Chapter Text
“Child,
why did no one ever teach you that you cannot turn people into homes?
People are rivers, ever changing, ever flowing. They will disappear with everything you put inside them.
Still, your home does have a heartbeat. But it isn’t one locked in anyone else’s chest.
Just look inside your own.”
– Nikita Gill
The faraway sounds of pots and pans clattering, footsteps, and muffled conversations bothered Tom. Though the sounds persisted, wakefulness didn’t come easily to him. The softness of his bedding and the comfort he felt stayed long after those first bleary moments.
It didn’t take him long to understand that he wasn’t in his room, not within his sage and dissonance-filled safe haven. He was living in borrowed space on borrowed time, and once again, it made him feel safer than the home he had the right to claim. And so, within seconds of a bright and beautiful morning, his comfort twisted into anger. Logically, he knew he ought to leave. Harry had not invited him to stay. Hogwarts had prepared him for this exact feeling, this craving for something more than he should have, this idea that happiness was implicitly connected to intent, and yet no matter his intentions, wants, or wishes, he could never stay where he wanted to be, perpetually forced to move on and held back by his circumstances.
Looking over at the sleeping redhead who had been the source of so many of his recent life struggles, he saw her face was squished up against one of the big fluffy pillows. Her freckles looked almost jarring against her skin, yet they weren’t distracting enough to overshadow the soft curve of her lips, the usually bright eyes, and the flushed cheeks. Her hair gleamed in the light, looking like it had come straight out of one of those horrid Muggle fairytales the matron had blared on about. The one thing that didn’t quite fit the picture was Harry’s hand that she'd thrown over her bedroll and that was hanging limply over the ledge of the bed.
Her scars were more obvious when you knew what to look for.
Reaching out to it, he felt her warmth seeping into his hand, the raised lettering from scars of another life, one she wouldn’t return to, one that he’d erase if he could—rubbing his fingers over the scarred tissue, he blinked against the plushy cushion he laid down on. He’d leave in a bit, he thought to himself as his eyelids grew heavy, and he fell asleep once more.
X
Harry woke up in a dimly lit and slightly stuffy room. The morning sun was streaming in through the windows and tinted everything in an orange hue. She smiled as she burrowed deeper under her covers. This was precisely what she’d been missing: the feeling of safety and comfort that came with a good night's rest.
A shuffling noise disrupted the serenity of the moment. She tried to ignore it; she'd been living with the toddlers for the past few weeks, after all. But—the thing was, there was supposed to be no one in the room besides her. Sitting up in bed, heart racing, one hand on her hip where she secured her wand, she stared at the couch.
Tom looked annoyingly handsome, vulnerable as he was. His hair in disarray, his cheeks still flushed from sleep, and his arms loosely thrown over the pillow at his side, as if he had been reaching for her, crushed even her final doubts this boy was inherently evil. But even if he wasn’t that bad yet, he was still dangerous enough.
It wasn’t fair.
An incessant tapping tore her from her thoughts. Taking notice of the window and the owl that was perched up on the windowsill, right over the couch where Tom—
The incessant tapping against the window pulled her away from her thoughts.
She needed more time to figure out how she wanted to deal with this, so she silently gestured to the owl to follow her to the adjacent bathroom, where she let her enter after spelling the room silent.
The owl delivered a message from Daniel that told her he’d completed his offer with the boss and that she’d be able to order her books from Hogwarts, after they sorted her into a year. She couldn’t help but smile at the message; this was excellent news. It meant she could save up money to put towards her own experiments and books she actually needed.
The warm feeling quickly dispelled after she heard loud shuffling from the bedroom. Tom was awake, and her time for coming up with a strategy had run out. She only knew one thing for certain, and that was, making Tom feel unwelcome and uncomfortable after he’d become somewhat of a friend in a time where she direly needed one, wasn’t something she wanted to do.
She hadn’t ever really considered asking Tom to join her in the small one-bedroom apartment of the Leaky. Mainly because she’d somehow doubted that he’d even want to do so, but also because it felt weird to ask him to leave his home behind when she hoped she wouldn’t be there with him again next summer to do the same, knowing that he’d barely be able to afford this for himself.
She shook her head.
She could take the lead on this. Besides, if Tom turned evil, like he was supposed to, he would find friends that could take him in, and if he didn’t turn into Voldemort, she would have bigger worries to sort out.
A few overpowered Scourgify spells later, and she looked much more presentable. She hurried through her washup and gathered her entangled hair as best away from her face as she could and into a bun. When she quietly left the bathroom for the deafening silence of their shared bedroom, her pulse was racing against her chest, because this was a change she wouldn’t be able to gloss over.
Tom was already sorting out his own clothes when she appeared and nodded towards her with an earnest expression.
“Thank you for letting me stay for the night; I mustn’t have realized how tired I was,” Tom said, averting his eyes, awkward as ever.
Harry knew if she left him to think on it too long, he’d just assume to know what she thought or wanted, and she couldn’t let that happen. Not in this context. “You can stay whenever you want,” she said, feeling just as awkward as he looked. “…for however long you want to.”
Tom’s eyes found hers the moment what she’d said registered, and he knew she knew he wanted this. And the weird thing was, he probably knew that she wanted this as well.
There was something eerie about the way he broke the silence. ‘If I leave now, I’ll never go back,’ he told her calmly, as if it was nothing but a fact. The look in his eyes intensified. ‘If I leave now, I’ll never go back,’ he repeated, this time he almost yelled it, and then he smiled. Genuinely smiled. Not a smirk, not a cruel laugh, not one of those polite smiles she’d seen him use before, but a real one, and a happy one.
“I’ll ask for a second key, later,” she said, as she moved towards the door, and even though she hadn’t received an answer yet, she knew what it would be.
X
When she met Tom that evening, he seemed absolutely exhausted and eyed her with enough mistrust that she actually felt offended. They were still on Diagon Alley. He sat on the same bench she’d waited for him with ice cream on, and she stood in front of him fidgeting.
Tom stared at her before he pushed one of the paper bags from the sandwich vendor towards her.
Harry smiled at the food offering before she pulled him closer to lean against. She felt stuck in a transition period, where things were changing and she could feel them changing, and yet a part of her clung to the knowledge that they were also predestined to go awry. Her feelings were tangled up in all the circumstances of the presence, and the guilt and shame she associated with her foreknowledge grounded her in the future. But a part of Harry had decided that everything that happened between then and now, she owned that. She owned that time with him.
In a moment of daring, she announced her fear to the world. “I feel like I can’t really be present,” Harry said around her sandwich.
“How do you mean?” Tom asked, sounding greedy. Like he needed to talk, like he needed to know her.
“Now that things are less stressful, I worry about what’s coming. It’s like I’m never just in the moment, except for when the moment is demanding it of me.”
“Am I the moment?” Tom asked, smirking, not knowing that he fully was the moment, always had been. A tired laugh escaped Harry before she shook her head. “I think the sandwich is the moment,” she answered, grinning widely before taking an exaggerated bite.
“You know, there’s a lesson here,” Tom started, and Harry was happy that the tense atmosphere lifted and did her best to tune his teachings out. The night was still young, and they had big plans, after all.
Two tired teenagers arrived at the orphanage during dinner time. The floorboards creaked and croaked under their weight, but they tried to move as quietly and quickly as they could.
Harry dipped into her room first and gathered the few clothes she had, her letter, and then turned to follow Tom up the stairs.
His room was as clean as it had been when the matron asked her to move out from there. He clearly lived out of his trunk. She quickly threw the few personal possessions she had into his trunk before she “helped” him carry it down the stairs. He tried to take on most of the weight, but after two stumbles, one louder than the other, she hoisted part of the trunk up with both hands, glared back at his offended look, and helped him past the last part.
They were both red-faced and sweaty by the time they arrived at the bottom. They didn’t meet anyone when they took the last few steps out of there.
Standing on the street in front of the orphanage, Tom smiled grimly at her. It was a look that held a lot more emotion than she’d ever seen him display before. Sadness and happiness and uncertainty and absolute certainty were all muddled in his grim expression.
She almost felt envious of his ability to get away with deciding for himself like that.
He nodded once, took his trunk and hurled it behind him with little care, now that they weren’t to be inconspicuous. He didn’t look back, and neither did she.
X
Sharing a room with Tom was not as problematic as sharing a room with Hermione and Ginny had been. Tom was ridiculously orderly, and she didn’t really have enough to make a mess, so half of what led to conflict wasn’t an issue.
Aiding in that, was the fact that they both spent a lot of their time at work, and that they were both in need of some quiet and calm by the time they made it back to each other. Of course there were rules. They both always changed in the bathroom, waiting their turn. Tom differed from Ron in the way he didn’t ignore the fact that she was a girl. Ron knew this logically but seemed to ignore it most of the time. Tom noticed her. He saw her in various states of undress and disarray and was mindful not to let his eyes wander or linger too long. There were still things Harry noticed he wouldn’t do. They transfigured the sofa into a bed that same first night for him to sleep on, and while Harry was welcome to sit with him on it and lounge on it and maybe cat nap on it, Tom never once made a move to even lean against hers.
There was still some hair pulling, but at some point his rough handling of her turned teasing and playful instead of brutish and helpless. However, one thing she appreciated and hated the most was his unwavering support of her studies.
‘At this rate, you’re going to end up in fourth year,’ Tom admonished, and Harry groaned, as she buried her head in the third year material book. She could feel his judgemental look on her.
‘I’ll be fine. They won’t ask for this much detail.’ She flipped to the next page, and the book was promptly ripped away from her hands again.
‘Repeat the correct answer again,’ he told her, fixating her with his eyes.
‘Are you actually serious?’ She asked, rolling hers.
He just stared at her, dark eyes narrowed, wand held between them, while Harry laid on her stomach looking through last year’s curriculum.
She stared critically from his wand to his face and back again, knowing full well that he wouldn’t hesitate to hex her when she messed this up again and repeated the answer.
She liked this version of Tom the least and the best. He was a tyrant of a teacher but also wonderfully and eerily similar to Hermione.
They spent almost every free moment together learning and living with magic, and that was exactly what both of them had craved for so desperately during their time in the Muggle world. In this time, Harry also learned a lot about Tom’s little idiosyncrasies. He liked things to be a certain way. He also wanted that way to be as magical as possible.
When he told her about the significance of the number seven in the magical world, Harry had nodded seriously and relayed one of Ron’s anecdotes about his squib uncle. ‘He was the seventh son of a seventh son and he was born without magic.’ She’d explained while reaching for a damson.
‘Was his father particularly powerful?’ Tom asked, eagerly.
‘Not that he mentioned. My other friend told me it wasn’t an inherently magical number but a part of a pattern that repeated itself all throughout history. Four and three were the actually important numbers, is what she mentioned. Because they make up a lot of what we know and continue to show up on both sides of human history. I think three was the spiritual number, which is also somewhat repeated in Christianity as the trifecta of power, father, son, and holy spirit, and that four was the earthly number, which was about the four elements, like wind, water, fire and earth and the four corners of the world, north, east, west, south,’ she rambled. Truth be told she did not remember everything relevant to that conversation seeing as the topic was numerology.
Tom seemed to consider this. ‘Broken down like that, they are everywhere, from the seasons to philosophical theories. Even in Aristotle’s four causes of nature.’
‘I know; once you notice it, you can’t un-see it.’ She shrugged.
‘I have to think about this,’ he murmured and promptly disappeared into his books for the better part of the week.
Tom went through theoretical books like Harry used to go through chocolate: determined and well-aware that neither the obsessive nature nor the relentless pursuit would be good for her if she wanted to keep up with her other responsibilities without feeling overtired or cranky. He also wouldn’t shut up about it.
She’d noticed in the past that he liked to hear himself talk, but if he caught her doing nothing, she would easily spend the next hour torn between regretting letting herself get caught and somewhat interested in what Tom had to say. If the topic didn’t catch her attention, Tom certainly would, with his unfair charisma and his stupid perfectly tousled hair and the most annoyingly interesting facial expressions, between genuine annoyance and boyish curiosity.
Harry needed a new hobby. Sadly, she also needed to prepare for school, so in a turn of desperate events her new hobby comprised attempting to read her way through Tom’s entire school career. She’d wondered why his trunk had been so heavy. It was because he kept everything. She felt sufficiently confident that she’d get sorted into fifth year, but this wasn’t the time to sit around idle, especially not if a number-obsessed Tom was preying on her every moment of weakness to come in and share his insanely boring theories on the inherent duality of maths.
If she thought she could get away from him by escaping into his school books, she was sorely mistaken. There were reminders of who he was all around her. The first-year books were especially telling when she considered the Mudblood slurs that decorated them. The slurs changed in his second year; they added drawings, from poorly drawn dicks, to demeaning sketches of a much smaller Tom getting cursed, it was all there.
They stopped entirely in his third year and she could only imagine why.
Truth be told, even if she understood these things about him, even if she saw the cruelty of others used against him, she’d never get to a point where she’d be able to absolve Voldemort from what he’d done, not that she wanted to. No matter how troubling his life had been, there were just some things that she was not capable of forgiving.
But Tom wasn’t him. Not yet, anyway, and so she swallowed down her righteous anger at third year Tom for walking down a path that would become much darker, than anything he could have expected at the time and felt for him. Felt for the little boy that came home to a no-touch rule and left for a castle that deemed him a blight on magic.
It helped that she knew that Ron would have understood parts of it. Ron had perspective in ways she didn’t. He knew right from wrong the way Hermione knew what was expected of her and the way Harry knew to break rules that didn’t serve her.
He would have yelled at her for these emotions of shame and guilt and whatnot. Would have bullied her within an inch of her life for thinking that Tom Riddle was handsome He was more of a handsome mess, but still. Ron would have declared her mental and then probably would have said something about her hair, and she would have punched him in the shoulder for it, and he would have laughed and caught her in a headlock, while Hermione looked over her book and watched them caught somewhere between disapproval and endearment, and goddamn it she missed them.
X
They spent the days leading to their departure in a daze of nervous preparing and utter exhaustion. Harry had bought a used trunk for a few sickles and spent the better part of her day charming it to make it look better.
Tom, who’d been up to his head in potions preparation and sorting through the apothecary, brought their school supplies with him bit by bit, and he also brought something else.
Harry stared at the three little compacts he’d put on the pillow beside her, uncomprehending.
‘It’s makeup,’ he explained, at her questioning look.
She eyed them with open curiosity.
Her aunt had always taken care to look and fit into what people considered being feminine, in an exaggerated sense. The hideous aprons over colourfully patterned dresses with the dramatic eye and lip makeup were all part of the ensemble, as were the high-heeled shoes and the brightly colored nails she would repaint every night.
Harry had always thought of it as pandering and she knew it was something she didn’t want to do, but when Hermione brought some mascara and lip balms with her, their third year at Hogwarts, she’d tried them out with her and found out that she actually liked them a lot.
Even though her hair was dark red, her lashes still looked a bit light, so the dark mascara made a dramatic difference to her appearance. Over the last two years, she’d added a dark blush and a brown-tinted lip balm to her own small collection and had taken to wearing them regularly. They made her feel prettier. It wasn’t like she could use makeup or concealer the way the other girls did. There was no point in trying to cover up the freckles that littered her face. It would just look weird.
Curious to see what Tom had gotten her, she opened the first compact and found an old-fashioned type of mascara that came with a dark pressed powder and a brush.
The paper inside proclaimed. ‘ Only an Aguamenti away from luscious lashes! ’ ’ She smiled as she recognized the brush. Mrs. Figg had one that looked just like this one, and she’d seen her use it often enough.
Opening the next compartment, she found a dark brown-toned paste pressed into a heart shape. It looked darker than the one she’d used at home, but she couldn’t help but appreciate Tom’s consideration for her complexion.
The last one held a simple blush. It was dark-toned, instead of orange or red, which was a blessing. She smiled at them and looked up to him questioningly. This was a nice gesture, but, well, Tom was cheap. He paid his rent in food for them both and provided her any apothecary supplies she could want for, but he never got her something like this. It was weird. She knew makeup was expensive; all three of them together could have easily cost a small fortune.
‘This is very nice, thank you,’ she started, not knowing how to ask what the heck he was up to. She finished with, ‘Why am I getting presents?’
Tom stared at her intently, but took his time answering. He did that a lot lately, carefully weighing his words. She wasn’t sure if she liked it yet. ‘It’s important not to look poor. Hogwarts can provide you with a lot of opportunities, but only if you know how to present yourself.’
She looked from him to the makeup and back. ‘This is still about my future?’ She asked touching the artfully decorated compacts carefully.
‘It’s important,’ Tom repeated, and she looked at him for longer. She knew he got something used from Twilfitt and Tattlings for himself for that same reason, and now that she lived with him and had seen his bed head, she was also well aware of the work that went into tousling his hair to look just like that.
He’d found a way that worked for him in a world that worked against him, and he was trying to share that with her. Objectively, she knew that the motivation behind it was not unkind, even if it was a terrible thing to do, to invite a reality where people placed value on that sort of thing into their home like that.
‘You picked good colors,’ she said approvingly, getting her things together to make her way over to the bath.
Tom followed close behind and sat down at the edge of the tub to watch her figure out how to use her makeup.
‘Have you never done this before?’ he asked as she pulled her hair up into a bun and eyed the mascara brush a bit warily.
‘It’s been a while,’ she said, absentmindedly.
Tom who apparently got bored with watching her, had gotten himself a book on runes.
‘When’s your birthday?’ He asked while he stared at her critically as she tried to figure out where to put the blush.
‘July 31st,’ she answered, absentmindedly.
‘Mine’s on December 31st,’ he mused.
‘What does that tell you?’ She asked as she looked warily at his book, trying to think back to what she heard Hermione tell her about runes. Internally, she thought back to Lavender looking up star signs and waffling on about horoscopes.
‘That I’m older than you,’ he said smirking at her as she rolled her eyes.
When she was done, she looked at herself in the mirror. The cosmetics were different to use, but they applied about the same way, especially when you ignored the applicators completely and used your fingers instead. To her surprise, she looked absolutely normal. Just like she had the weeks leading up to her accident. Somehow, this very inane and somewhat vain act made her feel more like herself than anything else she’d tried for the past few weeks had. It made her feel better, like she reclaimed a part of herself somehow.
Empowered with her success, she looked at her hair in the mirror. Braiding it into anything more intricate than a standard braid was always a nightmare, but once she accomplished the feat, the style would hold for the whole day, which was more than she could say about her bun, which fell apart at odd times for no reason at all, or her standard braid which usually ended up only holding about half the hair that was supposed to be tucked in it through the day.
‘Are you doing something with your hair?’ Tom asked, pulling his eyebrows up at her as she ran her fingers through it. His surprise was warranted. He’d never seen her anything but her chaotic open locks or an even more chaotic braid or bun.
She nodded and started on the herringbone braid Ginny had taught her, the first time she visited the Burrow.
It wasn’t perfect; a few strands peeked out of it here and there and fell into her face, but it looked decent. She smiled at herself in the mirror.
‘Thank you, Tom.’ This time it felt more heartfelt, more important. He’d unknowingly given her something back that she didn’t know she’d lost.
He nodded as he watched her over his book. ‘It suits you.’
The last thing she needed to purchase was the uniform, but she would not get all anal about it like Tom did. She went to get hers from Madam Malkin’s great grandmother. It was the biggest expense yet, but whatever she allotted to the seamstress, was still a lot less than Tom had paid for his, for three whole sets, and no, she wasn’t letting that go.
The pleated skirts looked much like they did in her own time, as did the blouses and ties. There were small differences, though. The girls' shirts had a Peter Pan collar, which they didn’t in her time. There was also the color. In the '40s everything looked grey. The skirts were dark grey, as were the V-neck sweaters that sported the house logo and the knee socks. It made everything seem softer somehow.
X
Tom was brimming with anticipation, happy to get back. She was anxious and afraid.
Naturally, she said little as she listened to him go on about Dolohov and Avery’s many faults that made sharing a dorm with them almost impossible.
She was learning more and more about her Tom, and she couldn’t help but ask herself, was Voldemort a morning grouch, as well? Wouldn’t he shut up about the inanest things, too?
Thinking back to her encounters with the older wizard, she had a feeling that he still liked to hear himself talk, and Quirrell’s morning classes had been by far the worst ones.
She needed to stop this train of thought. This year would show her what Tom Riddle was capable of. A student would die, and he’d frame Hagrid. She knew it was inevitable, but it still hurt to be reminded of it. At least she knew that when it happened, he wouldn’t be her Tom anymore. He’d be Voldemort, and she’d denounce any affection she’d ever felt towards him, then.
Closing her eyes after way too many hours of contemplation, she finally found sleep.
The next morning felt final like little else in her life ever had. She wasn’t too sure about what it was, but something in the way they both packed their trunks, got ready in the bathroom, and ate the stew Tom had brought back after his shift yesterday signified that the bubble they’d been existing in all summer was about to burst.
Harry could only assume that Tom was already friends or at least in contact with some of his future Death Eaters, and her stomach twisted at the thought. They’d gotten close over the past few weeks. Tom probably wasn’t even aware of it; maybe she herself hadn’t really been aware of it either, but she trusted him. A small part of her did, anyway, and sometimes it felt like he trusted her, too.
X
She heaved a deep sigh; they’d made it to the platform with half an hour to spare. They already swarmed the place by the time they got there. Families were standing everywhere. There were tearful goodbyes, and groups of people proclaiming their love for each other were surrounding them.
Tom and she had tried to find a less-traveled area, which had been a dumb idea to begin with. They ended up sitting right underneath the shield that read "Hogwarts Express." Well, she sat on top of her trunk, while Tom leaned against the brick wall next to her.
They’d both opted for casual clothes because they knew they’d have to take Muggle transportation for at least half of the way. Tom was wearing a pair of fitted black slacks and a white dress shirt that he tucked into his pants. He’d tousled his hair as artfully as ever, and he almost looked relaxed, leaning against the wall like that.
She herself had opted for a white dress, with tiny yellow flowers stitched onto it. The dress came down just above her knees and had short T-shirt sleeves. It singed in at the waist and flared out towards the bottom. She’d gotten it last minute from Madam Malkin, who did a clearance sale on summer dresses in the last week of summer. She was pleased with how she looked. Certainly better than she had when she’d boarded her last Hogwarts train. She braided her hair to the side, her makeup was subtle, and she was holding Tom’s new defense book in her hand to keep herself busy. The only thing that stood out about her outfit were her slightly beaten-up brown leather boots.
They were currently watching other people around them. Tom had a lot to say about most of them.
‘That’s Orion Black,’ Tom murmured after a while, indicating his head at a black-haired boy with grey eyes that reminded her of Sirius, even if everything else in his demeanor screamed snob. ‘His family motto is "Toujours Pur," and he lives by it. He’s already engaged to his first cousin Walburga.’ He nodded at a slender-looking girl with long black hair and a wily look on her face.
‘Well....’ Harry murmured, and Tom smirked next to her. ‘Orion has a brother, Alphard. He’s a lot more open-minded, but don’t depend on it. If he has to, he’ll denounce it to keep from getting disinherited,’ he explained.
‘They are all in Slytherin?’ She asked, and Tom nodded. ‘Of course. Everyone important is in Slytherin.’ He waved her away.
She pulled her eyebrows up at his demeanor before asking pointedly, ‘Important for what?’
Tom stared at her for a moment before he shook his head and lowered his voice. ‘They come from old money, are all pureblood status, and have a seat in the Wizengamot. You can look down on them all you want, but even you have to acknowledge that they are the only ones capable of changing the status quo.’
She shoved an errant strand back behind her ear as she looked towards the group of young teens. ‘We both know to whose benefit they’d change it,’ she said, calmly.
There were a lot of Muggle families out there, too, and none of them had done anything, other than give their kids the opportunity to explore what they could be.
Tom watched the crowd again, attentively. ‘That’s Lestrange. You shouldn’t let him hear you talk like that.’ She followed his line of sight to see a diminutive-looking boy, who laughed with an older boy who had to be a Nott; he looked almost exactly like the one she knew. ‘He’s impulsive,’ Tom added belatedly. ‘Doesn’t look like it, but he can do a lot of damage.’
She nodded, eerily reminded of Quirrell's harmless demeanor.
‘Isn’t that Abraxas?’ She asked after seeing the blond strut to his friends Lestrange and Nott.
‘We don’t talk about Abraxas,’ Tom muttered.
Harry snorted, and Tom shot her a glare, but he offered no more insight on the topic. She remembered he was mad at Malfoy for getting him a job that was purposefully underpaid, and she could understand his anger, but she really hoped he’d handle it doing nothing too drastic.
To her surprise, none of the Slytherins came up to talk to Tom, but they were looking over to them a lot.
By the time the train finally arrived, Harry was ready to hide out in an empty compartment. Having felt the heavy and unnerving judgmental gaze over her.
Tom seemed to agree. They heaved their trunks up on the wagon and searched for an empty compartment.
After a few moments, they found one, and Harry promptly slammed the door shut behind them.
She sat down on the bench and pulled her book out as Tom claimed the seat opposite her. It didn’t take long for the door to open and for two guys she hadn’t seen yet to come in. One of them had short blonde hair and dark eyes. He looked big in a strong way. The other one had brown hair, but he combed it back with so much pomade that it looked almost black; he was also sporting a spectacular bruise right underneath his jaw.
‘Riddle.’ The more muscular one nodded, before his eyes swept over Harry. The smaller one had seen her first and was watching her curiously. They hadn’t sat down yet and were still waiting.
‘You can sit with us.’ Tom looked from them to her and back again. ‘This is Harry Evans.’ He introduced curtly. ‘Harry, these are my friends Crane Dolohov and August Rosier.’
Harry waved at them, not quite able to muster up a smile. Dolohov, the bigger one of the two, sat down next to her and seemed to wait for something. It was Rosier who did them all a favor and finally broke the awkward silence to ask.
‘How do you know each other?’
‘We met on Diagon Alley.’ When it seemed like it was all that he was going to say, Harry groaned resigned and buried her face in her book again.
She’d spent enough tense silence with her aunt and uncle to know how to read the energy in the room. She didn’t know which one of them had messed up, but someone did, and Tom felt like punishing them. Merlin, they weren’t even at Hogwarts, and he was already being difficult.
They could stew in their tense silence if they wanted, but she wasn’t going to, especially not with defense books like the ones they were working with in this time.
‘Is everything okay?’ Rosier asked, after a small eternity.
‘That depends,’ Riddle answered, and yes, he was Riddle again. She’d better get used to it.
‘On what?’ Dolohov scoffed.
‘If you knew about Borgin’s and Burke,’ he said, and if Harry didn’t know better, she’d swear that the temperature in the compartment just dropped.
No one said anything, and Harry would have cringed if she hadn’t been trying to ignore everyone’s behaviour very hard right now. She wasn’t responsible for Rosier and Mulciber of all people, and they had let their friend work for a lot less than he deserved.
‘Listen,’ Mulciber tried, sweating slightly. ‘We weren’t trying to hide it from you. Back then, everything happened so fast. It was just after we realized you were one of us… and even then, we knew you liked the work when you told us about the dark artifacts you could handle– and you were right it is a privilege, no matter how little it pays. Many of the things that go through that shop are never seen again. Just hidden away in vaults.’
She didn’t look up, but she knew Tom was fuming.
‘You’ll have to take responsibility.’ Tom said simply, and if that wasn’t a tone of voice she hadn’t heard from him since the day he had asked her if Dumbledore send her to spy on him, she didn’t know what it was.
‘What?’ Rosier sounded scared shitless.
‘You didn’t think I’d just let you forget about it, did you?’
Harry eyed the door. Tom was obviously trying to establish some kind of weird hierarchy, and these two were letting him walk all over them. Take responsibility, her fucking foot.
But she didn’t have to sit there. She could go out and search for another compartment.
Tom must have noticed the way she eyed the door because he immediately added. ‘But let’s not worry ourselves about what’s coming.’ He looked as if he gauged her reaction, and she pulled an eyebrow up at him.
‘How’s that book coming along?’ Tom asked instead. ‘I’ve found the gray theory quite interesting myself.’
Harry watched him for a moment, tempted to walk away anyway, before she nodded. ‘It makes sense to me. They make some interesting points, but I do not agree with everything.’
When she realized that both of the other boys were examining her now and that Tom was waiting, she groaned inwardly. Everything was an opportunity to lecture, and in this world of hers, it sometimes came down to lecture or be lectured, and she’d been schooled enough for a lifetime.
‘I agree that there are certain hexes that are light that could be used for much more volatile purposes; the argument that you could levitate a person over a cliff was a very strong and somewhat easy example for this. I think what differentiates light and dark magic is that dark magic users are often of the opinion that it’s simply about power instead of mindset.’ She paused, thinking about how she should finish it, without offending everyone in the compartment.
‘However, there’s been examples throughout history that show that the regular use of dark magic can force a wizard or a witch into madness. Grindelwald is a very good example for this, but he’s not an exception. There’s been a few—’
‘Yes, I am well aware of the vilification of everyone who dares voice a different opinion on the matter.’
‘It’s more than that.’ Harry frowned. ‘In magic, everything centers on the idea that intent controls the outcome. That’s why a levitation charm can be either. Dark magic can be used for protection as well. What I’m trying to say is that I think that your intent matters more than the idea of the public in these matters.’
‘That’s almost unconventionally conventional,’ Rosier snorted.
‘Dark intent speaks of a dark mind, and a dark mind will always be a scary place to live in.’ Harry frowned. ‘It’s not exactly a new discovery. We know this. It’s why we have curses that are classified as unforgivable.’
‘So, who’d be grey?’ Tom asked.
‘Someone who has the potential to go either way but enough incentive to be good, not to let themselves get carried away.’ Dolohov answered hoarsely.
Harry nodded approvingly. ‘I agree.’
Rosier shook his head. ‘It’s not an answer the light would approve of,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Harry furrowed her brows, thinking back about how much Dumbledore had preached about acceptance and love.
‘You’re either inherently good or you aren’t,’ Tom said bitingly.
Harry laughed. ‘Being good is a choice, many fail to make every day.’
She earned herself scathing looks from all sides with that one.
‘Either way, it’s just the insane proctors that feel that way.’ Dolohov remarked.
Tom smirked, and Rosier chortled. ‘You mean Dumbledore?’
‘Yeah,’ Dolohov admitted.
Harry wasn’t too sure about that. Sure, the old professor had been a bit prejudiced against the Slytherins, it had been obvious in things like the house point awarding, but to be outright judging them.
‘It’s not important,’ Rosier, interrupted her train of thought.
‘It isn’t. Slughorn is exceptionally nice to us, and the others are fair,’ he added with a meaningful look towards her.
Harry laughed. ‘How would you know where I get sorted?’
Rosier stared from her to Tom, and it unnerved her a bit.
‘Well, you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘I don’t know you very well yet. But I think you’d do well there.’
Harry snorted. ‘I’m not so sure,’ she remarked and earned herself a sharp glance from Tom, who she ignored.
Rosier and Dolohov wisely didn’t comment any further on it and Harry spent the rest of the train ride anguishing over the idea of getting sorted into Slytherin. The hat had clearly wanted to put her there the last time, and she’d barely managed Gryffindor as it was.
Even if she was currently in pursuit of knowledge, she really couldn’t imagine the hat putting someone like her in Ravenclaw. Tom would probably give himself and more importantly her an ulcer if she got sorted into Gryffindor, which seemed more unrealistic a pursuit with every passing moment, but then that meant she’d have to try for Hufflepuff, and she did not know how that would go. She was loyal, but not to a fault and definitely not to a cause, as she recently learned about herself.
Tom tried to engage her in the conversation a few more times, but she opted out of it with short answers, which was sometimes harder than she liked to admit, especially when they were discussing the idea of implementing more dark arts into the curriculum and how they could ask Merrythought about it. She’d probably locked her jaw if she’d clenched it any harder. By the time she was leaving for the girl’s loo to change, she was contemplating how she might barter with the hat.
She changed into her new uniform quickly. Relieved to find that it still felt familiar. The sweater was thick and warm. She’d pulled her soft-worn leather boots off and slipped into the black rounded Mary Jones shoes she loved to hate.
Sighing, she stared at herself for a few moments. She looked so achingly familiar to what she’d looked on the train to Hogwarts mere weeks before. It left her feeling out of place and like she belonged at the same time.
On her way back, she saw Walburga again who gestured towards her with a mean look on her face and said something that had the other girls giggling about.
Yeah, that was familiar, too. Just a different face that did it.
Back in the compartment, the guys were already sorted out.
‘You look pretty.’ Tom nodded, and Rosier turned so fast to him he almost gave himself whiplash.
‘Thanks.’ Harry nodded absentmindedly before she took in his uniform. It looked good. The more expensive fabrics had a way of falling differently. A bit more form fitting, showing off his muscles. ‘You made the right call on the uniform.’ She admitted as she reached out and felt his collar; it was ridiculously soft.
She frowned. ‘Is that silk?’ She asked in disbelief.
Tom smirked. ‘Yes.’
‘Your uniform just called me a peasant.’
‘It’s what it’s supposed to do,’ Tom nodded sagely.
‘You don’t look like a peasant,’ Dolohov cut in, and Harry laughed.
‘Thank you for your kind words,’ she said sarcastically, as Rosier rolled his eyes.
‘Yeah, great compliment, Crane,’ he remarked.
The boys bantered there way through the last half hour of the drive while she pretended not to listen and tried to read instead. She would forever admire Hermione’s ability to tune out the surrounding noise of well, everyone, while focusing on what she wanted. Harry was not blessed that way. When they finally arrived at the train station, she could feel her own anticipation. The castle looked as glorious and comfortable as ever.
It promised familiarity and security, and she’d missed either of those for the past few weeks. Sighing sadly, she gazed longingly at the carriages where Tom and his friends were heading.
She was guided to the boats by a determined, younger version of Professor Kettleburn, who’d already badgered the first years into half of the boats before he turned back and fetched her. If it wasn’t so embarrassing it would be funny. The young children around her were watching her with wide eyes and whispering way too loudly about her throughout the entire journey.
By the time they reached the other side of the lake, two first-year students had fallen into the water and needed to be rescued. The anticipation in the air was palpable. She couldn't help but be amused by the wild theories being shared around her. One student was convinced they would encounter a dragon that would decide their fate by trial of fire, and the poor soul seemed excited about it. It was as if facing a dragon was something they wished for. She couldn't help but laugh at the idea, earning an impressive stink-eye from the brown-haired eleven-year-old who had boasted about it.
As they were ushered into the hall, she could feel all eyes on her. Transfer students were rare, even in times of war. Magical schools were among the safest places to be, with numerous safeguards in place to protect the young ones, making it nearly impossible to infiltrate. Or so she had been told multiple times, by other people.
She steeled herself, maintaining a relaxed posture with her chin up. She would not allow herself to be meek at a time like this. The first years were called up first, and she didn't recognize any of the names from her own time. She tried not to read too much into it. And then finally–
“Harry Evans!”
The entire hall fell silent.
The Sorting Hat was still heavy and somewhat droopy, but it didn't slide over her eyes this time.
"Ahhhhhh. Hmmmm. Difficult, difficult. You're not making this easy," a voice she knew all too well rang through her head.
"Harry Potter, huh?" The hat asked, sounding a bit too smug for her liking.
"Hufflepuff," she thought desperately. "Please, send me to Hufflepuff."
"I'm not sending you to Hufflepuff," the hat snorted. "You're a bloody anarchist."
"What?" Harry asked, her face paling quickly.
"Studied inheritance magic, did you? But you didn't do a very good job of it. You're not a Ravenclaw, that's for sure," the hat mocked.
"You've changed things, my dear. You've changed them left and right, and then you anchored yourself into this time," it explained.
‘I'm one of the few entities that still exists that could feel the shift that occurred when you arrived."
Her heart raced, and her stomach knotted. "You're wrong," she protested.
"My dear girl, I haven't been wrong once in over a millennium of existence," the hat crowed.
"I'll keep your secret, though. Who knows how much the world has already changed? Your knowledge might be useless by now, and having people hunt for it would needlessly endanger you," it reassured. Harry felt as if she were back in the Chamber, scared out of her mind, Ginny unconscious, Ron left behind with a brain-damaged Lockhart, sure that certain death was imminent.
"Ahhh, I know you've been yearning for a way back to your friends. But, Ms. Potter, people aren't homes," the hat sounded somber, filling Harry with dread, angst, anger, and a strong urge to leave.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the stern voice rang in her ears. "You're not a Gryffindor, my dear. You're too scared to claim fame and glory. You don't want to be brave anymore." It rang true, and Harry realized that the house she would be sorted into was insignificant compared to her current predicament. What was the point of wanting something she could never have? After all she wouldn't make it back to her tower.
She had stopped pleading with the hat, a sense of white noise and fear consuming her as she awaited its next words.
"You've belonged in Slytherin from the start," the hat soothed. "You could say it was bound to you. But Harry Evans won't thrive there. She'll hide. That's why I'll do you one better."
Harry paled even more and was about to reach for the tip of the hat as it yelled,
"Harry Potter, better be Slytherin!"