and Dumbledore—”

“Fat lot of good Dumbledore is,” Sirius shakes his head, “First he sets her on some secret project,
then he loses track of you, and he won’t even share what she was doing. But whatever it was,
Grindelwald wanted it. Badly enough to kill. Badly enough that it catapulted both Dumbledore and
Grindelwald into a political battle.”

Harry looks down at the photograph of the research team. His mum’s smile is so light. Happy.
Grindelwald and Dumbledore look close; still friends, still allies, still working towards some
greater good. They fell apart , Dumbledore had said, and neglected to say when. The shame is still
there, still strong. How must it feel to be duped not just once but twice ? To fall for someone’s
wiles and charm?

Is Harry not doing the same, falling for Tom’s gilded poison-honeyed words?

The picture is unmoving, a cold stone snapshot of the past. Grindelwald and Dumbledore look
young, he thinks, younger than they should.

Gellert Grindelwald should, by all accounts, by an old man.

He's not.

He looks young and charming and, in his twenties, not in his hundreds. With a charismatic tongue
and handsome looks he is the devil incarnate, mutation thriving in his veins.

“He changes his age,” Harry realises, suddenly, staring at the picture that is still and unmoving and
yet he has seen this face in its’ youth before. Both the laughing boy stealing a wand and the
handsome teen standing next to a young Albus Dumbledore. “He shouldn’t be so young, he and
Dumbledore both.”

“He’s persuasive ,” Sirius corrects, “Gets in your head, a bit like you, except people just like him.
Follow his cause. He shows them things and they lap it right up.”

Harry frowns because something doesn’t fit . ‘Psychedelic visions’ he’s heard Tom say once in
regards to Grindelwald, ‘he’s charming ’ but he’s the wrong damn age--

They must be wrong, Harry thinks. Grindelwald’s power is not a silver tongue – he’s just
charismatic – Grindelwald’s power must be age manipulation. For not just himself, but others too,
and he should have asked Dumbledore why his birth date didn’t match when everything else did.
Mirror or not, people do not just change age , Tom’s shattered soul aside.

That’s one way to become Master over Death, Harry thinks, to keep yourself young, to keep your
followers young. To keep your lover young, at least until you’ve had enough, at least until he starts
to rebel.

It answers his questions, at least partially. It’s the start of the missing puzzle piece, and he knows
it’s all Sirius knows. It all comes down to their mutations in the end.

“So Dumbledore controls memories and you get to turn into a wolf. Snape gets to mess with your
senses and Kingsley has enhanced senses and Tonks can… what is Tonks’ thing anyway, I thought
she was like… she was a shapeshifter but--”

“She is but it’s not physical. It’s more of an illusion, she tricks your perceptions, makes herself
appear different to your eyes. She avoids notice, she’s inconspicuous to most powers. Clairvoyants
don’t read her, she just… drops below radar. She can sneak up on Kingsley if she doesn’t fall over
herself. Looks like Riddle can’t sense her either until he knows she’s there.”

Harry swallows, “And you? What can you do?”

Sirius’ smile grows mischievous and it ages him 20 years younger in an instance. “That,” he
smirks, “Is best demonstrated.”

*
Tom stalks through Dumbledore’s school like a wraith. A shadow. A memory .

He wants to laugh at the irony.

There are parts of the manor that have clearly been made to appear like Hogwarts, and others that
are clearly meant to be as little like the magic school as possible. It’s haunting more than
comforting, the ghost of what could have been.

The Order flit in and out like it’s their base. It probably is. The students mill around chatting and
being children and he’d probably think it nice were Tom’s mind not filled with shadow memories
and the knowledge that this is not home . This is not Hogwarts, and he can’t wait for Harry to finish
information gathering so they can leave —

Granger watches him with narrowed eyes, lips pressed tightly together and fist clenched as if
extinguishing unborn flames. There is a calculating suspicion on her face, like she’s trying to work
out the puzzle that is Harry and Tom which, well, they haven’t worked it out themselves yet.

Malfoy avoids him in wide skirting arcs that his friends and cronies are starting to notice. Snape
stares at him when he thinks Tom isn’t aware of it. Dumbledore treats them like long lost
grandsons when he’s not trying to figure out their plans.

Tom is not here to follow their rules.

“That’s not creepy at all,” the Weasley girl finds him lurking in the shadows near the corridor that
leads to Dumbledore’s office. Nobody is in; he senses emptiness from there. Then again he can’t
sense the girl next to him; probably how she got the jump on him. “The Order don’t hold their
meetings here, if you were looking to spy. Not that it matters, Sirius and Remus will tell Harry
everything anyway, and he’ll tell you, isn’t that how it works, right?”

“Ginny, isn’t it?” Tom tilts his head, tone trying for polite and instead bordering on condescending.
“Ronald’s sister?”

Her smile grows sharp, “You forgot. Or maybe you never knew to start with,” she eyes him up and
down, somewhat appreciatively and Tom feels uncomfortable as she observes him like a piece of
meat.

“I remember things worth knowing,” he says simply, and her gaze flashes up to meet his, full of
fire and spark. Harry had dated her, he remembers now. How cute .

“That’s good,” she says, matching his tone, “Then you’ll remember that if you hurt Harry, I’ll kill
you. I know what you’re like – the others might get distracted by the pretty package but I know
how you use words to play people like puppet strings. And if you ruin Harry, then I’ll ruin you.”

“What would Harry think of someone else fighting his battles for him?” Tom questions.

“He’d hate it,” she says, simply, stepping forwards to stare directly at him. It might have been
effective were she not a foot shorter than him, “But he’s not here. And you are. And you should
know, I know you , just as well as he does.”

“Do you,” his tone is flat, “You left such an impression excuse me if it takes a few moments.
Harry doesn’t talk about you much.”

The jab goes unfelt. Tom hadn’t realised how much he used emotions to gauge reactions until he’s
confronted with someone he can’t feel at all. It’s unsettling, it’s both dull and also fascinating. He’s
having to resort back to looking for physical tells instead – easy, this girl is full of them – but also
harder to figure out what she’s not saying.

That’s okay. She’s a Gryffindor, she says it anyway, “I met your diary. You’re a bit like him.”

Ah. He examines her again in light of this information and it changes his assessment of her just a
little. Not as much reckless and calculating and knowing . He narrows his eyes, “Then I’m sure you
don’t need me to tell you to stay out of my way, little girl.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she is not intimidated in the slightest, “I’ll enjoy watching Harry take you
down from a distance, because you’re right. He doesn’t need me to defend him. If you hurt him,
he’ll kill you himself. After all,” she spins away with a shrug and a smile, “I hear he’s already done
it once before.”

There is a loud crash at lunch. A few students look up, curious. The vast majority don’t even
flinch.

“That,” Ron says, through a mouthful of sandwich, “Sound like Sirius befalling bad luck on people
walking down the stairs.” There is loud cursing, “Probably Snape.”

“He ‘bends luck’,” Harry quotes the explanation Sirius had provided for him, “Are you sure he
doesn’t just make people fall over?”

“No, I once saw him do it to Moody in a training exercise. It was both hilarious and disastrous.
Moody managed to get his peg leg stuck in a grating, he fell in a way that brought down some
scaffolding, a bird got scared and flew off and—”

“And Moody fell over,” Harry points out.

“Quickest way to incapacitate them. I’ve also seen him catapult the cutlery drawer across the room
and manage to stab every knife into the door. Twisted luck just enough to manage that, but not to
hurt the person there – I think it was Remus, actually, the pair were bickering.”

It sounds petty. It sounds fantastical and it sounds perfectly like Sirius.

Harry’s lips twitch despite himself. Hermione has a disapproving frown on her face at the sound of
Snape’s spitting ire in the distance. Over her shoulder he can see Tom, picking out an unbruised
apple from the fruit bowl with a pickiness he wouldn’t expect from someone who should have
grown up in 1940s London.

“You done that essay yet?” Ron asks, “The one for McGonagall? I haven’t started it yet—”

“Isn’t it due tomorrow?”

“Exactly. Tomorrow—”

“When are you leaving?” Hermione interrupts, and Ron falls silent it’s as if someone has muted
him. There’s a tenderness in Hermione’s gaze, hidden beneath a sharp, disapproving glare.

“She’s astute,” Tom reaches the table, “But then you did say she was smart… not as smart as me,
of course—”

“Not all of us can be maniacal geniuses,” Hermione says, viciously. Her gaze flits to Harry and
then off, words she wants to say going unsaid. Were they warnings, Harry wonders, or useless
platitudes?

But really what would he achieve here by continuing the pretence? Going to school. Smiling and
playing nice, like he’s a teenager who didn’t shape this world out of the ashes of a wish and a pile
of bodies in the Great Hall.

Don’t be stupid , they’d say, you don’t have to atone, you saved us all . And true, maybe they’re
better for it. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe he can rest, can accept the happiness that exists
here in this place for him with his friends, his family—

But there is a restlessness under his skin and a fire that’s been lit and not yet , he tells himself. He’s
got things to do.

Stuff to steal…

“That hurt my feelings,” Tom is mocking Hermione.

“You’re a psychopath,” Ron looks like he wants to drag Hermione away from him, “You don’t
have feelings.”

“I have too many feelings,” Tom’s lip quirks, “I’m an empath.”

“So you’ve got an emotional bullshit metre, that’s not empathy,” Hermione corrects, and she’s
brutally correct. Tom’s been using Harry as an emotional translator for the past however many
years but the understanding is still lacking.

“That’s what Harry’s for,” Tom says, a possessive spark to his eye.

Hermione falls silent, eyes flickering to Harry and back to Tom, “Will you come back?” she asks
Harry, totally blanking Tom, which is probably sensible. Otherwise he thinks Hermione is seconds
away from throwing a handful of flames directly into his face.

“I don’t think Sirius would forgive me if I ditched him here with Snape,” Harry says.

“I don’t think I’ll forgive you if you leave me here with Malfoy,” Ron says.

“Don’t worry about Malfoy Jr,” Tom finishes his apple and helps himself to a biscuit off Harry’s
plate, “He’s good at bowing, I remember that much.”

“That, that right there?” Hermione makes a pointed jab with a stick of carrot, almost as if it’s a
wand, “That’s foul , right, how much do you actually remember? How much are you faking ?”

Harry had forgotten how comfortable he had become with his former enemy, forgotten that other
people still need to adjust to the idea. It’s probably unhealthy, the way he has stopped seeing
Voldemort when he looks at Tom, despite the number of personality quirks shared.

“I’m not faking it,” Tom looks unintimidated by the carrot, “Do you think I wanted to go through
puberty twice?”

“Harry, don’t sneak out on us, Ron will be able to see it and we want to see you before you go. But
right now, I’m going to eat my lunch in peace.”

Harry doesn’t argue, he should have known Tom and Hermione would come to fault with each
other, their personalities are too similar, albeit at the opposite extreme of the moral spectrum. “You
couldn’t play nice for one more day, huh?” he asks with a sigh.
“Why bother?” Tom shrugs, “I was a Dark Lord once, why bother hiding it? Why try and make
them all feel safe?”

“There are times,” Harry says, eyeing up Tom with frustration, “That I remember that I hate you.”

“Of course you do,” Tom’s smirk is so damn smug, smile curling up languidly, like a content cat.
Harry gets the feeling he’s quoting something. “I represent to you all the sins you never had the
courage to commit.”

There is a chill in the air, the beginning of autumn beginning to creep in. There are several wings of
dormitories in various corners of the mansion, and there’s an odd mismatch of new double glazing
of old glass panes that are yet to be replaced creating a dissonance of warm and cold air in pockets
throughout the wing.

Tom doesn’t even bother sleeping. There’s no point, they’ll be out of this damn place soon.
They’ve already spent too long here.

Tom has decided he hates it.

It’s a pale imitation of Hogwarts, a mockery of everything the magical castle used to be and it’s
very, very dead. Devoid of magic, devoid of that presence that had made Hogwarts his home – he
hates this building for even trying to be the same. He can’t wait to leave, back to the dingy
apartment in London, the bustling market of mutants trading secrets and life skills, their blueprints
and months’ worth of plans, the snatches of an empire still being seeded—

Harry’s pet Weasley is predictably waiting for them, arms crossed and leaning against a door
frame. His lips are pressed together in a thin line and his gangly form lurches upright to block their
exit. He ignores Tom as if he isn’t even there, gaze fixed on Harry.

“Your friends better not have told Dumbledore,” Tom warns Harry. A spike of amused indignation
from Harry, and bitter regret and wistfulness from Weasley and behind the ginger--

“Of course not,” Granger is just behind Weasley in the dark of the corridor, “I don’t want to think
about what would happen if they got in your way. But I make no promises for Sirius or Remus.”

“Hermione,” Harry sighs.

“We didn’t say anything,” Granger says before he can say anything more, “Nothing I say is going
to make you change your mind, is it?” she sighs, not even needing an answer, “Just don’t do
anything you’ll regret. Like Riddle,” she glares at Tom, “Especially Riddle.”

“I wasn’t sneaking out,” Harry says, although the complaint sounds flat. His emotions are flatlined
in regret and determination that make for an interesting combination.

Ron rolls his eyes, “Mate,” he says, “No offence, but yeah, right.”

Harry’s emotions are soft. His friends too, blunted as they exchange looks with words Tom doesn’t
understand, can’t interpret. He steps past them, down the corridor, aware that words are exchanged
behind him as he moves out of earshot. The trust there is stupid, he thinks, the pair have been a risk
already but Harry continues to let them close.

A second and Harry appears next to him, Granger still looking torn. “We didn’t tell Sirius, by the
way,” Weasley adds, glancing back at Harry, “But you get to explain to him why you left without
an explanation,” he turns to follow his girlfriend, vanishing down another corridor.

“Okay, let’s get out of here,” Harry says.

“Not telling your godfather?” Tom arches an eyebrow, “Risky, you want him hounding us out in
London?”

“As opposed to telling him and then he stops us leaving?” Harry laughs, spinning around to look at
Tom with a smile, “Yeah, no . Now let’s go—oh shit ,” he spins around and almost walks straight
into the dark shape leaning in the doorway. Emotions muted with what once might have been
occlumency, Tom steps forwards in alarm in case it’s Dumbledore but then the shadow moves.

“What have we here?” Snape sneers at them, “Sneaking out past curfew, what a surprise .”

“Don’t do this,” Harry says, warning.

“Just tell him to go away,” Tom says, impatiently at the same time his vision shuts down on him.
He swears, and reaches for Harry blindly, “Not funny.”

“You use your silvered words on me and Riddle will feel something a little more unpleasant than
total sensory shut down,” Snape’s sneer is still audible to him. “I told Dumbledore to keep an eye
on you, but he puts far too much faith in the boy he turned into a martyr. It’s okay, I knew I just
needed to watch the best friends and they’d lead me right to you. Sneaking out in the middle of the
night, didn’t anyone tell you that’s not polite , Potter?”

“Snape,” Harry acknowledges, warning lining every emotion, “Get out of the way.”

There is nothing but vindictive pleasure from Snape, Tom attempts to reach out for it, to twist it , “I
could. Or I could tell Dumbledore right now. The Order are in place to handle London, you two
have no idea what you’re getting yourself in for.” A pause, a flare of what could be annoyance or
fear, “Let alone playing games with the Dark Lord,” Snape adds, pausing warily, still unsure,
“Amnesiac or not.”

Tom sinks mental claws into Snape at the same time the blindness purveying his senses spreads
like the worse pins and needles he’s felt. He tenses, breathing shallow and fast. Harry’s emotions
spike, radiating danger, “Let him go. Snape…”

“No,” emotion shutter closed, “No, I did not die for this, for you hare-brained idiot of a boy—”

“Let—” Harry stops the moment a pained hiss escapes Tom, paralysis creeping like a spider up his
back, “Stop it, we’re not doing anything wrong! Just let us go!”

“What are you going to make me do, Potter? Shoot myself? Throw myself out a window?”

“Yeah, sure, go throw yourself out a window, nobody is going to miss you after all. My mom
certainly didn’t in this life or the last,” Harry snaps, bitterness bloody between his teeth and anger
ember hot.

It’s beautiful. It’s unintentional, Tom senses the moment the words sink in. Anger unchecked keeps
the power in them, even when Harry doesn’t mean to and the realisation comes too late, regret like
a flower in winter, slow to bloom.

The paralysis fades, he blinks black from his vision just in time to see Snape lurching for the
nearest window.
Harry’s too slow to do anything, and even though ‘stop’ is a one syllable word it doesn’t come to
his mouth as quickly as it should. It’s glorious .

“No, don’t—” Harry attempts to course correct, a moment too late.

There is a crash of glass and Harry flinches back , adrenaline spiking. A flash of vindictive
satisfaction that could be Tom’s own or Harry, he can’t tell in moments like this, they’re too
closely entwined emotional, physically, hand still clawed in Harry’s shoulder for stability. His
heart is racing in his chest, Harry’s a reflection next to him.

“Well that’s subtle,” Tom says, a laugh beneath his voice.

Harry’s still all nerves and anxieties, regret like sour milk, “Shut up, we need to get out of here.”

There is a howl of “POTTER!” from below.

“He’ll be fine,” Tom attempts to be reassuring, but it still sounds a little too happy, “It’s only the
first floor.” But their subtle sneak out is ruined before it begun, and Tom can already feel emotions
spiking through the manor. He grabs Harry’s hand because this; running from the authorities?

This is like second nature to them.

This is their playground now, he thinks.

They run.

Harry’s heart is still stuttering over accidentally throwing Snape out of the window. Words hurt
and words kill and Harry should have known not to start an argument with the man.

Too late now and they head for the best exit they’d cased a week earlier. It’s the quickest, should
present the least problems, at least it should have had the various Order members not now been
alerted to their exit. Tom senses someone down one corridor and their route is diverted very
quickly. “Shacklebolt can track people, can’t he?” he curses. He grabs Harry’s arm, pulling the
pair of them sideways off their intended route and into a dark, unlit corridor. Harry’s breathing hard
and Tom’s close, a warm heart beating and smile curling at his lips, “And you really thought
Dumbledore would just let us go,” he says, almost playfully.

A clunk, the creak of a door and Harry brings a finger to his lips in a ‘shhh’ motion. Footsteps that
grow louder and then recede as the person takes a different route. Harry grabs Tom’s wrist,
tugging them further down this wing of the manor, “They’re not our enemies, you know that?”

“No, but they’re a nuisance. Do you really want to justify yourself to them in this moment?”

Harry sighs because the answer to that is obvious. They’re adults in mind and still only teenagers in
body, they have no right to be playing this game but they are anyway.

It’s time Dumbledore realises they’re viable pieces and he needs to work them into his calculations.

“Can you sense Kingsley?”

“It’s the shape changer I’m worried about,” Tom murmurs back, “She slips under my radar.”

“Kingsley has enhanced senses,” Harry points out.

“Then hush,” Tom says, pressing a finger to Harry’s lip. Harry stiffens, aware of how close they
are, aware that they haven’t been this close since that moment in Dumbledore’s office. He bats
Tom’s hand away, eyes wide and for a second they’re just there, silence in the shadows as they
hold their breaths. Tom’s head turns, eyes mapping out emotions Harry can’t feel.

“Snape’s pissed ,” he comments, rather gleefully, “They’re heading to the west wing.”

“Great, we go south. Guess the coast is clear,” Harry’s voice comes out a little strangled.

“Yeah,” Tom hums, “We could.” He’s still staring at Harry, like he’s a puzzle Tom doesn’t know
the answer to. Fingers reach out, tracing Harry’s cheek, pausing against his racing pulse, “Why
deny this?” Tom asks, “This connection between us?”

“I’m not,” Harry says, slightly flustered, “I’m waiting for the empath here to gain a little self-
insight.”

“What’s that meant to mean?” Tom frowns, only half-offended, half-confused. “You’re a
whirlwind of goddamn colour , am I meant to figure out what cutesy little emotion you care about
at any one point?”

Harry pushes away from Tom down the corridor, the other boy slipping into step behind him.
“Let’s just get out of here,” he says, “This isn’t the time for that.”

“No?” Tom laughs, “You keep saying that, you could just say ‘no’, you know that? But you don’t.
Admit it.”

Harry stops, rounding on Tom, “This thing we have?” he snaps, frustrated, “It needs time. It needs
you to understand what it is you want from… from this . From me . You’ve spent two lifetimes
with me. One was spent attempting to kill each other. One of us succeeded. Now we’re operating a
low key budding crime syndicate in London because we’re both wanted by the government. And
you… you’re charming . You’re like that diary version of you I met; a genius fucking sociopath
who plays the game and I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. And you know what, neither do
you.”

He can see Tom trying to read that. Attempting to discern what Harry’s really feeling, how many
conflicts are built into this jenga tower they’ve built between them. The temporary alliance turned
permanent and set with concrete and Harry still feels like he doesn’t know if it’s going to fall over
or not.

“That’s cute,” a gravelly voice interrupts them, “Very messed up, but cute.”

Moody is standing in the corridor. Quiet for a man with a peg leg, all he needs is an eyepatch and
he’d be a great pirate, Harry thinks, hysterically. “Great job on lookout,” Harry snipes at Tom.

“Not my fault. You’re a goddamn emotional hurricane , it’s a little distracting.”

“Can it,” Moody says, “And come with me. Riddle don’t try anything. There’s an agreement--”

“There is,” Harry interrupted, “But it’s not Riddle you need to worry about. You heal, right? Great.
Stop them following us . Distract them. Divert them. Send them in a different direction. Go on
now.”

It’s a quiet cold fury with which he watches the furious expression on Moody’s face slip slide to
fear as he moves to step past them.
 “How long will that hold?” Tom asks.

Harry shrugs. He doesn’t know, he’s too stressed to control how much power he puts into it. His
power sits like a warm content cat at the base of his spine, like wings just begging to be stretched
and he shoves it away. Like a heady drug addiction he doesn’t want.

(He knows realistically they’ll probably have to knock Moody out to break it, but can’t bring
himself to think about that right now.)

“Look, I didn’t have to sign on to your doomed hero ship,” Tom snaps, “This mutant crusade… but
I did anyway, because I need you. Your powers--”

“Yeah, my powers ,” Harry snaps. “And the fact I push you. I don’t bend or bow, I tell you when
you’re being an idiot. And this - talking about this now? Not the time .”

“What do you want me to say?” Tom laughs, “I mean, it’s all a neurological con job anyway. It’s
just chemicals, emotions have no value ,” Tom sidesteps neatly into Harry’s way, dark eyes and a
curious look as he drops his hands into Harry’s collar, pulling him closer. “This? Connection or
not, this is all just hormones anyway, synapses misfiring. It’s got no material value but us ? This
partnership --”

“Maybe it’s like magic,” Harry mocks, fully intending to step away and around Tom but only
making it halfway there, words more a spitfire taunt than intended, too much warmth to them, too
much fight , “Y’know. Not real .”

“This isn’t real then? Is this all still in your head? Maybe you’re insane. Maybe I did win after all.”

Harry can’t help the smug smile, “You didn’t win,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Because killing me?” he laughs, “That’s not a victory for you. Not anymore,” and he enjoys the
way Tom’s eyes gleam at the challenge.

Harry wishes he didn’t feel this way about Tom Riddle. He’d love to blame it on the horcrux, on
the soul connection, on prophecy or fate and maybe it is, in part. Because he can’t deny there aren’t
days when it feels like there is something that tethers them. Like a red fate ribbon with two ends
entangling them, his life is impossible to live without Tom Riddle influencing it in some way.

It’s impossible for a rope not to have two ends, a coin not to have two sides and for roads not to
lead to two places and it is impossible to live forever.

Harry’s life remains defined by Tom Riddle one way or another, what’s the point in fighting it?
They said to follow your dreams, but they forgot that nightmares are dreams too. Tom is all his
nightmares wrapped in one pretty package.

He doesn’t have the strength to resist.

Chapter End Notes

[A conversation that almost definitely took place:

“You’ve have Voldemort’s tongue in your mouth, right, so I’ve gotta ask.” A pause,
more ominous than it should be, “Is it forked?”
“GINNY!” Ron looks horrified. Harry is torn between horror, embarrassment and
laughter.]
 the dark to be afraid
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Are you, Hermione Granger, actually suggesting we skip school . Miss exams ?”

She wishes Ron didn’t sound so damn gleeful about it. She knows schooling is not his priority but
his joy at the suggestion is almost palpable. “Not skip exams,” she corrects, a hissed voice that
drops as their teacher paces past, a mutant with the ability to manipulate air currents, “Just... take a
bit of a gap year. I want to try to get into Oxbridge this time, you know that, this is just a little life
experience.”

“Life experiencing joining a criminal syndicate.”

“It’s not a criminal syndicate; it’s Harry . And he’ll need help.”

Ron shoots her a look, “You just want to make sure he’s okay. Which, I get , I dislike Riddle as
much as you do, but if he’s kept Harry alive this long then he can’t be all bad, can he?” He winces
at Hermione’s look, probably seeing what she’s going to say before she does, “I remember fifth
year just as well as you, he’ll be fine. He’s good at getting out of trouble.”

“Fine,” she says, “Then we don’t help him, but we do something and that something is not here.
We’re mutants, hiding away and pretending we aren’t isn’t helping anyone. I want to go into
politics, but let’s get a little inside knowledge first. Know what I’m actually fighting for.”

Ron scrawls a sentence down and she resists the urge to correct the spelling. “Yeah, just skipping
school, breaking rules is a big thing for you. Are you sure?”

“Of course,” she blusters, “It’s practically a tradition, right? Skip our last year of school to help out
Harry?”

“How many times do you intend to reincarnate?” he jokes, eyebrows wiggling. “How about we
come back as dragons next time, or maybe magical again. That would be amazing, we could all
skip school entirely, no more studying ---”

She chews on the end of her pen, a nervous habit from this lifetime she can’t shake. “Believe me,
I’d love to just stay here and worry about school. But that’s not an option. We’re his friends. We
have to support him.”

And stop him doing something stupid, she doesn’t voice. He told Snape to jump out a window.
Moody is still nursing the bruises from where Kingsley had to restrain him. The power there is
terrifying but it’s Harry .

It’s not Harry she’s scared of, she realises, it’s Tom Riddle lurking in his shadow. It’s the
knowledge of what they had been like with the locket horcrux around their neck, it’s the knowledge
that as much as he hides it Riddle is not a good person. He’s manipulative, dominating, egocentric,
a liar, a killer —

“I want in.”

“In on what?” Ron plays dumb as Neville turns around to face them from the desk in front of them.
“You guys are literally right behind me, I’m not deaf,” he says, looking a bit flustered, “Also you
three used to whisper all the time at Hogwarts, it’s not subtle …”

“We’re not doing anything,” Hermione says, her lie blatant and awful , lying is not her strong suit,
“Nothing to get in on—”

“You mean you’re not helping Harry?”

“Of course we’re helping Harry,” Ron rolls his eyes, “Have you met us ?”

“I’ll come with,” Neville says, “Whatever you’re doing—”

“Neville,” Hermione sighs, “That’s sweet but you… this is bigger than just helping Harry ---”

“I—” Neville spins back around, pretending to be doing his work as the teacher does another
sweep, “Look, I’m not useless , you have no idea of the stuff we got up to at Hogwarts while you
three were gambolling around the country.”

“But this isn’t Hogwarts,” Hermione says, “And we’re not magic.”

That’s the problem. She wonders if this is what their world would have been like had the muggles
known magic existed. Not that it matters. Magic doesn’t exist. Their DNA is twisted, broken and
they are the next step of human evolution. They are mutants, they are not human.

“They’re going back to London,” she says, looking between Ron and Neville, “Mutant dead zone.
You can’t come, Neville. Besides,” she adds, “We’ll need someone on the outside.”

There is the clearing of a throat and the teacher is looking at the three of them, “Are you finished,
or do you want to share this conversation with the rest of the class?”

Hermione’s jaws shutter closed, because they can’t talk about this. Half the students here already
think that they’re insane for some of the terminology they throw about. The rest either want to
pretend it didn’t happen or just move on.

“That’s what I thought,” the teacher steps away, leaving them in an uneasy silence. A few
whispers. That they think they’re special. More than being mutants already makes them. And
maybe they are, maybe they should stop denying what happened.

Hermione is once again hit with the impression that they are too young for this war.

They were just children —

Her resolve hardens.

“You know what would help, Neville?” she asks, “You have a key to the gardens and greenhouses,
don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Neville looks puzzled, “But what’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, we can borrow it, right?”

She sees the dawning realisation in his eyes.

“But plausible deniability,” she adds, “you didn’t hear what we were talking about, right?”

“What’s plausible deniability?” Ron asks and she loves him, she does, but she also wants to brain
him on the head sometimes.

Magic had been an open door. A death to impossibilities. Mutations are the impossible and their
possibilities are limitless. Fettering them can’t lead to anything good and it’s about time they did
something about it instead of just hiding away in the middle of nowhere.

She stuffs clothes in a backpack, wishing she had her purple handbag in a time like this. Ron is
counting out what money he has. He sighs. It’s not much; pocket change really. Hermione has a
credit card from her parents but cards can be tracked.

“This was a lot easier with magic,” she says as she hefts up her bag.

“Mum is going to kill me,” Ron sounds mournful, “After she kills Harry of course for not even
hanging around long enough for her to visit. Do you think she’ll still accept us home? Devon isn’t
that far from London, right?”

“Apparating really screwed up your sense of geography,” Hermione says fondly.

There is a knock at the door.

Both Ron and Hermione freeze, and Hermione shoves her bag over the side of Ron’s bed and out
of sight of any teacher that may happen to wander in. Ron looks about to duck out of sight – he’s
not meant to be in Hermione’s room after that incidence over winter – when Ginny’s voice sounds
out.

“It’s just me. Let me in.”

The lock twists as Ron opens the door to let his sister in, Neville and Luna trailing behind her.
“No,” he says upon seeing them all.

Ginny ignores him, “Mum is going to kill you,” she says, breezily, perching cross-legged on
Hermione’s bed.

“Great, you came here to tell me that? Cool, now get out.”

“I’m his friend too,” she’s always been a spitfire, always wanted to be just that bit older, “You two
have to stop running off without thinking about others.”

Ron looks annoyed, “We thought about it. We thought not to include you. Don’t look like that,” he
says before she even finishes her pout, “He’s not even dating you anymore, he’s…” Ron pulls a
face, “Look, Ginny, you’re not coming. End of debate.”

Her pout is truly impressive and Hermione gets the impression that Ginny knew she’d never be
successful in persuading her brother anyway. “Fine,” she shrugs, “Besides, someone has to make
sure the twins don’t blow up the school. Anyway, after we found out you were leaving we had to
swing by.”

Hermione clears her throat, “Yes, after you found out we were leaving—”

“Neville didn’t say anything,” Luna says, looking up from where she had been plaiting fronds of
Hermione’s throw rug, “I thought you’d already left, I was surprised to find that you were still here.
Here,” she holds out her hand, “I have something for you.”
It is small, metal and fits easily into a clenched fist.

It’s a key.

“Here,” Luna presses the key into Hermione’s hands. “You’ll need it. I made it specially. Well, I
got Dean to make it. I drew it and then he drew it and his drawings come to life, see? So you’ll
have it when you need it.”

“For what ?” she asks, frustration seeping into her tone because Hermione doesn’t need Ron’s
powers to know that Luna won’t tell them. Whether because she can’t see yet or because she
doesn’t want to tell them.

It’s small, silver and unobtrusive. It could unlock a front door or a padlock, she doesn’t know
what, but she holds onto it tightly. Luna might live in her own world most of the time, but she’s
reliable. She knows what she’s doing, at least somewhat.

“For when you need it most,” Luna says, simply. Like that explains it. It doesn’t, but it’s the most
Luna-answer ever.

“Good luck,” Neville says, “I left the door unlocked, just like you asked. Lock it behind you, will
you, I don’t want to have to put up with Snape shouting at me,” he winces, “It will be like third
year’s boggart incident all over again.”

“Just grow some plants over him, Nev,” Ginny says, “Or mess up his flower patch, I just know that
herb patch is his.”

“Ginny, Snape doesn’t live here,” Ron says, just as there is a clatter from the corridor outside
Hermione’s room and the distinctive sneer of Severus Snape, words unclear.

“Then why,” Ginny says, standing from the bed, “Why is he always around ? None of the other
Order members spend so long here. Except for Moody and he keeps healing various lost limbs and
McGonagall teaches here…” she’s reaching for the door, making to leave when Ron moves.
Reaching out he catches his sister’s hand, moments from the door and remains poised like a terrier,
eyes on the door.

Distant for a moment, like he’s watching chess pieces move, then a blink and he’s ushering Ginny
back, inching the door open to peek out. He pulls it closed a second later, “You almost walked into
Snape,” he says, in explanation, but that doesn’t explain the odd look in his eye.

Hermione raises an eyebrow and waits. Patiently. He meets her gaze and sighs, “You’ll never
guess who was with Snape?”

“Malfoy?” Ginny hazards.

“Yes. But not baby Malfoy. That looked an awful lot like Lucius Malfoy.”

The Manor is not unfamiliar to Lucius. He has shovelled enough money this way to make it a good
school, a sanctuary for mutants. He remembers enough about how they hunted down the
muggleborns to know that grievances from another life can’t be carried over. They can’t afford to
be divided, not when all they have to rely on is their mutations.

Although money certainly helps, he thinks smugly, suit form sharp and cane in hand. There is no
concealed wand, there is no magic here and that’s sad, that’s tragic , he is a muggle essentially--
Had someone told the Death Eaters milling around outside Hogwarts’ gates that they would wake
up to a new life in over a decade where they were all reduced to muggles then he’s pretty sure most
of them would be horrified.

But now it just is. A fact, accepted, this change, they move on and besides--

The wide variety of mutations keeps things interesting.

“This is embarrassing,” Draco snaps, leaning on his door frame and very clearing blocking his
father’s entrance into his room, “I’m not sixteen.”

“Then stop acting like it,” Severus drawls. There’s a cut on his cheek and his arm is in a sling.
Lucius wonders what happened to him, “Now tell Miss Parkinson that you’ll be busy for the
evening and hurry up , before we get any unwanted…” a beat, “ --eavesdroppers. ”

“What are you doing here?” Draco’s hushed hisses as he confronts his father is not subtle. Snape
gives up on composure and drags Draco through to where there’s an empty classroom, looking
pretty sure they’ve woken at least this wing of the school.

He’s glad to see his funding going to a good cause, at least, examining the way the school has been
spun from the old house. It had been a wreck when he had first found Dumbledore attempting to
use it as a school, nowhere near the grandeur it displayed now.

“Is this because of Saint Potter?” Draco pouts as Lucius appears behind Snape in the doorway.
Frankly his son’s obsession with Harry Potter is disturbing. “Or is it because of… you-know —”

“No, I don’t know,” Lucius snaps, “Severus summoned me here on some ridiculous excuse.
What’s the matter? Got a new mutant with uncontrollable powers?” He looks between where his
son looks nervous all of a sudden and Snape looks dour. Well. More dour than usual. “Found
another ex-Death Eater?” he suggests, “I hear Greyback’s still at large. Who is it?”

Despite everything the corner of Snape’s lip kicks up subtly, “You know who.”

“No, I don’t, that’s why I’m asking,” Lucius tires of these games.

“Oh, Lucius, you haven’t wondered why we’re all here and our Lord wasn’t?”

“He’s alive ?” Lucius goes through all the stages of denial in one terrible second. Because Snape is
serious. Deadly serious. Draco’s nervousness makes sense all of a sudden. “He’s—” he feels sick,
dizzy. “Oh Merlin —”

“He’s…” Draco opens and closes his mouth a few times then regains his composure, “He’s okay. I
mean… he’s not the same as I remember. I had trouble following him, I mean, he’s the Dark Lord
—”

“You made my son follow him — he was here ?”

“He’s not the same,” Draco repeats, “He’s not a telepath, but he’s something… he knows if you’re
there, I didn’t stand a chance of sneaking up on him. Only ones I’ve seen that are immune to him
are the Weasley girl and my cousin. Neither of which are going to help with stalking Potter or Rid
—” he stumbles over the name.

“Tom Riddle,” Snape sounds suitably dire.

Lucius chokes on something, face going pale. He remembers the diary, black bound and inkless
and oh merlin — “Riddle?” he asks, just to check, “That’s…”

“His name. You’ll find Lord Voldemort is not the same as any of us remember. Not even as he
himself remembers.”

Lucius composes his features. Snape can’t read minds here; Snape has no idea of what he’s
thinking beyond what he shows him and Lucius has always been a master of hiding what he’s
really thinking from others. His heart is pounding and he feels sick. That Riddle and Voldemort are
one and the same, that the Dark Lord is here, alive , breathing and with an agenda.

“I didn’t manage to follow Potter either,” Draco continues, “When he wasn’t with Riddle he was
with his little friends and Weasley usually sees me coming.”

The connection isn’t apparent, “Potter? What’s he got to do with anything? They found him then?”

“You could say that.”

“They found Harry Potter in London,” Snape says, eyes dark and unreadable, “By the Da—” he
stops halfway through the title, face going blank in distaste before he rephrases, “He and Tom
Riddle appear to be allies, as abstract as it seems.”

“You’re right,” Lucius clears his throat, “I don’t believe you. Our Lord…” he stops, because he has
come to the same realisation as the other two. This person – man, boy – is not apparently Lord
Voldemort. He is no shadowy bogeyman in the dark to be afraid of, he is not a mass murderer with
a cult following. He is a teenager with some form of mental power, he is Voldemort before he was
Voldemort . “Tom Riddle,” he sounds the name out. Less intimidating than the name everyone has
come to fear and yet— “Riddle?” he asks, he’s heard that name. “London? Riddle and Potter ?
You mean—"

“Yes,” Snape looks unhappy about it too, “London. Gemini.”

“The Twins,” Lucius breathes, and the name is different, the boy is different but he’s the same
where it counts.

The Dark Lord as a teenager.

“Whatever gods are out there,” he breathes, “Help us now.” He looks at Snape, almost imploringly,
“Surely Dumbledore is keeping an eye on him? Or is that what Potter was there for?” A pause, his
mind racing, “I thought Potter was missing --”

“He was,” Draco complains, eyeing up his feet, posture slouched. Look up, boy , Lucius wants to
snap at him, but he’s been unable to control his son since memories trickled into their heads.
Maybe before that, maybe when he first discovered Draco could bend the space around him,
cloaking himself from view and from harm. “But he’s been with Riddle since they got out of a
Sentinel Services base. Hear they’re planning on going back. Tearing it down… they’ve got
something planned and it involved them sneaking off back to London. Potter threw Severus out a
window--”

Lucius almost chokes, “Potter what --?”

“Oh, yeah,” his son seems almost gleeful, but also slightly horrified, “He controls people. His
mutations. Coercion. Told Severus he might as well throw himself out of a window and next thing
you know--”

His heart is pounding, “Has he used it on you?” his gaze zeros in on his son.
Draco finally looks up to meet his gaze, “No,” he curls his lip, and looks away.

Lucius relaxes, marginally. No longer sure whether to be worried about Potter or Riddle he looks
to Snape, “So what do you want from me, Severus? Stop that, Draco,” Lucius snaps at where his
son is creating bubbles of force field. Petulantly Draco just holds onto the field he’s currently
spinning between his fingers, thickened air like oil slick in a sphere between the pads of his fingers.

“You’ve had contact with them.”

It’s not a question. Snape knows Lucius too well, knows his dealings. He has not met the twins
personally, but he may have commissioned them to obtain a piece or two for him with high
monetary value.

“I didn’t know they were Potter and Riddle,” he says, “Otherwise I would have never--”

“They killed Bellatrix,” Draco blurts out, “Did you know that when you commissioned a job?”

“I don’t care what or why you hired the Dark Lord-- Merlin-- to steal something for you. I just
want to know how you contacted them.” Snape’s eyes are dark fathomless pools.

Lucius sighs and tells him.

Tom eyes up the building in front of them. It bears little resemblance to the facility that he and
Harry had once been in. Nor does it look anything like the outposts they’ve spent the last few years
raiding. Bricked sides, white framed windows, glass doors and higher up, smooth glass office
windows gazing out over London. Some nice trees planted outside. It probably used to be an old
workhouse, long converted.

In the heart of London their flat looks like a conspiracy theorist’s den with days, months, years of
work splayed out across the walls. Blueprints and shift schedules and information in scattered
pieces, like a trail of breadcrumbs they’ve painstakingly put together. They hadn’t been lying to the
Order - London was theirs - and the beast at its heart - their mystery unravelled piece by piece,
string by tedious bit of string until it led them here.

Harry’s a warm weight nearby, satisfaction drifting over him as like clockwork the security guy
wanders past. He sees them standing there, two teenagers loitering in front of the DMA like it’s an
acceptable past-time. He blinks at them, a glib blankness to his gaze and mind and the moment he
takes his eyes off them the memory slips from his head like water.

The potential for Harry’s mutation is endless and Tom never ceases to enjoy seeing it in action.

Harry is leaning against the staff entrance, twirling the security guy’s key card between his fingers.
His green eyes dart to the side, watching the security guy walk off and turning to Tom like he’s in
complete control. Like his pulse isn’t thudding like thunder beneath his skin, like his brain is
racing a mile a minute calculating different ways this could all go. “Okay?” Harry asks, Tom’s
own reflection staring back from those green eyes. “Tom?”

“Of course,” his smile is saccharine smooth, “After you, darling,” he gestures forwards.

They fall into the familiar routine. Slick power like oil and well-practised manipulation of
technology gets them through. It’s nothing compared to magic - just numbers and data in the place
of runes and wards.
 “You sure we’ll find something?” Harry asks, his emotions a clouded storm that betrays him
before he even opens his mouth, uncertainty written there.

Tom barely acknowledges him with a response. They’ve been over this before and Harry knows his
opinion on this matter. Shares it even in the simple fact that they’re missing a giant hole in the
centre of Sentinel's power structure. If they find the piece at the centre of the hole they can take
down Sentinel. If they can take down Sentinel they have no more barriers, no more resistance. If
they take down Sentinel it’s a few words in the right ears, a few twisted emotions and they’re free.

Magic doesn’t exist and Tom’s war on the non-magical turned into a civil war against their own.
Mutations exist here and he’d like to say he’s learned from his mistakes. Mutants aren’t the
problem. Mundanes are and the mundanes? Can be controlled .

He’s still getting Harry around to the latter part of the plan but it will happen, he’s sure of it.

And if not...well…

He’s managed without Harry before. He can manage just as well without him this time.

Chapter End Notes

["So you're saying, Miss Lovegood, Miss Weasley, Mr Longbottom: you do not know
where Miss Granger and Mr Weasley are or how they left?"
Synchronised head shaking from the trio.
"So you had nothing to do with the recreated version of Devil's Snare that should not
exist in this world currently taking over the East Wing?"
Neville Longbottom looks at his worst fear in the face and says, "It sounds like you
need a better gardener."
Snape wants to retire.]
 fate falls
Chapter Notes

Overwhelmed by everyone's support after 4-years. Thank you so much, I love you all
<3

Now

It was meant to be slightly challenging. A bit more difficult than the facilities, but it shouldn’t have
been this . It should have been in and out, a manipulation here, the slick slide of cyanide words on
his tongue and hopefully the damning information they need to tear this government agency to
shreds.

It shouldn’t have been this. Broken glass and blood and broken words and the cold pit of betrayal
of he should have fucking known better .

He knew who he was making his bed with. He knew what Tom was capable of. Even without the
weight of Voldemort’s decades of crimes, the boy had been capable of murder at fifteen.

Did Harry really think he would change? For Harry ?

He closes his eyes to the image of the body, still on the floor. His footsteps slow, heart still racing.
He’ll finish the job. He’ll do it without Tom. He doesn’t need the other boy. He doesn’t need the
complexities that come from knowing the former-murderer of his parents, a former-mass murder, a
former racist supremacist--

In hindsight Ron and Hermione and literally everyone else’s warnings were not unfounded.

Then

It had been so simple at first. So easy.

“Split up?”

It had been a bad idea from the start. Harry didn’t voice his doubts.

Dumbledore had once acknowledged the similarities between Harry and Tom and then gone on to
talk about how their differences were what made them. Harry thinks he’s wrong – their differences
are what make them similar. A twisted reflection of the other.

For a piercing moment he suddenly regrets what could never be. Destiny seems to have it in mind
that he and Tom were made for each other, and then had the gall to throw them in the wizarding
world fifty years apart. Of course it was too late for Tom by the time Harry was born, it was
decades too late. They didn’t stand a chance.

But now…
Doors click open and guards nod and smile and act like they’re meant to be there. Tom eyes one or
two like he’d like to see them bow to him as he walks past, but he must control the urge because
they pass through with ease in what has become well-oiled teamwork.

Tom’s handsome like this, the traitorous thought creeps across Harry’s mind. All kleptomaniac
tendencies and forceful plans driven into one singular idea, one prize that makes his eyes gleam.
He has the attitude of a teenager who just wants to rebel and the shadow of a man with a greater
plan that’s still half-formed and raw. They might have memories of adulthood, but it’s somehow
not the same as living it. Harry had always had a thing about rule-breaking and Tom’s charisma
and eagerness is infectious .

This thing between them is still unspoken but Tom’s fingers are like firebrands on his shoulders.
His brown eyes look red under the emergency lighting in the dim corridors of the Department of
Mutant Affairs, and while Harry has to blink the afterimage of snake-slit pupils from his mind, he
still only sees Tom. Tom, broken soul cut pieces torn away and assembled into this.

A brilliant, burning ember and Harry’s the electrostatic that sparks the inferno.

“You okay?” Tom catches his eye.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” Harry shrugs. He can’t put it into words, this strange exhilaration.

“You’re not going to have a moral crisis on me, are you?” Tom appears confused by Harry’s
rolling emotions; tone bored but eyes like piercing daggers.

Harry scoffs, shaking his head,

“Shut it down,” he quotes, “Three words, it’s not that hard. In and out – it’s just another job, right?”

“It’s not just another job ,” Tom says.

“It is,” Harry insists, “We’ve dealt with Sentinel before, we can deal with them again. Come on,”
he taunts, adding the sparks to that inferno, “Want to give God a run for his money?”

Tom’s eyes gleam .

Tom had half been expecting labs or cells similar to what he fished Harry out of. But the plans they
had found did not match that. What he finds does not match that.

There are wings of this building with CT scanners and MRIs and blood and genetic labs. It’s set up
like a hospital, like a care home.

Except hospitals don’t have windows stabbed through with iron.

It’s soft. Warm pastels and creams, softness hiding something almost sickly sweet in the way it
flares against every danger sense Tom possesses. He wonders, had he not been sent to the facility
by the orphanage if he’d have ended up here

It’s almost innocent. At least in appearance. Cages gilded and laboratory equipment hidden behind
this facade of an orphanage. It’s a twisted reflection of Dumbledore’s school for mutants in a
mockery of what Tom remembers from Wool’s.
There’s a cry from a creature in the night. A fox or something on the quiet street outside. Tom’s
head snaps around sharply. There’s a woman – she must be a teacher or something – watching him
from the corner of the atrium. She has a vacant look in her eyes, frizzled hair tied back with a sash
and thick lensed glasses that made her eyes look several times bigger.

She peers at him with a large, wide gaze. She is unfamiliar and yet Tom feels like he knows her,
“Are you lost, dear?”

He stares at her a moment too long, “No,” he settles for, twisting towards another corridor he
knows is there. He needs to find Harry – this – he’s not sure what it is or what it means but it
changes something—

“Have we met, my dear?” she asks, blinking as if seeing him in dim light, “You seem familiar.
Perhaps in another world…” her voice trails off. She’s useless, Tom thinks, a waste of time.

He turns to go, to brush past her when a tremble enters her tone.

“No, our paths have not crossed and yet… souls have touched.”

Tom stops, stills, freezes. Half-turns back to her where her hands are shaking. Her emotions are
sharp and spicy, drunk and unclear to him. Like looking through thick mist or fog.

Like looking through a crystal ball.

“What’s your name?” he asks the strange woman.

She doesn’t answer, staring straight past him at something he can’t see. Mutant , his instincts
scream, she’s a mutant -- “Your life is one of great sorrow. A half-life. A cursed life.”

“Shut up,” Tom sneers, “Who are you?” He already knows the answer, “You’re the seer,” he spits
out, “The one who prophesied my fall. The one descended from the famous seer—what was her
name? Trelawney?”

She barely listens to him, barely seems to sense the anger that blooms in his chest as he looks at
this mess of a person who set everything in motion. Who foresaw his own destruction, who spelled
it out in hazy words whispered to the wrong person? Had she not said anything then he’d have
won.

Had he not listened he’d have won.

The flaws hurt, the words hurt more. She coos over him like he’s a bug in a glass and she’s peering
through a magnifying glass at him, peering through the woven threads the three sisters have
created. “He’ll kill you,” she says, eyes magnified by her large bug-like glasses. She stinks of
incense and sherry, “Your death is already written in his bones.” She looks at him with terrible pity
that Tom neither wanted nor asked for.

His lip curls, like there is lemon rind on his tongue. Something sour at the back of his throat he
can’t get rid of, “You’ve seen the wrong future,” he says, “That world is dead. It was choked out of
existence the moment we blinked awake in this one.”

He expects her to dismiss his claims, to laugh him off but instead she still just looks sombre, “Oh,
you poor sweet summer child,” she coos, “All roads lead to the same place eventually.”

The thin thread that was his temper wavers, frays and snaps. “I was born--” he corrects, even as he
summons up the despair and black void that lurks and weaves it into her, “--in midwinter,” and
watches as she stumbles back in horror, “Your prophecies,” he says, following after her and
enjoying the way she looks at him in fear. As she should, thinks the part of him that remembers
leading, that remembers the war and chaos that once followed his footsteps, “Your prophecies are
fake and you’re a fraud who thinks she can play with people’s lives.”

“I—no, that’s not,” she’s trembling, “Your future is dark, your past is dark—” she blinks, “I
sense… a grave danger…”

Lies. Tom can feel them like honeysuckle sweetness on his tongue.

“Wrong answer,” he says, and her fear grows, echoes and he amplifies it back to her. It’s easy and
he enjoys her look of terror as she flinches away from him. “Why don’t you swallow your tongue?”

He wonders if she really is Cassandra’s lies given human form.

Not that it matters. She’s been the foreteller of doom before.

This time he won’t give her the chance.

Then.

The lock clicks a little as it gives. Tumblers roll over each other and slide into place with a
satisfying twist of the pick as Harry wrangles the lock open. He wonders how much of this skill he
had from before - breaking into a cupboard to sneak out school supplies - and how much a rather
fruitful afternoon at the library in the section on lockmaking had influenced this ability.

He's glad, somewhat, that this facility seems to favour physical evidence. Harry's skills with
technology are limited.

It's a small room. It's locked. Physically and not with anything electronic. It's not their usual servers
- Harry and Tom have already been through variations of those at multiple facilities and long since
got the information they need from them but this building...

This building is different. This building has a division devoted to research.

She was researching mutations, he hears Sirius' voice is his head, and something about genetics...

There's a name card on the desk. A placard introducing the person who used to work here. Harry
stares at the name, something cold like ice stabbing into his chest.

Lily Potter.

The room is mostly untouched. Sealed up like they'd tried to forget about it. Locked and hidden
along with other things Sentinel wanted to keep locked and hidden.

There's a desk with empty drawers, a cupboard and a filing cabinet. He goes for the filing cabinet
first. Picks the lock with an ease that would make Fred and George proud and opens, half
expecting it to be empty and devoid of anything but dust.

It's not empty in the slightest.

With a heavy heart he grabs a pile of files and starts sifting through. It's all physical data. Names.
Addresses. Records and mutations for mutants.
A lot of mutants.

There's a file with a picture of him in.

Something in his stomach jolts unpleasantly. It's his old mug shot from when they first dragged
him in all those years ago. Except...

There are other photos. A CCTV shot of him in the street, too-large jacket, hood up but his face
visible in the street lamp, a shadow that is probably Tom next to him.

A distant shot of the market. He spots Greyback. Barty. Tom.

Another of Harry, sitting at a coffee shop with too much paper and a book.

Panic curdles sour in his gut. He flips to the next file. Tom sneers out from the photo there. The
information listed is extensive. Parent names. Date of birth. Orphanage. Mutation.

Mutation limits. Information about a chemical compound, diagrams of the wires and metal Harry
remembers pulling out of Tom's skin.

Another file. Another lurch of panic. A picture of him meeting with Ron and Hermione. More
information about Ron. A stamp that dictates he attends Dumbledore's school. A thankful lack of
further details but still--

There are files for Hermione. For Ginny. For Luna and Neville and Snape and Remus and mutants
he doesn't know, hasn't met either through chance or because they're people who didn't exist in his
world of two magical wars with all the death and bloodshed that entailed. He spots names he
knows. McKinnon. Prewett. Rosier. Abernathy. Potter.

He slams the drawer closed on a photo of Lily and James Potter. He feels sick.

They know, he thinks, they know far too much. Lily Potter used to work for Sentinel before it was
Sentinel.

Sentinel was birthed not from the mundanes but from the mutants.

How.

Why.

If they know so much why is it here in paper files in this facility? This is the one with the lab, he
knows, so these are someone's personal records. They're here, and yet the world is not descending
on the mutants so why--

Someone's keeping it to themselves, he thinks.

He tears the files from the filing cabinet drawers. They scatter everywhere like birds flocking as he
drops them on the desk. The papers slide over each other as he stacks them, panic making him
hasty.

Harry glances around the room to make sure he's got everything and his gaze alights on a tall
cupboard. With a trembling hand he reaches for it, unsure whether he'll find more of the same or
some new sinister discovery that rocks his world view. For a moment his hand claws against the
wood and Harry has a violent, intrusive desire to climb inside. He wants to fold his limbs down as
small as they will go and pull the darkness in around him like a comforting blanket. Nothing can
touch him there. The outside world will simply... cease to exist.

He opens the door.

It’s empty.

Mostly empty.

There's a picture frame shoved in a corner, photo down.

A part of him already suspects what he's going to find when he flips it over.

He races to find Tom, heart pounding. They need to leave. They need to go now. They need to get
away and re-evaluate because the plan has changed. Harry had found the glaring, empty puzzle
piece in the middle of the plot.

His footsteps slow, heart still racing, “Tom?” he calls as he approaches where Tom should be.

He sees Tom first, his sharp figure step into view in the corridor. That incessant curl of his hair that
slips into his eye that Harry has the sudden desire to push his fingers through. Relief surges through
him at seeing him well and alive, and he continues forwards only to still.

There’s something in the air between them. Some tension, words still unspoken. Maybe he’s
imagining it – Tom’s not acting any differently. He’s being his same, enigmatic, stupid-smirk-on-
his-face self, standing over a body like it’s an everyday occurance.

Tom looks up, and Harry’s heart sinks at the sight of a body on the ground. Cold sinks in -
hoarfrost bitter. Harry skids to a halt, disappointment and horror he can’t hide from his emotions
and he knows Tom feels it too, sees the other’s face twist in distaste and resignation, “I’d say it
isn’t what it looks like,” Tom shrugs, “Except we agreed not to lie to each other.”

Harry’s throat is dry. “What have you done?”

Except Harry already knows the answer to that question.

He should have fucking known better, he thinks, staring at the dead body of Sybil Trelawney.

Now.

There is no blood on Tom’s hands, if only because it’s metaphysical. Tom doesn’t need to kill to
get his hands dirty to kill.

Harry should have fucking known better.

It had been going so well. Too well. An easy-break in. They're got it down to a refined art after all
these years, it's not even a challenge. "Harry?"

He’s become so attuned to the buzz under Tom's skin, the glint in his eye and the smooth efficiency
of his movements he should have seen the inevitable coming .

"Harry..."
It's not meant to be this: slick ichor, bile in his throat and this soul-aching sense of betrayal. He's
not even surprised, not really, he's betrayed by his own thoughts that he'd convinced himself Tom
was--

Was what ? Good ?

"Harry?" Tom swims into view in front of him and Harry takes a sharp step back. Tom's expression
chills at that, head cocking to one side. "Don't look at me like that… Harry?”

"She's dead."

"I didn't touch her."

The denial is almost laughable, ‘you don't need to’ the words stick in his throat.

"You killed her, Tom, you said you wouldn't... we don't do this, we can't--"

"She killed herself," Tom corrects, like a pedantic child.

"Bullshit," the curse is spat out between gritted teeth, "Tom, what did you do? Why kill her, what
did she ever do to you?"

Tom's gaze grows cruel and he takes another step forward, movement like a caress, like the body
lying on the ground between them is a gift, "Do you really want that answer, sweetheart? She's hurt
you as much as I."

"No," Harry shakes his head, "You hurt me more, she's just an excuse."

"An excuse? She started this. This whole thing, the events fell this way because of words from her
mouth. Her prophecy. She foretold your parents' death, my death, yours... she started this whole
chain of events and you tell me you're not angry?"

Harry stares down at the body of Sybil Trelawney and his one thought is still that he should have
known better. Words hurt, Harry knows that better than most in this life. Words hurt and words kill
but this-- "No. This is unnecessary, Tom, what happened to the goal? This is petty, this is a waste.
It leads to nothing good. It didn't in our last life, it won't in this life either."

"One dead seer is hardly going to disadvantage us--"

"Disadvantage you --"

If the correction, the meaning is obvious, Tom doesn't react, just tilts his head, "I'm not going to let
one seer get in my way. I'm not going to let you and your adorable little morals get in my way
either--"

"Or you'll what, Kill me?" Harry laughs because despite who stands before him, despite their
shared history... "You wouldn't. You need me."

Fury sparks in Tom's eyes. He needs no-one, of course, except for the lie that he does. There's a
moment that seems to hang, Harry's silent challenge that just sits there like some dead pitiful
creature thrown out to die in the cold.

“I did what I had to,” Tom says, and it sounds pleading. Like begging except Tom Riddle doesn’t
beg. His lips twitch in a smile, kindness with psychopathic trims. “I mean… that’s the lie, right, I
did what I had to? That’s what you say, that’s your excuse… Don’t talk to me like your own hands
are clean, I didn’t even touch her.”

Harry and Tom both know full well neither of them need a knife to kill.

“Those kills had reasons - self-defence, justice… this is just murder, Tom, can’t you see the line?
Between doing what is a necessity for survival and… and… this … Trelawny may be a fraud, the
seer but… what does her death achieve, we had a goal !”

“I did what was necessary,” Tom shrugs, carelessly, “What you know to be necessary, Harry, come
on, you said it yourself. We’re basically gods , right?”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant, being god doesn’t give you the right to decide who lives and
who dies, Tom!”

“But we can, can’t you see?” Tom crosses the gap between them, “We’re not the pawns or the
knights or the queen on the chessboard anymore,” he reaches for Harry and Harry’s too numb to
knock him away, “We’re not slaves to fate, not anymore.” Tom’s eyes are feverish, his hands too
warm as he cups Harry’s jaw, “Fate’s dead . Gone. You saw to that when you united the Hallows.
Fate doesn’t rule us, don’t you see?” there’s a madness in his gaze, his kiss leaves behind an
aftertaste like spice still burning, “Even Fate falls.”

Trelawney lies dead at his feet and that’s not how it works, Harry wants to say. That is not what he
meant, this war the pair of them have against destiny, against predetermined fate, against
everything that has happened does not extend to other people.

“This isn’t how it works,” he tries to reason, “It’s not their fault, in either world. That’s not how it
works. She’s a mutant, fine, but we are our own choices, Tom. Not theirs, our own. It’s your
decisions and mine that led here, not theirs, not Fate, not—”

“How do I know that? How would I know that?” Tom’s question is hollow, “I don’t remember
anything other than you.”

There’s a horrible sort of finality to his words, a lemon bitter grind of resignation that this is
inescapable. That maybe it always has been. His breath is warm, eyes dark reflections of something
Harry doesn’t want to read, and has never wanted to read when it comes to Tom Riddle.

Instead he wraps his hand around Tom’s wrist, pulling that burning heat away. He steps
backwards, out of Tom’s embrace and the older boy lets him. He can feel the echo of the soul link
between them but it doesn’t matter, his fingers find the gun anyway.

Tom freezes, head jerking away from the almost-kiss as the cold muzzle of the gun rests on his
chest. Harry steps away from his desert-heat embrace, ice shards buried in his chest.

“Harry,” it’s chiding, it’s haunting, it’s a half-formed wraith’s whisper and it’s real, and it’s Tom
and its shock lacing his tone.

Maybe hurt, but Harry’s pretty sure he’s imagining that one.

“No,” he steps backwards, away from Tom, putting some distance between them, “This is not what
I signed up for and you know it. No killing.”

“Not even her?” Tom asks. His gesture is casual, he doesn’t even look at the body, “Surely you’ve
wished worse upon her. Full of lies and fake prophecies. And whether real or false, it was her
words that lead to years of pointless fighting. She single-handed orphaned you with one misspoken
phrase.”
“If we are gods and we make our own fate, then why does it even matter what she has to say?”
Harry snaps. “Killing for killing’s sake isn’t right.”

“Fine then,” Tom shrugs, “I did what I had to. That’s the lie, isn’t it? Trelawney’s predictions come
true, why do you think she was here? Getting rid of her was safer in the long run. Killing her was
the easiest option.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Harry asks.

It’s barely there, the flicker of stubborn age-old hurt, the isolation those words bring crashing
down to Tom.

What’s wrong with you? Why are you such a freak? Why why why Tom Riddle.

There’s a tale of a scorpion and a frog. Or maybe it’s a turtle. There is a tale of a scorpion and a
turtle and it’s in my nature the scorpion says and they both sink and it’s in my nature .

Sybil Trelawney was an obstacle. An irritation that slighted him.

“How long,” Harry says, bringing voice to his fear, “How long before it’s everyone who stands in
our way? How long before it’s all the mundane? How long before… how long before it’s me ?”

Tom’s head tilts, considering. He grows cold in front of Harry. Distant. The light catches him and
at this angle all Harry can see for a moment are the sharp planes of Voldemort’s face, red eyes
glaring at him, and then he blinks and it’s Tom, Tom with the capacity for great things. But will it
be great cruelty or great salvation - Harry doesn’t know and it scares him because he knows
whatever it is it will destroy him utterly.

Tom can sense that. And in this moment Tom can’t answer his question. Because it’s always been
there.

They’ve both killed the other at least once.

"Don't pretend you're better than me," Tom snaps, furocity to his words, "You'd do the same. You
have. Your uncle. Bellatrix. You and I are cut from the same cloth, Harry. Don't stand there
playing moral , don't tell me she doesn't deserve it for what she did to us ."

Tom’s staring at him as if waiting for some kind of miraculous understanding to click. His gaze is
soul piercing, reading the emotions that are as good as a foreign language to him, attempting to
navigate the water of the storm Harry’s stuck in when Harry can’t figure it out himself.

He thought Tom had changed, he realises. He thought he knew him, this amalgamation of charm
and serpent cunning and a drive to succeed but now…

It’s not even that he can see the shadows of Voldemort under the skin of this teenager. Those had
always been there, they’re almost a comfort, something predictable yet for all Harry has come to
know Tom Riddle he hadn’t predicted this.

“Harry,” Tom takes a step forwards, almost pleading except, no, Tom doesn’t beg. It’s a demand.
Listen to me. But he’s got no power in his words, not like Harry does.

“Don’t follow me,” he says, whirling away. He can finish this task by himself, he doesn’t know
what to do with Tom right now. He’s afraid he’ll say or do something he’ll regret, and so it’s easier
to not.
Harry does something a part of him thinks he should have done years ago.

He leaves.

What’s one life, Harry thinks, in the grand scheme of what they have to do?

He can understand Tom’s anger. His reasoning.

He can empathise with the empath. The irony does not escape him.

Spiteful anger and frustration fuel his flight. Harry can do this without Tom, he thinks, viciously.
The plan is in place and it’s solid. Tom can handle himself in his pool of blood, Harry handles the
people, the words. Manipulate the right person at the right time and do it subtly. They won’t notice
until it’s too late.

The door pushes open and it’s not the person he expects, sitting behind the desk.

There are steps to the power ladder of this organisation, and several vital ones are missing to them.
Tom probably has their gathered information memorised, Harry thinks, genius that he is, but
nowhere in their scraps of information do they have this.

There’s a conspiracy board strung up in their flat. Layers and steps of who does what and who
controls what and somehow they’d missed this one glaring issue. This one massive plot hole that
Harry had suspected, thrown aside his suspicions of and acted in blissful ignorance of. It would be
fine, he’d reassured himself, he’s used to skipping through by the skin of his teeth. That was how
he had played his last life - on too little information and dumb luck, magic stringing fate to keep his
heart beating.

Magic doesn’t exist here. Mutations may only occur in those with the shadow of magic in their
veins from a different world, but mutations are not magic. Mutations are gravity; an inexplicable
force tying them to the ground. Reality exists, consequences exist, and Harry’s exist right here
around him and in front of him.

Dumbledore’s consequences exist too in the two boys, and in the woman standing before them.
Young. Something older than twenty but forever shy of thirty. Something oddly eternal about her.
Her hair is auburn and curling over her shoulders, eyes a twinkling blue and oddly knowing.
Legilimency doesn’t exist here, but had she survived past childhood in their old world Harry has no
doubts she’d be just as skilled as her brother.

Ariana Dumbledore looks in good health for a girl dead at fourteen. She looks even better for the
age she should be in this time and place, anywhere from thirty to forty in that indeterminable age
between young and wrinkled.

“Hello, Harry,” she smiles, saccharine sweet, “I’ve been waiting for you.”
 opposing natural disasters
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Tom watches as Harry leaves him, each moment immortalised in a hundred frames like one of those
war time propagandas he thinks he remembers in the jumble of things he calls memories.

Harry's jaw is clenched. His green eyes burn with something that Tom instinctively both shies
away from and wants to tease out further. Empathy of a kind Tom can never hope to understand,
the feeling of being seen, being known, of his whole person laid flayed and raw for Harry to judge
be it for good or bad.

Harry has seen him in all his facets both good and bad and there is no surprise at what he sees
there, just bitter acknowledgement.

There is a story about a scorpion and a frog. Or maybe it's a rat. A turtle. A companion. An ally.
But the scorpion stings, Tom's emotions flare and it's in my nature the scorpion says and they both
die.

There is a story about a lion and a mouse and there's a thorn in my paw, do I trust you to pull it out
and do you trust me not to maul you?

No, the answer is obvious, the distaste like subtitles to Harry's thoughts. For they both have claws
and they both can harm the other and this is only going to leave them bloody.

He is Harry’s murderer and Harry is his. They are each other’s doom, like opposing natural
disasters and Harry should have known this was going to be goddamn destructive, the pair of them
together.

Harry turns around and does what Tom realises he has long feared he would do.

He leaves.

Fine, Tom thinks, bitterness sour on his tongue. Fine . He will do this without him.

Ariana Dumbledore’s smile is that of Dumbledore’s genial old man smile that hides pained
intentions. This is the DMA headquarters and the DMA is a lie at its core.

"It's nice to meet you, Harry," she says, "You remind me of Lily in your tenacity and ingenuity. I've
been wanting to meet you for a while now."

This woman runs the organisation that has no equivalent in their world. The Department of Mutant
Affairs - Sentinel Services - are sanctioned by the government while the Death Eaters and the
Order were not, yet more militant than the Ministry ever had been. Her lips are painted in a purple
lipstick, pursed in amusement at Harry’s appearance.

"Ariana Dumbledore," he says, and he doesn't know what to follow that statement up with. He
doesn't know anything about this woman. She has no equivalent from his world, "You're looking
good for… how old are you, anyway?"
She clicks her tongue behind the back of her front teeth, "It's rude to ask a lady their age," she eyes
him up curiously, "It's also rude to keep interrupting my operations with your little network.
Where's your twin, anyway?"

She looks the same as she did in the photo Sirius had. The same as in the photo he dug out of a
locked office once belonging to Lily Potter.

A photo of Lily Potter standing besides Ariana and Albus Dumbledore, and Gellert Grindelwald.

She resembles Dumbledore with her auburn hair and twinkling blue eyes. He pulls his gun, not
pointing it at her. Not yet.

"You won't need the gun, dear," she observes. "It also won't do much good."

Harry stares at the woman who should be dead. Except…

Dumbledore had never said his sister was dead. Dumbledore had implied his sister was dead but
he's never said the words. Not explicitly. He’d assumed based on the previous reality but things
were so different. The way his parents died. Grindelwald still being alive.

Grindelwald being alive and Dumbledore being so young and Ariana doesn’t look the hundred or
so years she should be either.

“I thought you’d be dead,” he says, rather bluntly.

“Really?” she arches one eyebrow, “Why is that? Or do you share Albus’ uncanny knack for
knowing people and their personality before meeting them? Why is it he trusted you and your
companion so he’d leave London to your - quite frankly - adorable plans to tear down Sentinel?”

Harry whirls away from her, looking for someone else - some other answer - but the room is empty
except for her. “ No tricks ,” he snarls and she closes her eyes, shivers a little as the compulsion hits
but otherwise doesn’t react.

"No tricks," she agrees readily enough, "Is Riddle around? I do so hate having to repeat myself.
What is he to you anyway? Twin? Lover? Soulmate? " She's fishing. She notes the way Harry
tenses at mention of Tom's name and doesn't say anything. Just observes.

"You seem to already know," Harry remarks, voice not betraying the storm of panic and anxiety he
feels right now. Something lodges in Harry’s gut. Like lead sinking to the bottom of the murky
ocean, algae and rot already built onto it. "Why don't you tell me?"

She sighs, "You and Riddle have been a headache, and cleaning up after the messes you've made of
my facilities… you're good at keeping off the radar."

My facilities . Harry heard the possessive.

“They wanted to bring you in months ago, but I thought - why bother?” she spreads out her hands,
smiling and her eyes are the same shade as Dumbledore’s. They twinkle the same way too and
Ariana Dumbledore has the same penchant for manipulation that her brother does. Except her
brother learned better.

She hasn’t.

“I must admit I am curious what your plan was. You can destroy our work and facilities but you’re
not destroying Sentinel--” she pauses, eyeing up Harry’s reaction, “Except you weren’t trying to.
You were baiting us. Baiting me .” She laughs again. She sounds delighted. “Oh you really are a
smart, smart boy, you and Riddle both.”

Harry stops his frantic pacing and finally takes a seat, perching on the arm of the chair that faces
her desk. “It worked,” he shrugged, “Sentinel didn’t kill mutants. The facilities collected. They
studied. They researched. My mum used to work with you. Why?” He tilts his head, gauging her
reaction. He can’t prod her emotions the way Tom would, but he can still get her talking. People
love to hear themselves talk.

He leans forwards, gun still cradled loosely in his grip.

“ You’re a mutant,” he continues, eyeing her up. She does look surprised he knows with such
certainty but makes no effort to deny it, “You…” his eyes flicker over her features. He remembers
Dumbledore with softened wrinkles and looking like he’s sixty and not a hundred plus. “You heal,”
he puts the pieces together. That’s why you look so young. Why your brother…” his mind ticks
over events.

Ariana is not dead, and that means Dumbledore and Grindelwald’s squabble in their teenage years
played out differently. Which means the dominoes fell differently and now--

“You run Sentinel,” he says, “And this isn’t a government operation at all. Not really. Because
Grindelwald also looks forty years younger than he should.”

Harry thinks of the photo of a group of people. A few order members. His mother. Albus.

Gellert Grindelwald.

And a woman with copper hair and twinkling blue eyes.

Did she die, he had asked Dumbledore.

Not in the same manner.

A half truth. A lie at its core. Ariana is not the girl Dumbledore knew. She is a woman carved by
the world and filled to the brim with ambition and vision.

She sits in front of him with a dangerous smile and Harry is wary.

He lifts the gun and levels it at her temple, "I don't need this to kill you," he says, "But it helps get
the threat across. You're going to shut it down."

She doesn't appear the least bit phased. "Am I?"

"The surveillance of this city. Whatever experiments you're doing on the mutants you capture.
You're going to shut it down and erase the data."

"I don't listen to sixteen year old boys," Ariana's eyes wrinkle with an age she doesn't show, "I
already asked once, put down the gun, dear."

There's no emphasis to the words. Nothing to give him a hint.

There is a pressure, a force, something moving his arm down, loosening his fingers. He tries to
fight it, but his own body is not obeying him.

Terror flashes through him, as his body moves like a puppet to invisible strings. There is a thud as
the gun falls through slack fingers and drops to the ground. Harry's heart beat ticks up and Ariana
smiles, a wine-purple bleeding violet smile.

"I hope you'll understand,” she says, slowly, “Why I won’t be shutting my operations down on the
whims of two teenagers."

"You… you control…" people except no, "You, Grindelwald and your brother look too young,"
cold realisation creeps over him. He’d assumed it was Grindelwald. He had known it hadn’t fit, he
had seen the misplaced puzzle piece and yet he didn’t have all the information.

He hadn’t known that Ariana had lived.

"You heal …" he stumbles into standing but she clicks her tongue again, laughing.

Exhilarated.

“Do sit down,” and it’s not the words, he realises, as his very cells lock up again, muscles
contracting, helpless to do otherwise as she gestures down and Harry collapses. His breath stutters
at the ease at which she twists cells and chemicals and beating vital parts of himself against him.

She laughs, exhilarated, “Oh, you are good . I can see why Albus likes you.”

“Does he know?” Harry asks, and then shakes his head on that question, because of course
Dumbledore knows. He always knows and did he think it was important enough to tell Harry? Of
course not.

Ariana waves a hand dismissively, “Their lovers spat sent them on their separate ways years ago.
Albus opened his school and went into standing for rights and protection. Gellert started his
campaign for superiority and power. And I stayed in the middle to find the only true way to get rid
of the problem. Healing us.”

She holds up her hand, unwrinkled, youthful skin. "I used to just be able to heal. But there was an
incident when I was ten. Some local boys saw me healing an injured kitten. They were so… fearful
. Yet also worshipful. They lashed out with hate and fear the way only children can. Children can
be so cruel…"

Harry remembers mockings in corridors and whispers and he knows that just as well as she.

"My powers reacted to protect me. One moment I was healing. The next I was regenerating tissue
at a cellular level. No pesky telomeric limit. One boy died with stage 4 lung cancer. One's heart
stopped right there and then as I deprived the cells in his heart from beating. Everyone is just a
collection of chemicals and cells and like something had unlocked within me I could puppeteer it
all."

Harry's face is twisted in disgust. A part of him understands. He works with willpower after all and
imposing his intent upon others. What surprises him, though, is that his disgust is reflected on
Ariana's face.

"Is that why you're kidnapping mutants? The labs? You want to… amplify their powers? Make
them stronger--"

"No!" She nearly shouts the word, but with this tightly controlled fury that leaves the air trembling
from the force of it. Excess rage leaks off into her impassioned gestures and a curdled snarl as she
leans forwards eager to explain, "Why would I want a populace of superpowered freaks with the
ability to rend hearts or reprogramme memorie? I don’t need a run of criminals who play with
emotions the way you would an instrument or make those around them do what they want.” Her
sparkling gaze is piercing, “That would be disastrous . And killing is messy . I don't deal with
genocide. No, I don't want to kill mutants, I want to cure them."

She savours the word cure like it's a salvation. Like they've got some sort of disease.

A virus, a fix, a solution to their broken genetics. That is, possibly, the intention.

"No," Harry shakes his head, "we're not sick , we're not cursed we're…"

"Special?" She sneers, " Gifted? Albus and Gellert would believe so. But I know better." Her eyes
light with this spark as she explains. The passion she puts into the words lights something in her.
She wants his support, Harry realises. She wants her cause seen and understood. “We are not gods.
We are mutants . And that says exactly what we are, really. A mutation. A mistake. And mistakes
need to be corrected. So I have dedicated my life to fixing my mistake. Gellert necessitates the need
for Sentinel. I give him just enough information and the occasional vengeful mutant to keep him
happy. I get the government’s agreement to assist me in my research.”

"Your research," Harry sees the photo behind closed eyelids, "And my mum--"

"She wasn't looking into a cure, she was looking into the mutant gene. How it came about. How to
trigger it. And…" she looks at Harry with almost clinical curiosity, "How to amplify it."

And she'd found something, Ariana doesn't need to say. She'd found something and ran. Destroyed
her research , Sirius had said, hide Harry , he hears in his head as Lily and James ran, memories of
running from a dark lord twisted with research into mutations with Gellert Grindelwald, Ariana
Dumbledore and Albus Dumbledore all breathing down their necks.

"You want to destroy what makes us…" Harry says, shaking his head. For a moment something
claws at his heart and he sees her eyes spark with fury and then shove it down again. Heart ripper
he thinks. She tends and tears at the cells themselves and yes, she can heal, but she can do so much
more as well. "You can't heal us, we're not sick we're not broken."

He is not a freak. He is not a shameful secret to be hidden in a cupboard under the stairs.

The woman before him smiles. It's a smile of disappointment. He's failed her test. "I met a child
whose mutation turns his flesh into a toxic liquid that can't hold its form. I've met a teenage girl
with feathers like a bird growing from her skin. Found a homeless man with a gaze that turns those
around him to stone. In the mythologies the gods cursed those around them. I intend to break the
curse." She scoffs, "Albus and Gellert like to think we're just facets of evolution. They don't
understand that we're a mistake."

"We're not--"

"We are and one day you'll understand that. So keen to do good, my boy. You remind me a lot of
my brother. Yet you murder and steal and lie to get what you want. How are we really that
different? What was your plan here, anyway? Were you going to tell me to stop?" She smiles,
"How adorable."

"I destroyed your files."

"Yes," she doesn't seem phased and Harry's heart plummets, "The physical ones. But the servers
are still intact. Our data, our little Library of Alexandria we have formulated on mutations remains.
I keep them private, of course," she says, reassuring him almost. "Albus has his little pet projects
and I have mine."
"Why--" he doesn't know how to phrase the question. “This is the Grand Plan? Eradication?”

"And what makes you think there has to be a grand plan?" Ariana smiles, "When is there ever a
grand plan? This is real life, not a children's story. We're mutants. Not revolutionaries. Nothing is
going to get done, no protest or laws my brother can slide through government channels will make
us equal in their eyes. So we're doing things my way. Gellert knows we've got to play the system,
make the game look impressive enough and the people will fall for it. People are stupid, after all.”

Harry stares.

She shakes her head, a stray strand of hair falling loose as she does so, “Don't look so shocked, not
everyone plans genocide. Genocide doesn't fix the disease," she says, like it's obvious.

Harry tastes bile.

It was meant to be easy.

A few choice words in the right ears and this--

Harry should have known it would never be that simple. He can try, but this runs deeper. He can
erase Ariana Dumbledore from the system but the system will still exist. The knowledge they have
accumulated, the files on him, his friends...

Grindelwald knows. Activist that he is, Harry has no doubt he'll be scouted. What remained of
Sentinel would remain, no longer talking to the enemy, but they'd start scouring them out. The
Order, the Twin's dealings...

" Where are the servers? " he asks, casually, hiding the influence in the lilt of the question.

"Not here," Ariana smiles. Harry stills. Reaches for cyanide words and they slip away from him.
He tries to stand but his muscles lock up. The world begins to haze around the outside.

"You--" he looks at her, starts talking, voice low, compulsion laced through every syllable like
honey, “Tell me --” he can’t finish. His jaw locks up, his tongue stiffens, his throat is stone and
vocal cords still. He freezes, suddenly aware that he has no control while she stands there. His
pulse jumps and with a gentle wave she gestures.

Be still.

His pulse slows.

“I’m afraid, Mr Potter," she says, "dear, you'll have to try a little harder than that."

He has, Harry realised, severely miscalculated.

He makes it two steps before his heart stutters in his chest. He feels it convulse, on the verge of
stopping and then like a sputtering engine it lets out a beat.

The force that sweeps through his body sends him to his knees, coughing up blood. His vision
swims. "Don't--" his voice is a snake bite, but someone's drained him of his venom.

"I didn't make it here just from ambition and intelligence," Ariana smiles, crouching in front of
him, "I did warn you. I heal. I infect. I control. Don’t try to coerce me or I’ll turn your tongue to
rot. Your cells will betray you in favour of my command, so be still, silvertongue,” she grins, hand
cupping his cheek.
"Don't touch me," he says, as his tongue loosens, but it's hollow. There's no power to the words. He
has no power here.

And, he realises, Tom isn't coming for him. No power and no backup, Harry's adrift and rapidly
sinking.

Ariana smiles, "You're not the only person who can manipulate people, Harry. I just do it on a
cellular level."

Harry is trapped and Tom...

Harry left him. Tom isn't coming for him because Harry left him behind. Harry's heart sinks as he
realises he's not getting out of this one.

Her eyes twinkle.

Their flat is just as they left it. Papers organised and yet equally messy in the way that Tom and
Harry's minds work differently, sprawled across the walls in a visible demonstration. There's
ageing milk in the fridge and cheese that he's pretty sure had mould from before they went to
Dumbledore's mutant secondary school.

It's not large - their flat. A studio with everything folded into one room, tiny offshoots for a
bathroom and stairs you could break your neck on leading to two box-sized bedrooms in typical
cramped London house style. Below the old man who runs the antiques store keeps far too many
items he's never going to sell and pays barely any attention to the pair who slips up and down his
fire escape at odd times of day.

Their flat is empty without Harry. Tom reaches out for his emotions - like a drug, like a hit, like
something he has become addicted to - but where he is used to the dazzling abstract art of Harry's
emotions there is nothing.

He wonders if this is what it should have felt like when he tore his soul into shreds and then
promptly lost the different parts. Empty. A void.

He busies himself with tidying. Harry is not messy but compared to Tom who is meticulous Harry's
clutter is a state of disorganisation. When he's done that he moves to their printed files and
blueprints and maps in relation to the DMA. To Sentinel. There's still a gap in their knowledge of
how it works and while Tom has filled that in by discovering the labs…

He's waiting on Harry to fill in the rest.

Harry should have been back by now, he thinks, absently. Maybe he was sulking. Lounging around
at their local pub, or down in their personal black market.

He will come back, Tom tells himself.

He has to.

So Tom waits.

And waits.

The sun rises. It beats down through thin winter air. A bar across the street stirs to life. The flat
 itself seems deadened somehow. Muffled. Less, without Harry's wild-caged-animal presence.

Tom doesn't need him, he thinks, he can descend to his Empire, find a minion to do the legwork,
pick a new job - he's heard of some other criminals making a move on the market and needs to sort
out a meeting to cut that off, needs to see about a new shipment at the docks that had flagged as
being of interest to Sentinel...

It's boring. It's routine. Even the thrill at breaking and stealing that which is not his to break and
steal is somehow less interesting without chiding sarcastic comments and bright-eyed quick
fingered plotting besides him.

He checks the phone he only has because Harry insisted they needed it for keeping in touch with
their contacts. Tom ignores it most of the time - a part of him unused to the small square device of
mundane origin that links him to others.

The only thing on the screen is a missed check-in call from Barty and a text from Quirrell. The
man apparently had his uses as a surprisingly wry informant when a fraction of a wraith isn't
parasitically entwined with his being.

Nothing from Harry.

He grabs something to eat. Replies to Barty. Goes about the motions. Waits.

The sun starts to sink.

He refuses to be the abandoned girlfriend calling their partner with apologies and gifts. He owes
Harry nothing.

Harry's gone.

The sun sets. The air chills. The sounds of London’s nightlife of drinking and revelry rises in pitch,
drifting across the air. There are some ominous clouds beginning to build in the sky promising rain
or maybe even snow.

He hears a door slam and stills but when, after a couple of minutes of silence and not a single flare
of emotions, he accepts that the person he is waiting for isn’t coming. He’s holding the phone,
metal cold and awkward in his hands. He doesn’t remember picking it up.

He dials.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

Chapter End Notes

What Harry imagines: Tom Riddle going back to rule a criminal empire and murder
people
The Reality: Tom Riddle goes back to pine alone in his flat like a lovesick teenager
who's just been broken up with by his bf
 regrets like paper cuts
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

The rat skulks down the alley. It’s thin. Dangerously so - ribs showing and hair falling out leaving
bald patches. It slips through and around a wired fence and pauses, nose twitching. Scenting
nobody around, it bounds forwards, and as it does it’s form lurches --

A rat bounds into the shadows and a man steps out. A slight figure, his face gaunt and beard
patchy he stumbles with a limp as he regains the use of two legs again after so long. He takes
another two steps until he’s back into the shadows, slipping back to the rat form like a second skin,
unable to keep the human one on.

A car blows its horn at an intersection in the distance. Tyres squeal. There is the sharp noise of
heels clipping on the floor and then pausing. The rat passes through another shadow and the man
steps out of it. He ducks his head, stepping on wobbling legs to the woman, “Ma’am,” he says. His
voice is cracked from disuse. There’s this edge to it of a high-pitched wheeze he’s never managed
to shake since he started to transform so erratically.

“Peter,” she greets him, almost fondly. He knows better. Ariana Dumbledore is anything but fond.
“How are you doing?”

“Grindelwald’s mad,” he says in greeting, “You’ve not given him any progress in over a year. He
let you have London and he says you’ve not even done anything with it.”

“Let,” she repeats, tone soft. The softer her tone the more he worries. He feels his heart rabbit-fast
in his chest and he wills it to slow, knowing she can feel it. Knowing she can stop it with a thought.
A heartstopper in the most literal take of the term. “Like Gellert ‘lets’ me do anything.”

He swallows. His throat is dry.

“You can tell your boss that I’ve got Lily Potter’s boy,” she says, brusquely, “If she found anything
out before Gellert so thoughtlessly and mindlessly killed both her and her partner then it will lie
with the son.”

Peter is glad in a way his heart is already racing. She doesn’t notice his tachycardia persists. She
doesn’t notice that his anxiety peaks at the mention of Lily. Or James.

He remembers his friends. Bright-eyed, ambitious and so, so smart. He likes to think they were his
friends. Maybe they were. They had laughed at his jokes and not at him. They had invited him to
dinner. To their wedding. They were the kind of people that made you want to be better .

They were the kind of people he couldn’t help but feel he had let down when they looked at him
one day like they knew something he didn’t. Like they saw him right to the core and judged him
for it. Like they knew he’d been approached by members of Grindelwald’s mutant movement. He
wonders what would have happened if he’d been asked to turn on them. He likes to think he would
have stayed loyal.

A part of him knows he wouldn’t have.

He never got the chance. One day Lily and James were there, the next they were gone.
Almost like they knew -- he shakes the thought away, as Ariana turns to him, holding out a brown
package. He reaches for it, too fast, too desperate--

She lets him snatch it from her. Her purple-lipstick smile is damning enough.

Peter Pettigrew stumbles down the street on legs that are more used to being a rat than being a
human. He fumbles for the brown envelope, hands shaking. His fingernails curl into tiny, rat-like
claws and he has to take a moment to breathe. To control the shift, the mutation that creeps over
him.

The mutation that ate away at his life. Half a shift when he was human meant he had been neither
rat nor man. He was exactly what all the propaganda said they were - freaks.

“And what were you talking about?” a voice drawls, startling him from his thoughts.

He jumps, almost dropping his precious package. His fingers fumble for it but in their clumsiness,
someone snatches it from him, pushing him back in one smooth move. His back hits the wall.

“What’s this then? Payment?” the voice is cruel. Uncaring.

He reaches for it still, “Please,” he begs. He hates that he begs. His voice cracks, “I need it. Please-
-” He watches as the paper is torn, the package opened before him. A vial removed, sparkling blue
liquid.

“What is it?”

His fingers tremble as he reaches for it. The taunting voice holds it just out of view.

“What is it? I’m not going to ask again.”

“It enhances mutations,” he chokes out, “But it’s addictive. My shifting gets better. It doesn’t bleed
over to my human form. My senses get stronger…”

“Who made this? Who thought giving it to you was a good idea?”

“It’s… it’s not finished. It’s unstable. It’s based on a formula Lily Evans was working on. But she
took her research when she left…”

Something tightens inexplicably around his throat. It’s not physical. It’s the choking sensation of
despair and sadness and everything negative he has ever felt wrapped like a noose around him.
“You’re Peter Pettigrew, aren’t you?”

It’s not really a question.The man - more of a boy, really - knows this already. He looks at him with
the same double-look Lily and James had once looked at him with. Like they were seeing crimes
he had not yet committed, thoughts he had not yet thought.

It would feel like a violation - this judgement - was there not some measure of accuracy to it that he
can’t begin to deny.

“Tell me,” the boy’s voice is smooth like arsenic and mercury and just as deadly, “Who were you
meeting? What does she do?”

He gulps. His heart hammers in his chest and his anxiety is magnified in his ears with every pound.
“She runs Sentinel. She… she’s using the DMA agents to round up mutants and further her
research.” A pause, a moment where Pettigrew considers holding back. Considers maintaining
some shred of loyalty. And then his emotions twist to fear and some awful creeping feeling of
despair that spider-scuttles, snake-slithers its way into his chest.

“Go on,” the boy croons. Dark hair, dark eyes, he’s handsome and pretty in the way all venomous
things usually are. “What do they want with the mutants they take?”

“Sh-she’s finding out about the mutant gene. How to enhance it. How to trigger it. And…” his gaze
towards the blue vials clutched in the boy’s hands gives it away. The control he craves. The way it
pushes back rat-teeth and fur and clinking nails and the tail to human features and human eyes and
a human smile and--

He clenches his jaw. He does not want to betray the cause. He does not want to spill secrets like
they’re his guts cut open and bleeding onto the cobbles.

But the boy with the snake smile looks at him and he is screaming. There are spiders crawling
under his skin. He can feel every sensation as they writhe. There is frostbite in his fingers and he’ll
lose them, he knows this with certainty. He is falling and there is no end to the chasm of void
through which he descends. His rat-heart stutters and all he knows in that endless moment is fear
and the looming cloak of death.

Then it’s gone and he’s gasping. And the boy - more of a monster, really - is eyeing him up
curiously. Clinically. He has the same look in his eyes that she does, when looking at her gene
sequences and the mutants that claw at their cages.

Pettigrew prays that next time the monster just kills him instead of making him feel that way.
“She’s gonna cure us,” he says, and in this moment of betrayal even his salvation tastes like ash on
his tongue. “Grindelwald thinks she’s going to produce something that triggers mutations, that
enhances it, that skips ahead in evolution but she isn’t. She’s going to fix us. Fix the mistake of
mutants. We can be normal .”

The boy’s sneer is ugly on his pretty face. His eyes look red under the gleam of the streetlights.
Even without the manipulation, some primal fear creeps under Pettigrew’s skin. Instinct tells the
rat that he never was going to escape the snake.

“And the caged mutants? What are they for?”

“They need--” Pettigrew gulps. He’s terrified of him.

Good, Tom thinks.

“They need to test it. And the genomes are different. The mutations are different. The ways
different mutants react to the formulas are different. She wants to cure everyone… not just one
mutant.” He’s babbling, trying to save himself. People are so predictable when afraid. “Sentinel
services… they’re not to maintain law. Not really. They collect. They defend… they control…”

Tom curls emotional fingers around the man’s throat and listens to him choke. He knew that. He
found the lab in which they kept some of the mutants with more interesting powers. They collect
them like trophies. Wipe them from the system and use them for something . Clear the records and
make the world forget about them.

“You know an awful lot for a spy.”

The man quivers, “I used to work with Lily. Before…”

Tom hears the words. Before Lily Potter was killed. Before the bright young woman found
something out and promptly destroyed it.

“And now they have her son. They think she did something to him. Some enhancement that she can
reverse engineer. But she wouldn’t. Lily wouldn’t.”

Tom stills, “What do you mean ‘they have her son’? ”

Pettigrew’s eyes meet his, and Tom remembers a time he used to be able to dive into thoughts
through the pool of the iris, but now all he sees is the emotions like an abstract painting of brown
and blue with splashes of purple as the eyes bleed fear-worry-terror-desperation and, “They
arrested Harry Potter two days ago.”

Tom tears away in a fury. He lashes out with emotional claws and tears something vital in the other
man that has him screaming . Tom doesn’t care. He will leave the rat writhing and braindead and--

In some fractured part of his memories he sees the man before him, a silver hand choking him.
Tom has already killed him once.

He lets go of the puppet strings and Pettigrew collapses to the ground, gasping. His eyes are
watery, red rimmed and he’s choking up saliva and froth as he chatters incomprehensible words.
Tom wonders what Harry would make of this man who sold out Lily and James Potter for false
security in another life, and sold out himself in this life for a drug that has left him a shaking wreck.
He will not be missed if Tom leaves him here to rot.

Harry would tell him to jump off a building. Harry would snap at him to turn into a rat and stay
one. Harry would…

He stops. It would be so easy to finish the cowering snivelling wreck. He should.

He sees Harry looking at him with disappointment. He thinks of what he became when he gave
into childish fits of emotion. Of the stone white marbled monster with red eyes and snake fangs.

Because Harry would not kill this man. Not unless he had to. And Tom does not have to kill
Pettigrew to get what he wants. Harry would not kill him. Harry would look at the grovelling addict
with pity and kick him off with a sneer and let him live. Which, Tom reflects, is almost more cruel.
Fine then. Fine.

He slips a hand into the quivering man's pockets and dials the police. "You're going to tell them
everything," he says, balancing fear with just the right amount of guilt to assure obedience. “You’re
going to confess. And you’re going to rot in jail having wasted this second chance you’ve been
given.” Pettigrew’s eyes widen. Confused. Not understanding. Tom doesn’t bother to explain. He
doesn’t care.

In his mind he sees Harry pinning a sticky note to their pinned notations, his scrawl barely legible
across the neon pink post-it.

mum’s research -> grindelwald -> missing mutants

she wanted to hide me

On a whim he digs out his phone again and dials Harry’s number. It doesn’t ring this time. It goes
straight to an automated voice that informs him the number is no longer in service and Tom is
forced to accept the reality he had been denying to himself.

He should never have allowed Harry to walk away again.

Harry wakes to a pain in his neck and something wrapped around his mouth. It’s cold, the tang of
metal. It presses down and twists and even swallowing hurts from the mask.

But that’s not what brings tears to his eyes. The almond cyanide sweet power and knowledge that
his words drip poison and the closest thing he will ever experience to magic in this world…

He never realised he’d miss it until it was so cruelly snatched away from him.

It wraps around his neck like a collar. A weight to his spine and the itch of skin pulled too tight
over where it reaches in and beneath and through skin and flesh and nerves that it shouldn’t. It
feels wrong .

He can’t even scream.

He thinks about the last time he’d been caged and voiceless. He thinks about the hand the devil
held out and how he’d taken it. Except this time he knows that person won’t come. Harry had
turned and finally walked away.

Tom Riddle is and fundamentally will always be a bad person.

Harry knows this, clinically. Tom left him behind with a trail of bodies between them.

He had been a fool to think that Tom would change for him. That he could be better...

It hurts. It's a knife between his ribs - insidious and letting air leak into his lungs until he can't
breath, the pneumothorax choking him. Too emotional , he hears Tom chide in his head, and he
wishes the parts of him that were more Tom than Harry would die and stay dead and not follow
him from lifetime to lifetime.

He had pondered, much like many had, whether the soul tether had resulted in Harry and Tom's
mutations ending up with the wrong person.

But the emotional pain Tom leaves behind - no, Harry thinks, no they got the right mutations. The
empath who can't understand emotions and the boy with no control in his life given the ultimate
control.

Yet he can't find control of his tongue to talk his way out of this one.

There’s a woman watching him. Auburn hair, twinkling blue eyes. His mouth is dry because this is
the missing puzzle piece, he’d seen was missing but had been unable to find.

Her smile is saccharine. Terrible in its beauty. He sees the soft smile in the portrait of a young girl
in a pub, dead before he time. He sees it here in the woman the world carved her into.

“Oh good,” she says, “You’re awake.”

She leans forwards then and with some quick, deft twists she undoes something. The mask clicks
free and for a moment Harry doesn’t move, jaw locked. Then he’s opening his mouth, tasting
chemical stained air and trying to wrap his willpower around the woman in front of him.
“ Let -- ” it’s empty. The power slips away and doesn’t connect and he tries , he knows he can
reach out even without the words--

She smiles, gentle, “We’ve improved things a little bit from when you were fourteen,”

“Where am I?” he asks, like she might answer instead of just smiling at him, eyes twinkling.

“Safe. You’ll be fine, I just need a few things from you.”

“And if I say no?”

Another enigmatic smile. He can’t. He can talk but his oil-spill words are not there. He reaches up,
feeling at his throat. At his neck. At something that digs into the skin there, sinks wired hands
down and chokes him. It is almost-pity that is visible in her eyes. And it is of course; kindness.
That’s how she views this, and Harry hates that he can understand that, even without Tom’s
empathy. “You better be careful, little trickster, little death cheater,” she says, and the warning is
genuine, “Or they’ll sew your lips together.”

That’s how they punished Loki, Harry thinks of the tale he’d heard. Of the way the gods had
sewed the lie smith's lips together. Clever words saved his neck but they couldn’t save the silvered
needle from pushing through one two three four five six seven eight nine times through wind
chapped lips until there’s a glasgow smile stitched into his very skin--

“This is right, you understand that, right, Harry? Come on, you and your boyfriend are fighting for
the good of mutants, aren’t you?”

“Not my boyfriend,” Harry says. Something slurs his words together and they’re scared, he
realises, of his power. Even with whatever they’ve done now there is an edge of wariness to Ariana
as she looks at him.

“No?” she asks, “You two certainly seemed close enough.”

Harry looks at her. Looks through the purple poison smile and the neatly coiffed hair and he looks
at the scared girl hiding beneath who simply wants to be accepted. Who wants the boys to stop
teasing her. To stop bully her for being different .

“Were you close to Grindelwald?” he asks, “Or did he only ever have eyes for Albus?”

She looks annoyed but not vicious. Not angry . "I used to think Gellert was like the sun.” She
admits it openly, “Brilliant and bright and a star worth orbiting around. He never looked at me, of
course. Albus' baby sister. He didn’t look at me once, not with Albus there with his sharp mind and
ambition."

A soft laugh.

"Then Sentinel came for us. And I turned their very cells against them. Instant hepato-renal failure
as the fluid filled their lungs. Prostate cancer with mets to the bone in under thirty seconds. He
looked at me then."

"Stop talking," he mumbles, trying to force power into the words but it's muted. Blocked. Like
talking through cotton wool.

Ariana sighs. “We used to work together, the three of us. Aberforth left us to go talk to goats and
keep his head down and look after mother. He didn’t like fame. He didn’t like attention. Not like
Albus who lapped up the praise and glory. Graduated with a first with honours from Oxford.
Friends with the notorious Gellert Grindelwald. Mutant and proud.”

Harry hears the echoes of what he knows reflected here. Distorted.

“Gellert wanted to start a war. Albus was in agreement until he saw what could happen. There was
a boy. A boy with so much power. It ate at him. Crawled through his skin and lashed out. He could
tear cities to the ground. He couldn’t hold onto humanity to remain corporeal for longer than
snatches of minutes, brief hours. I wanted to help him. Gellert wanted to use him.”

There’s emotion in the way she says it. Harry can’t taste the emotions the way Tom can, but even
he can see the regret.

“He died. We threw ourselves into our work. Gellert’s campaigns. My research. Albus took a step
back and tried to be the voice of reason. Aberforth took a step further into the background. We
spent years working together. I kept us youthful. We needed to succeed. Albus started spinning
together his little Order while Gellert made stands on the continent.”

“And my mum?”

Ariana’s smile is soft. It’s so gentle it is soft tidal waves on sandy shores. “Lily was so smart. So
clever. Graduated top of her class. Married her childhood sweetheart. She joined after meeting
Albus at a conference. And her work was groundbreaking. She knew of concepts and theories that
we hadn’t even considered. She had that… fifth sense for things that my brother seemed to have. I
wasn’t surprised when she began to figure out in months what we hadn't managed to make progress
on in decades.”

“But she knew what you wanted to do with it. She destroyed it.”

“Gellert saw the potential for power. And I saw the potential for a cure. And Lily… Lily got
scared. I caught her talking to Albus once. Mad ramblings about stealing death, about prophecies
and about you .”

Harry closes his eyes, a heavy weight settling over him. He tries to imagine his mother - young,
always so young, when she dies - with memories settling over her of green light and a monster. Of
her child dying. Of a forest and Harry at seventeen and you’ve been so brave and wonders what she
thought. What she and James theorised.

“She ran. Her formula was destroyed. Gellert was furious. He chased and I think you know the
rest.”

“If her research is destroyed,” Harry asks, “Why do you need me?”

Warm skin brushing his cheek, smoothing his hair and he still flinches away, “Why was she so
insistent on hiding you? What was she afraid of? Lily wouldn’t have destroyed her research, not
completely. She’d never have forgiven herself.”

“She didn’t do anything to me,” Harry says, because that’s not why Lily and James ran. Lily and
James ran with nightmares of a dark lord and their son dead in a forest and with double half-vision
memories of those around them fighting in a war.

Ariana lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh, “No? Then why run? You’ll excuse me if I don’t believe
you, Harry. Even if we don’t find anything - figuring out how your mutation works - how we can
use it for good - won’t that be something? There need be no resistance or fighting if people can just
do what we want them to do.”
Harry’s sick of good and evil. Umbridge had been evil and it had been evil of Tom to kill her. It
was good of his aunt to take him in and it had been good of Harry to save Tom from the facility.
It’s all just perspective, it’s not real. It’s just a concept, an abstract idea someone decided.

Good can't exist without conditions.

Ariana seems to sense his answer, “So be it,” she says, her smile sad. She’s nice, she’s
Dumbledore’s goodwill and Grindelwald’s ambition.

“It’s not good,” he says, plainly, “For anyone. Except maybe you,” his words turn into a sneer
Severus Snape would be proud of, “I’m not going to help you.”

She sighs, accepting his condition, “Then we take it,” she says, simply, tracing a finger over his
forehead and brushing his hair out of the way in an oddly maternal gesture. He stiffens and Ariana
Dumbledore will never know it’s because she brushes over the place a scar was once located. That
she brushes ignorantly by a past she will never know or understand or that she’s talking to a boy
who has died before and lived before too.

His heart thumps in his chest. He’s aware of each beat and he knows she is too. There is something
surgically grafted into his neck and it chokes his power. He feels weak. Useless. Mortal and
confined and Tom and Harry had been kidding themselves to believe that they could win with their
powers against this.

Her voice is soft as she leans over him. "This will hurt a little," she says, gently, like a mother to a
child, "We need a genetic record right down to the base level. Stem cells are wonderful things."

On a cellular level something in Harry quakes. He feels bones splinter beneath her touch and his
blood pumps the wrong way as his skin slices itself open with a simple slide of a nail tracing over
flesh.

She lied, he thinks, somewhere in the middle of it all.

It does hurt.

The anger simmers in a slow boil. Like lava crawling from the mouth of a volcano - destruction is
inevitable but when, exactly, remains to be seen.

Harry didn't make it out.

Harry's gone. His file slipped from the system, his existence erased from public databases. His
phone wiped, his footprints erased. He exists only in Tom's mind all too keenly - sharp angles and
glittering green eyes and that quick sarcasm on his tongue as he keeps up with Tom, step by step,
following plans, pushing him to greater achievements…

Harry left him.

Hot rage burns under his skin leaving him shaking. How dare he leave. Harry's not allowed to
leave him. Harry is his.

The fury makes him want to hurt something. For a moment he envisions Harry before him, green
eyes tear-stained and that kaleidoscope of emotions twisted to the pain and hurt and loss that Tom
feels and it--
It brings him no joy, that image. Just a bitter hollow taste at the back of his throat. He feels like
someone has mined something out of him, left him empty and bereft.

He is unravelling. He is a ship unmoored. He is freefalling with no tether.

Tom’s indignation flares. He shouldn’t have to justify himself. Not to anyone and certainly not to
this soul torn reflection of his own demise. He didn't ask Harry to barge in with the uncomfortable
truths about his life and tragedies. How power is achieved at the cost of other things, superfluous
irrelevant things that Tom doesn't need except Harry had the audacity to prove him wrong.

Because Tom needs him.

Harry had said he was still Voldemort and he’s not.

Voldemort had never had Harry.

He doesn't want Harry beaten. He wants his boy with fire and venom. He wants Harry fighting
back.

And he certainly doesn't want Harry beaten down and ruined by others.

Harry is his.

And Tom wants him back.

The revelation leaves him breathless. A little thrilled. There's a strange hunger in him. A violent
dark part of him wants to sink fangs into flesh and claim.

Tom regrets.

He regrets in frost and rage. He regrets in paper cuts and words like ice splinters.

He doesn't need Harry, he tries to tell himself.

That is a lie.

Tom has always needed Harry. Even when he thought he didn't, even when he was half a soul in a
monster mimicry of a dark lord he had been nothing without the boy to be his prophesied equal.
Voldemort had been nothing more than a bogeyman, a twisted mockery of the future he had once
envisioned lost to blood and bone.

Tom needs Harry. He hadn't realised until he had the boy, their goals aligned, their powers in
beautiful blissful sync and Harry's emotions fluttering under his skin, insistent, pressing against
every part of Tom like their souls must once have been interwoven.

Tom Riddle needs Harry Potter.

He sighs and looks at the dingy door he's standing in front of. Unhidden. Squashed between
number 10 and number 14 like there is barely space for it. He hates having to rely on others. But
he has to.

For Harry.

He raises his hand to knock on the door. It opens before he gets to it, a ginger-haired Weasley
standing there, arms crossed, the bushy-haired girl behind him.
 "This," Ron Weasley says, looking like he was expecting Tom's arrival, "This better be good."

"Harry's been captured by Sentinel Services," Tom says, forcing the words out like pulling
splinters, "I need your help to get him out."

Chapter End Notes

["Did you just spend the past day or so moping about Harry leaving you?"
"No."
"That's adorably sickening from a former dark lord."]
 death shatters
Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“And why,” Ron Weasley paces back and forth, “On earth,” he twists, takes a few steps and then
turns again, “Should we trust him?”

“Harry trusts him.”

Tom leans back on the sofa of their ratty London flat, his arm sprawled lazily over the back of it as
he watches Harry’s beloved friends argue as if he were not present and occasionally twists to throw
him an interrogating question. This building he thinks belongs to Black - he and Harry had pinned
it down after the first time it became clear the Order had reappeared in the city - and now these two
teenagers are camping in the gloomy halls and archaic furniture.

It’s the sort of place that he’d have once simultaneously admired for screaming of tradition and
heritage, while also sneering at its pretentiousness and self-importance. Now he just thinks he’d
rather be in their own tiny flat, their own bar, their market, their--

“Oh and Harry’s the best judge of character. It’s Voldemort .”

“He’s got amnesia.”

“Partial amnesia,” he corrects, just to irritate them.

“Tom Riddle,” Weasley says, icily, “Is not much better. I know what you did to my sister, you
monster.”

Monster freak mutant --what’s wrong with you and Tom narrows his eyes, Weasley’s emotions are
tantalisingly in reach and he sends enough wariness that it’s enjoyable to watch the boy bristle as if
Tom’s grated sandpaper over skin.

A flare of heat and fire dances it’s way around Granger’s wrist, “Do behave,” she chides, and Tom
pulls his empathy back, a blase smile radiating innocence to her. “What did you do to Harry? He
was convinced--” Granger cuts herself off, crossing her arms instead and just glaring at him. “I will
set you on fire. I’ve done it before. On accident - I was actually setting Professor Snape on fire -
but I can set you on fire just as easily.”

“I’m terrified,” he drawls. Hermione Granger is surprisingly vengeful and ruthless for a teenage
girl. And this is coming from someone who used to plot genocide in a former life.

“Did you leave him there?” Granger won’t stop talking. “Did you leave him to rot there or did you
two have some kind of ploy that had Harry acting as bait--”

“He told me to leave him,” Tom says, and it’s true. Harry did fling those words at him. Don’t
follow me. He hadn’t been paying attention to figure out if there was a compulsion in them. He’d
been too distracted. Too stung. “Didn’t approve of my methods.”

“Did your methods involve murder?” Weasley asks.

Tom opens his mouth and decides lying to Harry’s friends is probably a bad decision, “Cassandra’s
heir was there. I couldn't leave Sentinel with a Seer, they already knew too much… but Harry
objected to certain outcomes.”

They are silent for a moment, probably trying to break that down. Dissect his half-words and lies
of omission.

“I quit Divination,” Granger says, eventually.

“Good for you,” Tom drawls, “I got twelve OWLs and nine NEWTs.” A beat. “Eight NEWTs,
maybe, I don’t really remember.”

“Show off,” Wealsey mumbles.

“I don’t know what my NEWTs would have been because I spent my NEWT year running around
the country hunting down pieces of your soul,” and oh, this girl has bite . “Your soul that you
shattered because you were afraid of death. So afraid you acted on a prophecy that said a baby… a
baby… threatened your demise. And in acting on it, you all but assured it.”

If her words are meant to offend they miss their mark, by virtue that Tom does not remember most
of what she describes. “I guess that’s the thing about self-fulfilling prophecies,” he drawls.
“They’re self-fulfilling.”

“Did Trelawney tell you anything then that prompted you to act? Did she prophesize your doom
once more? You… is that why you killed her? Did you… try to kill fate literally?"

Tom scoffs, "I am not beholden to the ramblings of seers and prophets, fate's strings do not control
me, I make my own future."

"It's okay to be scared," Granger says, "But whatever she said it may have already happened or it
may never come to pass. Or in trying to stop it you might make it occur sooner… You can't keep
him, you know. You can't kill that which threatens you and pretend everything is fine. Harry won't
let you. In trying to keep him you'll just drive him further away."

"He's not a pet," Tom sneers, and before the girl opens his mouth he anticipates what she's going to
say, "And he's not a horcrux. Not here. There are no strings entangling our souls, no prophecies.
He brought us here for a second chance and I intend to make use of it. And he's got too much skill
and talent to waste it grovelling at Dumbledore's heels like a dog."

Her next question takes him by surprise. He'd thought this girl too logical, her emotions too sharp
and thought out to be worried about simple facets like this as she tilts her head and asks, "Do you
love him?"

Tom’s sneer is thoughtless. An automatic reaction, the question not registering, not really. The
thought is there now though, damn Granger, and like a weed it sets down roots and grows. Of
course Tom doesn’t love him. Tom doesn’t love anyone. Tom doesn’t love. He has never cared for
it, he has no need for other people.

A blatant weakness such as loving someone is one he would never let himself have even if he
wanted to. To give someone that much power, to turn them into the god of your emotions with no
control over what they will become or do with your worship--

“No,” he says, because it is true, Tom Riddle does not love.

Yet Hermione just blinks slowly at him, a soft “oh” on her lips and this disgusting look of pity and
Tom doesn’t ask what she has spotted in his expression, what lie she thinks she has heard. Her
emotions speak to him, betray the soft understanding and clarity. How inane, he thinks, that she
thinks she knows him.

“Harry has that effect,” is all she says, weighing him up, assessing and Tom can’t help but feel like
he’s being judged, weighed up and found-- he’s not sure, because Granger chooses that moment to
move on, emotions flitting forwards like a small bird on the wing.

Her words linger, that growing weed. He thinks of soft skin beneath his fingers, of a wild laugh and
mirthful green eyes and their small corner of London bowing beneath them. He thinks of the horror
in that face at finding him with blood on his hands.

There was no fear. Tom had put that down to Gryffindor bravery. He’d grown up feared. In this life
and in the ghosts that haunted him, to be looked at with not a trace of fear…

There had just been cold horror as old as the hills in those green eyes when Harry looked at him.

Fear is the absence of understanding. Horror is the act of understanding perfectly.

And nobody understands him quite like Harry Potter.

Tom is not weak, he is not crippled by the emotions that plague him. And yet Tom is not a wizard,
he is not a dark lord, even his mutation - it's just one extra genetic chromosome.

At the end of the day he is only human.

And what is humanity without weakness?

“Will you, or will you not aid me?” he says, through clenched teeth. He tires of this interrogation.

They both stare at him in disbelief.

“Of course we’re going to help you,” Wealsey says, “It’s Harry. If you kill us or stab us in the back
he’ll kill you.” A beat. “Again.” Weasley squints at him, “And I guess he’s right. You’re not really
Voldemort. You have a nose.”

Tom resists the urge to feel his own face. Inane boy. Why can't Harry have better friends, he
bemoans, but thinking about Granger's ruthlessness and Weasley’s critical eye he thinks Harry has
probably picked well.

Harry Potter wonders if he can die in this world.

He’s long since been left alone in the dim lamp-light glow of the fire escape lights and flashing
machines. His body hurts. She had healed him after she was done tearing his cells apart. Gently.
Almost motherly. There is an odd disconnect between her words and actions. Pain hazes his
thoughts as his mind slips-slides between universes, seeing only the painted girl who smiled at the
world and to whom the world destroyed.

Now this version, this adult Ariana he does not know, has never met, takes that destruction and
channels it outwards to try and heal. It’s twisted. He understands her, and that is a stab of its own.
That a part of him fundamentally agrees with her trying to fix everything.

His marrow aches and his teeth feel like they’re pressing up into his brain. He’s got cold steel
around his hands and feet and electronics around his neck. He lies on a thin mattress in a glorified
cell with a single window and reflective glass he is almost certain is one-way.
He feels like he has been unmade and remade.

His mind drifts and the world blurs and time passes and he wonders if he will die here.

He wonders if he can even die. He united the Hallows - did they make him immortal? Will his
death shatter this world or will this finally be it? There's only one way to find out, he thinks,
waiting for the end. He thinks that thought with the same stubborn resignation that has trudged in
his footsteps for most of his life.

He closes his eyes and waits for the pain to cease.

“How is it that you - a certifiable genius --”

“--and sociopath--”

“--and Harry - the best intuitive thinker I’ve ever met - managed to set up a criminal empire by
walking into places and just manipulating people ?”

“Luck?”

“There are cameras! Police! DMA agents! Sentinel! And you just… you just… you really just walk
in --”

“Harry can pick locks. And we’ve got someone who gives us some ways to wipe camera memory,
the same guy who sent you the letter makes portals - he throws an EMP in usually and downs the
system, we have contacts--”

“Riddle, your plan to get Harry out is to walk in, empathically manipulate some guards and then to
walk out. That’s not a plan -- what were you doing there in the first place, going to manipulate the
leader to listen to you--”

“I was going to shoot them, actually--”

Hermione Granger, Tom thinks, is truly brilliant. He watches as she continues to rant and rave,
violent hand gestures that Weasley dodges with a sixth sense and occasionally interjects to say
something scathing about Tom. Tom and Harry do, in fact, have contingencies and contacts. But
Tom dislikes relying on others and Harry dislikes other people being in danger.

(Regardless, Fenrir Greyback is one block away if needed and another mutant Tom is pretty sure
was a muggle born in a different life that he doesn’t know is currently syphoning data streams on
Sentinel communications. Harry has an alarming habit of befriending various mutants who Tom is
pretty sure once used to be pureblood supremacists and using their mundane jobs to their
advantage.)

Tom is nothing if not thorough, but he doesn’t need to show Granger and Weasley all his cards. He
needs Weasley’s precognition. Something caught Harry unawares. Something stopped him from
walking out of the facility. The moment he’d heard the pair were in London he’d known exactly
what he’d have to wrangle to get Harry out.

It’s not that hard, in retrospect, to buy the loyalty of those who have already laid down their lives
for Harry once.

“Are you sure breaking in again is going to work in your favour? The last time you did that you
lost Harry. What’s going to happen this time?”

This time Tom will not let Harry leave him. This time he will--

He will…what? Not kill anyone? Not do anything to affect Harry’s delicate morals?

He’d be lying if he said he was prepared to hide his fangs. Tom Riddle is not a dog. He will not
come to heel simply because Harry asks nicely. But if Tom does stalk through leaving a trail of
bodies behind him, he will lose Harry anyway.

He does not answer Granger, and he pointedly ignores the glance the pair exchange.

They had not lingered long in the gloomy dank townhouse that apparently once belonged to the
Ancient and Noble House of Black in another world. The tube screams through another tunnel and
Granger flicks through some of the data and files Tom has obligingly produced for her on request.

She can’t be reading all this, Tom thinks. Nobody can read that fast.

“Why would they even want Harry?” she says, half to them, half to herself, “They arrest mutants -
yes, we know that. They have documented prisons and camps like the one Luna and Harry had
been in for the children--”

And Tom had been there too. Sharpening his teeth in the orphanage had not been a clever thing to
do as a pre-teen where they could still throw him to the wolves, “It’s a gilded lab,” he says,
“Mutations frighten them because they don’t understand them, so they seek to understand. Sentinel
is where they seek to understand and control. Can you imagine,” he says, “-what it would be like if
they could replicate Harry’s power?”

“Yes,” Weasley, says, bluntly, glaring at him, “It looks like Thicknesse imperiused and pretending
to be Minister for Magic.”

Tom rolls his eyes. That action, more than anything he says, appears to throw them. The childish
emotional eye roll of a teenager and not that of a man who had made himself into a monster. “I
don’t know who you’re talking about,” he drawls, “But if he was a politician then the implication
is there. What they are looking to do is dangerous. Can you imagine if Grindelwald stopped being
a voice of mutant revolts and instead became a government voice?” He pauses to let that sink in.

Granger pulls out the phone records that had led Tom to Pettigrew, “You said,” she skims through
the papers, “You said that Pettigrew mentioned Harry’s mum. That she was working in genetics.
What if Grindelwald getting a hold of some kind of miracle mutant drug isn’t so disconnected from
that? She died, right? Her and James? Why did they die if you were all of two years old and a
squealing infant in an orphanage somewhere?”

“Someone else killed them,” Tom says, standing as the train screeches to a stop. He ducks out onto
the platform and there’s a pause as the three of them merge with the crowds. Tom knows where to
twist and turn to dodge the cameras and he leads Granger and Weasley across to a different
platform.

Next train in 3 minutes , the neon sign declares.

“So it’s connected,” Granger is in her element, threading together the information he and Harry
have collated with the additional information Tom has found and her own knowledge. Tom, after
all, barely remembers who Pettigrew is. “Pettigrew is working for Sentinel. He knew Lily. Lily
worked for someone who would go on to work with Sentinel.”
“Lily Evans worked with Albus Dumbledore,” Tom remarks, because that had been what Sirius
Black had told them, “They used to work on mutant genetics together.”

Silence. A pause.

“What research do you think your beloved headmaster was doing, exactly?” Tom asks, and he’d
feel almost smug if not for the never-ending frustration with that doddering old coot, “Do you
think he got his lover involved?”

There’s a disturbance from further down the platform. Men in dark uniforms. Weasley ducks his
head and pushes both Granger and Tom through the open door of an elevator that opens behind
them, “We’re walking,” Weasley announces, muscles tense. Nerves spike and he’s not scared,
merely anticipatory.

“Paranoid,” Tom scolds. He can avoid the attention of the DMA agents.

“They’d have spotted us,” Weasley assures him, and Tom doesn’t say anything. He wonders if this
is what it would have been like if the Statute of Secrecy had been broken. If instead of being the
superior firepower he’d always thought, the magicals would have been forced to hide. To skulk and
dodge enemy agents on underground train platforms.

He forces those thoughts out his head - useless, superfluous worries. That world is gone.

And he might not have his magic, he thinks, but he has his empathy. He has empathy and he has a
growing criminal influence and he has a plan.

And soon, he vows, he will have Harry. And one day they will not have to run and hide.

He’s jarred awake by voices.

Harry doesn’t move. From years of sleeping with other people in a dorm room and later - sharing
with Ron or Hermione - he gives no sign he has woken. His chest rises and falls steadily, his
breathing stays deep. Even when he places one of the voices he resists the urge to move. To rise
and shout accusations and questions towards the voice.

He’s glad he doesn’t. He hears the hesitation. The caution in the tone. The uncertainty that they
present suggests that certainly not everything they told him had been a lie.

Albus Dumbledore speaks with the regret of one who has not seen his sister in years.

Ariana is speaking. “He reminds me of his mother. Bright young thing. Idealistic. But it got him
here, the same way it got Lily killed.”

“Lily did not slight you, Ana, she had other worries.”

“So you keep saying. But she stole half my research as well as her own discovery and left.” A sigh.
The tapping of fingers on paper, “I had half hoped she’d hidden something with the son. In his
genes, in his mutation - a remarkable combination of his father’s word play and his mother’s
empathic manipulation - but alas. There’s nothing, just that clever tongue.”

“What did you do?”

Lily ran. Harry thinks. She'd known the Order and yet she had chosen not to turn to Dumbledore.
He wonders why.

He thinks he knows.

“He’ll live,” Ariana says, “I do not kill. If he chooses to join I’ll send him to Gellert or get him to
help me pass some pesky bills to help my work. If he doesn’t I’ll see if I can mimic his ability.
Total obedience… I barely even noticed… it’s limited, of course, to words - take the voice, take
the power--”

“I have found that underestimating Harry has been the defeat of men before.”

“Oh, Al, I am not a man. And I will not underestimate a seventeen year old boy.”

“Let him go. I’ll take him back to the School. Keep him away from London. For Lily and James’
sake, allow their son to live--”

A short, sharp laugh, “If I let him go how long will it be before he runs. Before he demands release
and goes back to abusing his power? Before he and Riddle destroy more of the city in their attempt
to try and fight me?” There is silence. Enough of an answer. “He’s perfectly safe. I don’t kill
mutants.”

She doesn’t, Harry thinks. She uses them.

She doesn’t want to kill mutations, she wants to fucking erase them.

“He’ll be perfectly safe, Albus. I promise.” She sounds truthful. She is, in a way. And Harry
already knows what Dumbledore will do because he’s done it once.

Better ignorant than with your eyes wide open to the world, after all.

“Oh Harry,” he hears Albus sigh, "I told you to stay away from Sentinel services."

Harry lies still, barely daring to breathe, feigning unconsciousness. It's easy. His thoughts are hazy
enough as it is. He feels like he's thirteen and wrapped in a soft purple sleeping bag on the floor of
the Great Hall and not older and in a cell. He lets his thoughts tumble over each other allowing the
fuzz of the world to blur.

"Do you care for the boy, Albus?" A croon. A scoff. "You barely know the child."

"Ana, please. Let him go."

"You look at him like a son."

There's a long pause and if there's a response Harry doesn't hear it. In his mind he sees the old man
with a white beard and clashing purple robes staring into a cauldron of memories. It blurs in his
head to the same man but younger. Red hair and a clashing suit instead looking down at an open
file with his name in.

No, Dumbledore is not going to save him. And Tom is gone.

Loki remained chained until Ragnarok, poison dripping into his eye and Sigrid catching each
incessant drop.

Except for the moments she had to leave to empty the bowl.

And as Ariana and Albus Dumbledore's presence dims, their voices drifting away, Harry twists out
his lockpick towards the cuffs. He is not Loki, and he will not wait for Ragnarok.

The mask leaves puncture wounds from where it clawed needle incisions into his skin. They will
heal but until then it looks like someone punched him in the mouth. Or he had a particularly violent
make out session, Harry is unsure, he's mainly just grateful they don't look like they feel - like
someone had threaded his lips together with a fishbone needle and a thread of a fish's breath and a
cat's footsteps and whatever else they once chained Fenrir with.

Tom had told him learning how to pick locks was a waste of his time. Yet Harry had persisted in
learning. Broken nails nicked his fingers until they bled as he messed around with locks and safes
and keys until he had it figured out. He remembers Fred and George talking him through it in a
different life. He remembers when he didn’t have a wand and alohomora at his fingertips and so he
works on the skills. Hones them. Until he can do them blindfolded.

He’d have thought the room would be harder. But it’s not. There’s a blind spot beneath the camera.
The security man who barges his way in expects a helpless prisoner, not a teenage boy with
violence in his limbs and claws out.

He steps cat-lightly around the building. This has, he reflects, always been in his bones. Walking
around the Dursleys like a wraith, sneaking unseen through Hogwarts, stealing food from his aunt's
kitchen, robbing the castle of its secrets...

He has a strange lack of fear and he's not sure if it's whatever drugs he may have in his system or a
quiet confident knowledge that nobody can get in his way.

Not even Albus Dumbledore.

He steps around a corner and almost walks straight into the man. Harry does not have Tom’s
ability to sniff out emotions and avoid enemies. Harry does not currently even has his ability to
snap out instructions to the guards and general personnel he has run into so instead there are two
who will wake with nasty headaches and one who he thinks will survive the drug cocktail he
stabbed into their arm.

He hopes they will survive. His heart thuds, hypocrite running through his head with Tom/s voice.

It’s survival, he tells himself, and almost walks into Dumbledore.

Dumbledore is shorter, Harry thinks. An odd pondering given the time and circumstance. Harry
always remembered being younger and looking up at the thin man with his long white beard and
robes.

Or maybe Harry is just taller. He is, he realises with a funny gnawing dog-with-a-bone sensation,
the same age he had been when he brought them here. Older even. He is the oldest he has ever
been, and he looks at Dumbledore with the eyes of an adult. “Good evening,” he says, “I’d ask you
to step aside, but I can’t really reinforce that right now,” he gestures somewhat bitterly at his neck.

Albus does not look surprised to see Harry strolling around Sentinel Headquarters like he had not
been imprisoned a few hours prior. “Harry,” he greets, almost fondly were it not for the extra
wrinkles he seems to have gained since Harry saw him last.

“You know,” Harry starts, conversationally, “When use the term ‘we lost someone’ it generally
implies to those around you that they’re dead, not fucking alive and running a government agency.”
Dumbledore looks rightly contrite. “I had hoped…” he starts, then stops, shaking his head, “I can
give you an old man’s excuses about how I wished to persuade her of a different path, that I wished
you’d stayed away… but you deserve better than the platitudes I tell myself.”

“You said she was dead,” there’s the hint of a snarl to his voice, the glimpse of argent fangs. “And
maybe she is to you, but a fucking warning would have helped.”

Dumbledore’s eyes close in shame.

Harry pauses, shifting his weight from foot to foot for a moment, “I could condemn you,” he says,
“For lies of omission that have led to this. But we both know that I will never be able to hate you as
much as you hate yourself. Not me. Not Tom. Not even Ariana because believe me she hates you
too, for whatever it is you expect to see when you look in her eyes and don’t find.”

Harry twists away, half-hoping Dumbledore will leave him to go his own way. He doesn’t. He falls
into step behind Harry, amicably, as if they are going for a stroll.

"She's stronger than you. Or did you downplay your powers? You say you deal in memories.
Thoughts are memories being made in the present… How much do you see when you look at
people? How much do you see when you look at her?"

"Harry--"

"You know I once looked into how the avada kedavra works. Nobody knows for sure. There were
several theories though. One stated that it severs the tethers to your body and the world, sending
the soul and spirit and whatever we are straight into the afterlife. Another theorised that your
whole body forgets how to live and in that moment of green, that eternal moment when the spell
hits your heart forgets to pump, your lungs forget to take in oxygen, your cells just forget to work.
There are also theories that assume it causes an instant cardiac failure. Your heart stops. Your
organs fail. You flick from alive to dead. We'll never know now, of course, the Hallows tore that
world to shreds. Maybe all the theories have some measure of truth to them. Ariana could replicate
it, if she tried. Kill you instantly. It's funny I thought I'd avoid meeting someone with the killing
curse for a mutation but it turns out she was there all along. And you said nothing ."

Harry tilts his head, considering. Dumbledore is silent, a hundred words in his eyes that do not
make it to his lips. He is mute. Numbed by Harry’s condemnation.

He looks old, Harry thinks.

Tired.

"Do you think, Professor, that if you had to rank which mutations were considered unforgivable
you'd still rank my manipulation over playing god with memories? Or what about your sister's
cellular manipulation?"

Harry pauses at a branch in the corridor, and turns to look at him fully, to acknowledge the other’s
presence. The old man appears to steel himself, before he looks in the eyes of the boy whose life he
has ruined twice over. "I have done you a great disservice. And I have had the misfortune of not
only doing it once… I committed it twice. I would offer you condolences, Harry, if I thought you
wanted to hear them. But, it seems, we must both make our mistakes twice.”

“Yes,” Harry says, “You sent me to die.”

A sharp inhalation of breath.

“You raised me to be a soldier in a war you should have fought yourself. To kill a boy who made
himself a monster.”

“Where is that boy, Harry? Where is Tom Riddle?”

Harry steps away, sharply. Bored now. "He," he turns away, "Remains none of your concern. He
was none of your concern at eleven, starving and alone and in a strange new world. He was none of
your concern when he murdered students and mutilated himself. He was none of your concern
when he sought a job at his home. He remained none of your concern through two wars and
countless deaths. You left him to me, remember? So don't act concerned now."

He twists, meeting piercing blue eyes. Unafraid. Dumbledore can see his memories. Harry is not
good at containing his emotions, and he is no better at hiding his thoughts. They are written in the
green of his eyes for all to see, even those without a mutation.

And his emotions and memories of Tom are written across his soul.

“You sent me to die,” he says again, coming back to the old hurt, picking at the age-old scab that
has refused to heal.

“I’m sorry,” Dumbledore says.

Harry looks at the old man with his tired blue eyes. He looks at someone who was just trying to
help. Was smart enough to know what he should do, but arrogant enough to think he could manage
it with a touch more kindness. He thinks of conversations in white rooms. He thinks of the years
spent wondering what he had done that this man had sent him out into the cold. Conscripted him
into a war and then left him in the snow and the deep forests of the winter night and expected him
to come back, victorious and whole and hallow.

Dumbledore is not perfect. He’s pretty far from the man Harry had once idolised. Arrogance gilded
into kindness tempered with ignorance and intelligence that flash all the wrong sides of a shape. If
Tom Riddle had once feared him for standing so far above him in terms of magic and strength that
encircled this man and made him seem like a god, then Harry Potter will condemn him for daring
to prove fallible. To prove that no one person can fix everything and make the best choice for
everyone.

Someone will end up suffering. Someone will always suffer.

Harry looks at the mortal flesh of regret and mistakes and he does something that should be
impossible and yet it’s the easiest and simplest thing he could ever do.

(It also probably breaks Dumbledore the most).

“I forgive you,” Harry says.

Because he has. He doesn’t know when he let go of the grudge. It hurts. It always will. But there is
no bubbling resentment and wariness anymore, just resignation. He sees surprise in Dumbledore’s
face. “I forgive you, but I don’t want your help. I don’t need it.”

“I trust you. Far more than I trust myself. And as for Ariana…”

Harry almost picks at this new wound. Decides better, “She didn’t die. What changed?”

A sigh, “Last time… the wounds - physical and mental - that she sustained from the attack as a
child led her to fear magic. Suppress it. When a magical child does that their magic takes on a life
of its own. Magic cannot be denied or repressed. It lashes out. Accidentally. Violently. Consuming.
Her magic became an entity of her own making - a parasitic form that lashed out when angry and
slowly consumed her.”

Different from here, Harry thinks, yet similar.

“Gellert,” Dumbledore closes his eyes, “Wanted to try and use that power she had. Aberforth
protested and I… I was too weak to stop any of the events from happening. You asked me once,
Harry, what I saw when I looked in the Mirror of Erised.”

“You said socks,” Harry says, “You mean your heart's desire isn’t a new pair of socks for
Christmas?” His tone still has too much sarcasm. Too much bite. Albus winces.

“I saw Ariana, alive. Hallowed and healthy. And here I had that. Alive and yet instead of hating her
magic… she grew to hate her mutations. And now I dream only that she might know peace.”

She will not find peace, Harry thinks. Not down the path she has chosen.

“The original Mutant Affair Division was fashioned to research mutations in order to promote
understanding in the hope that with understanding would come acceptance. We found the gene. We
found the alleles that differ between. We barely scratched the surface at understanding how the
environment and genes and chemicals and hormones affected it. And already with the tantalising
progress it became clear that we wanted different things.”

Harry paces a few steps in the literal fork in the road they stand talking at. “My mother. She found
out… how to trigger the mutation?”

“And,” Albus sighs, looking grave, “We think she found out how to amplify abilities. I don’t
know. She did not come to me with her findings. And Gellert got impulsive.”

Harry’s jaw clenches, and he wonders whether Lily and James Potter were always fated to die
young, before they ever got a chance to know their son. “And you call Tom the monster,” he says,
“When you walk with those who tear through lives carelessly and mindlessly and leave destruction
in their wake.”

“You know what Tom is capable of,” Albus says, “Better, I think, than anyone. And I know what
Ariana will do under the conviction that she can help others.”

“London,” he reiterates what he has already said, back at the School, “Is ours,” he hopes Albus
hears what he is not saying between words, “I’m going to tear this institution to the ground.”

Almost as if timed to his declaration there is a loud ringing of an alarm. They’ve finally noticed
Harry is not where he’s meant to be, he thinks. He tilts his head, oddly calm despite the knowledge
that he may not actually make his escape, distracted as he was arguing over past events with Albus
Dumbledore.

“I think I should be on my way,” he says.

“Take care,” Albus says, “I’m going to wander this way,” he gestures to the path Harry is not about
to head down, “I may point out the escaped prisoner I encountered. But they’ll remember me
saying he was in the south wing. They may even remember seeing him in that direction. Memories
are such flawed things.”

His smile is wry. Too much hidden behind it but Harry holds no resentment. He turns away,
whistling a jaunty little tune as he goes to help secure Harry’s escape. Harry watches his old
 mentor vanish around the corner.

Then he turns away from the exit and redirects his route back to the main building.

He has a Sentinel leader to take down.

Chapter End Notes

[Tom, Ron and Hermione: Right, time to start plotting on how to break Harry out of
Sentinel’s clutches.

Harry: Breaks himself out before they’ve even started planning.]

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