Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Harry?”

A small voice trembles nearby, but Harry is unable to pull himself out of his own thoughts, screaming every which way. Everything is a blur. His hearing picks up odd notes but it’s distant except for the small voice that sounds so clear but just as fragile.

He’s shaking, he knows he is, but he cannot stop it. He doesn’t know how. How? How?

How?

How could this have happened? Why did this happen?

Why him? Had he not given enough? Had everyone not already taken everything from him? Left him to pick up the pieces.

 Left him behind.

Wallowing. Self-disgust and loathing for himself that had been buried for so long threatens to rise once more, his frail faux peace falling apart with nary a nudge.

“Harry!”

The young voice sounds closer, panicked sounding. He turns but sees only forest. It’s damp, cold, getting dark. A glimpse of his parents’ peek behind moving shadows.

‘Harry Potter—'

No. His breath trembles. Somewhere in the distance he thinks he hears his mother’s scream as he once did all those years ago.

‘—the Boy who Lived…’

Stop it. Make it stop. Please. Sirius’s smile as he falls back.

‘Come to—’

A sharp slap makes his head turn only slightly for such force. Blinking down in shock, Harry stares down at a crying Tom who is now clutching at his wrist painfully, sobbing into his chest. For a heart stopping moment he thought he had been looking into the face of 16-year-old Riddle. It’s then he notices that his own face is wet when he goes to touch his stinging cheek.

Shuddering, he pulls Tom in, picking him up as he stands shakily. He feels disoriented, as he stumbles his way out of the library. He avoids the vampire and the Librarian, heat rising up onto his face. His magic is still swirling around him dangerously, precariously ready to sweep around everything and anything around him, including innocent Tom.

He’s still trying to gather his thoughts into some form of coherency when Tom sobs out, “No! No!” As soon as they’re out, Harry puts Tom down who clutches tighter, but Harry needs to see his face. When he does, he knows his face resembles something foul as he runs his fingers in a poor attempt at comfort over small, rounded cheeks. Wiping away as much of the tears as he’s able. He makes sure to change the direction of his magic, using every ounce of his willpower to make sure it isn’t going to be a danger. It’s shaky at best, unfortunately.

“What’s wrong Tom? Tell me what’s the matter.” He winces at the sound of his own voice. It sounds like he’d been screaming for hours.

Shaking his head, Tom tries to bury his head in his chest, but Harry holds firm. Needing to fix this. He feels like all he’s done since he woke up in this…in this world is made nothing but mistakes. His earlier thoughts attempt to force themselves in, reminding him that this Tom is now permanently entangled in his mess.

“Tom. Answer please. I can’t help or fix what you don’t say.”

“You’re going to abandon me!” Tom cries out, his face blotchy with tears and a fierce frown when he finally allows Harry a thorough look. “It’s all my fault and now you’re going to throw me away like everyone else!”

“No, no of course not Tom. That’s not what this is,” Harry consoles.

He knows it misses the mark though when Tom’s little face just crumples into itself, looking away. What little warmth Tom gave him is now slipping away. Trust, crumbling down one piece at a time.

“I just…I-” he starts, swallowing painfully. What does he say though? How does he explain when he can’t even put his thoughts into order. When he still feels wrong footed and like someone wrung him like a soggy rag before they tossed it aside. He can’t think. So, he does what his body tells him. What he wished someone had done for him years ago.

Picking the small boy up once more, Tom goes willingly even as he avoids Harry’s face, hugging him tightly. Patting him on the back slowly, softly, his magic whirling out almost lazily now as it wraps around Tom’s frame, pulsating in a soothing rhythm of warmth, the danger thankfully passing for the moment. He’d never forgive himself if he had hurt him.

He will fix this, he will. He messed up but that does not mean this is unsalvageable.

For the next half hour, he keeps quiet, just making sure to keep his magic wrapped around Tom as much as possible, giving as much reassurance as he is able.

Occasionally someone would idly pass by a glance in their direction before moving on.

Slowly, Tom peeks up, his face ruddy with tears, pink splotches of distress still there, face scowling comfortably once more. Tension bleeds from Harry slowly, relieved. Everything is going to be just fine. He’ll make sure of it. There is nothing to do but move forward. Later, later he will deal with his breakdown, alone, away from Tom. Making Tom hysterical will never happen again, he will make sure of that too.

“Alright there?” he asks softly, waiting.

Tom stares back at him, still. After a long moment, he nods, whispering, “don’t do that again…please.”

Tenderly, Harry wraps his hand around the small neck, cradling Tom back into a hug. “Promise,” he says. And he means it. He will make sure any of his lapses will happen away from Tom as he owes him that much.  

With a great amount of effort, he pushes his thoughts into a box, knowing he will have to confront it tonight. For now, however, he can focus on Tom. Tom who now seems all the brighter to him. A calling he cannot ignore, nor does he think he wants to. In that moment, he has no idea who is really comforting who.

Tom asks to be let down where Harry then spells away the mess from the smaller face. Breathing in gently, they walk back into the library, holding hands as they make their way back to the table. The vampire from earlier glances up from his book, smirking as he raises an eyebrow in silent question.

Rankled at the sight, Harry makes no attempt to stop himself from flipping off the dead man, who simply laughs, turning the next page of his book, completely unbothered.

“That’s a bad gesture,” Tom remarks, tone judging, though there’s a small bit of interest there as well.

“Don’t mimic that,” Harry quickly replies. “You’re right, it’s bad so don’t do it until you’re much older.”

“Hmph,” Tom sulks, though that interest still lingers.

Gathering up everything, Harry walks up to the Librarian, her face still the same which Harry appreciates. If she’s judging him from crying out of nowhere, at least he cannot tell. He silently asks her for copies of everything which she gives him. He also asks for forms for the jobs he’d like to apply for. Then he tells Tom to pick out the books he’d like to borrow as they’d be leaving.

Surprisingly, Tom only picks one.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary about it, Harry makes sure to have the Librarian sign it out then they leave, the vampire’s eyes all the while burning his back. Grumbling, he picks out a small little café in soft blues and yellows, Tom scrunching his little nose at the sight though his interest in the boxed pastries speaks a different tale.

Seated, Harry places the small box of assorted goods, advertised as not too sweet, while he pulls out his collection of copied papers. Among them are papers for job applications he did not get to fill out. Just because he had a complete meltdown did not mean he had the luxury of just idling by and not adulting. He now had an extra mouth to feed. And going by how Tom seems to be enjoying the pastries as well as his penchant for ordering large quantities of food, he doubly wants to make sure they’re completely financially secure, newfound wealth or not.  

The first thing he applies for is the broom instructor position, making sure to emphasize that he has plenty of experience. He’ll have to remind himself to not teach anyone about the Wonski feint anytime soon. After that, he settles for filling out the form for a desk job—he resents this position, but one shouldn’t be picky when they needed to earn money—at a small office that provides broom insurance. He didn’t even know that was a thing. It made a lot of sense, however. He wonders who thought of the idea first. Another desk job at the Ministry is written next halfheartedly, and lastly, hesitantly, he does apply for the defense assistant job.

His brain starts to get fuzzy, but he quickly focuses on Tom who is people watching as he picks at his desserts. Leftover buttercream is scraped off of some of the pastries, Tom most likely deigning them as too sweet.

“What would you like to do for the rest of the day Tom?” He smiles at the smaller boy who looks up at him questioningly. Any earlier interest in doing reconnaissance for competitors is long gone, his emotional barriers weak.

“I can pick?”

“You have full control,” Harry agrees.

Perking up at the thought, Tom eyes the current buildings around. They were no longer in Knockturn Alley but in Diagon, Harry needing space away from the place he broke down. He can fully admit that he’s currently embarrassed. Nothing to do about it now unfortunately.

“I want to go there,” Tom points at a purple building behind them, earlier fear gone.

Blinking, Harry finds himself wrong footed once more. When he focuses back on Tom, he expects the small child to say, ‘just joking,’ but when that doesn’t happen, he slowly nods, standing from his seat. “Alright, yea, sure. Sounds good. You ready?”

Nodding, Tom follows expectantly, clutching Harry’s sleeve as they make their way over. The closer they get the brighter the building seems until eventually they reach the doors. The colours are obnoxious but lighthearted to the advertised…children who are running in and out the doors with equally bright bags swinging from their little arms, large words emboldened across, reading Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop.

If someone had told him that Tom Riddle, future Dark Lord to be had once wanted to step inside the joke shop willingly, he’d have laughed in their faces before tossing their arses aside. Clearly, he’d been the one to miss out on the joke.

Clearing his throat, he finds himself intrigued at what Tom could find so interesting to want to step inside. He follows silently as Tom eagerly steps in, his little face swiveling left and right, up and down, making sure he got a good view of everything.

Flying little hand sized brooms zoom across the ceiling with equally small sized dolls atop, small little ‘whoops’ of cheer adding to the ambience. Colourful caldrons bubbling with fluorescent questionable liquids set off to the side, carpet that giggled and shrieked for every step taken, wild printed boxes happily flapping open on shelves, bidding you to have a look. Stands of enticing lollies and chocolates, promising a fun time if you only had a taste or two, stuffed magical creatures dancing around the shop, begging you to take one home, and in the far right, stood a large banner, guiding you to have a look at pranks you can pull on the average magical person to the most experienced wand wielding individual if you chose just right.

Harry cannot help but gape in surprise, wondering at where all of this creativity had gone to in the future. His mood shifts when he remembers his earlier discovery. Shifting awkwardly, he looks for Tom as he’s no longer by his side, having disappeared at some point.

Alarmed, he scans the room, having to fight his way through as there were many adults with their children browsing about. After a while and a mini panic attack later amongst a group of squabbling children over the last stuffed hippogriff, he finds Tom standing before a shelf with a mini potions kit and next to it boxes of colourful toy wands.

Ah.

That made a lot more sense actually. Picking up a purple wand box, Harry reads the back of it. Made of recycled magical trees, the wand allowed up to 5 spells at a time to get your child started on their educational journey. It would need to be reset after a few days but for the most part, if carefully used, could last a week of use.

Impressed, Harry finds himself pleased with this find. He could set the terms of what Tom could be allowed to learn at a reasonable pace without the fear of Tom going outside of the guidelines, and it would add the benefit of appeasing Tom’s rising jealousy for not having his own wand yet. Also, most importantly, it is a lot safer than having him use Harry’s.

Not so surprisingly, Tom picks out the boring colour of the lot, a dark brown. Harry does not have to search his brain for answers as the most likely answer is pride. He sets the purple box down, looking around for a hand cart or something. He has a feeling they’ll be walking out with a large bag of their own. This is one shop he feels he does not have to be too careful about when giving in to Tom’s whims.  

Eventually he finds an obnoxiously bright pink cauldron in spotted yellow to hold their things as he obligingly follows the child around. Harry is just really relieved that Tom seems to be having fun and isn’t ruminating over Harry’s earlier antics.

They finish up there where Harry then takes them to Gringotts as promised. Tom, while interested in the Goblins, did not seem too pleased to find that he had been no taller. He was, however, quite satisfied with his newly acquired vault of galleons where HawkIron explained how to access it when he entered Hogwarts and the key system.

That done, Harry then decided to browse more of the shops around that caught Tom’s eye to pass the rest of the day. Anything was fine as long as he could prolong the inevitable.

Slow going but no other mishaps see the day finishing with Harry and Tom at a small, cozy place for dinner. Again, Tom secrets away any leftovers where they then head back to the Leaky with Harry promising to add the spells on Tom’s new ‘wand’ tomorrow morning. Tom had wanted it that very second, but Harry needed to learn how to say ‘no’ sometimes when it came to Tom as he had no idea, he’d be this swayed by this specific little face.

He does recall a memory of Dumbledore’s judging expression when they were going over pensieve memories of Voldemort and his rising fascination with Tom Riddle who graduated from Hogwarts. That was neither here nor there though in this instance. Either way, he needed to learn the word, no.

With Tom tucked in for the night, Harry quietly pulls out his wand to silently spell a deeper, undisturbed sleep for the smaller figure. Monitoring charms latched onto the door leading out he finally locks himself in the restroom, spelled silent as he finally lets go of his barriers in one fearful breath.

It comes crashing down with such force the mirror above the sink vibrates and cracks while the walls seem to shake, showering bottles tumbling down into the tub, loud bang after bang.

He’s gasping for air as sweat begins to bead, memories upon memories flashing before his eyes. He’s scared, angry, lost, but mostly betrayed. It’s unreasonable, but he cannot help it. This Dumbledore doesn’t know him. Has no clue as to who he is. Owes him nothing and yet, he cannot help the feeling of duplicity anyway. How dare he? How dare this Dumbledore turn his back on humanity for the lure of Grindelwald, the bearer of dread and demise, the loss of many to come. For what exactly? For a measly wand who happens to be a little bit stronger? For an unclaimed title that none before them has held with no answers to what that could mean?

Glory?

Teeth gritting, grinding as he holds himself against the door, still gasping occasionally, he clenches his eyes shut as if in pain.

Why? Why was he brought here and at this time? He didn’t want this. He doesn’t want this. If he was to be cast aside to another universe, could it not have been somewhere with warmer weather? Somewhere else where there were no Dark Lords or power-hungry individuals? He bangs his head against the door once, twice, a third time when his eyes snap open, still angry.

He didn’t ask for this but like hell is he going to allow two Dark Lords to roam about as they please, destroying lives along the way.

“Bugger,” he breathes out harshly, getting his breathing under control. He still doesn’t have any plans to be a hero, doesn’t want another moniker to go with the ones he grew up under. And he bloody hopes that Dumbledore is far more reasonable, hopes like you cannot believe that this is all just some misunderstanding and there is a plan in place, or that this world has no actual Dark Lords. Something. Anything else, really at this point.  

It just doesn’t make sense. While he recalls a memory in one of their long night discussions about morality, about how angry Dumbledore used to be to care for his sister, his younger brother, how his ego used to rival Grindelwald’s, he still cannot believe there could be an existence where the older man isn’t a mentor to the idealist, isn’t someone without kindness. He is not without his many, many faults, but never once, even in anguish, in anger, has Harry ever thought Dumbledore capable of evil. He still doesn’t.

Sighing mournfully, sweat pooling under his collarbones, his sight obstructed by his glasses fogging, he slips to the floor slowly, a mess. His lips feel chapped and raw as he bites and chews on them as he thinks and thinks, his breathing sounding too loud in the otherwise small space.  

He cannot be the hero the people might need. He’s now responsible for a child. For Tom. For what it’s worth, he just cannot bring himself to let go and he refuses to make the same mistake his parents made. While important to stand up for what you believe in, at the cost of your own life who is accountable for another life, is not the answer he seeks. Therefore, he is going to have to play this safer.

The mirror shakes in warning, the curtain for the clawfoot bathtub rustling similar to leaves as a plan starts to form. Firstly, he’s going to need an in where all the important information gathers.

Bloody hell, why hadn’t he paid attention like Hermione harped on about. For the life of him, he cannot recall the dates of when Grindelwald attacked and where. Anything that hadn’t been Voldemort related or his parents, he had quickly discarded as unimportant. After all, the man had been dead by the time he’d been made aware of his existence. By Voldemort no less.

Shaking, he knocks his glasses off, the view now blurry. Not that he registered anything to begin with. His hair flops into a sweaty state when he brushes it to the side, his shirt clinging as his magic heats the small space up by several more degrees.

Why had he not appreciated his friends more? The Weasley’s?

Half brained it was, he still jokingly thought that while he could not time-travel, he could perhaps wait out the timeline to meet with his friends and family again as some old man playing at a grandfather or something. Now there was no point. These people were not his.

No one is. No one will remember him as if he’s never existed. Somewhere, his Hermione, his Ron would go about their lives, unbothered, happy, joyful smiles lighting up rooms along with their children as Harry lost himself somewhere else. Lost himself here. There would be no more visits to Teddy, his silent promises to be there broken. No more comfortable conversations with Luna. No trips to the joke shop to help George out on those days needed most without Fred.

Lashing out in a rage fuel scream, the mirror above shatters, shards flying everywhere. One embeds itself into his shoulder to which he spiritlessly pulls out, the sharp object clanging to the floor in a broken, bloody heap.

Sluggishly, he thinks to himself that he might be in need of a new therapist. Or a pint.

So, gathering information. Only the Aurors and the international confederation Wizards were privy to the misuse of magic and Dark Lords to be. What does that mean for him though? He’s sure if he were on his own, he could just travel as he pleased to find what he’s looking for but not without some pointed lumos’s at his back.

Tom does still have six years before his Hogwarts letter.

Grimacing, he sighs dejectedly as his magic swirls agitatedly, making another ruckus.

That leaves him with very little options.

He’s going to have to work in the Ministry again, isn’t he? If there are indeed two Dark Lords, not even he is capable of taking down both by himself. There’s going to be a need for more manpower, for a Minister that isn’t Fudge. Most prominently, he’s going to need the focus to be on the whole rather than an individual.

Bloody hell, he’s going to have to be an Auror again.

~ . * . ~

When one needs a good cry, a shower is the solution. That is exactly what he does after he heals himself as best as he can and fixes the mirror. His magic though is still displeased as that little tantrum in the restroom left a lot to be desired in terms of expending oneself.

Unfortunately, there just aren’t a lot of options left for him to use his magic like that without armed Aurors running at him as a threat.

Having slept poorly, he rose before Tom, dressing for the day as he decides which spells to give to Tom to use. While he does not mind Tom going to Hogwarts far more advanced in knowledge than his peers, it would not bode well for anyone to have him bored either.

A bored Tom would only spell disaster surely.

Ultimately, he ends up inputting Lumos, Nox, Aguamenti, Scourgify, and lastly Wingardium Leviosa. His reasoning? One should know how to clean, get clean water, and…float? Eyebrow raised; he shakes the thought away. No one will be floating. Just feathers.

Tom wakes, confused to see Harry up before him which, fair. He prompts the kid to dress for the day as he reflects on his thoughts from last night. It hadn’t been a total disaster as he’d feared but he’s going to need to find an outlet soon.

Obviously, alcohol is out of the picture with a child involved and similarly so is sex. He refuses to have any strangers around Tom and ultimately, isn’t interested anyway at the moment when his thoughts and feelings aren’t on the same page. Huffing, he gets their things ready as he tries and fails to come up with solutions.

When Tom steps out of the restroom, dressed similarly to Harry once more, he smiles fondly as he hands over the requested pouch and wand.

Lighting up, Tom swishes it casually in his hand as he asks, “which spells do I get?”

When he tells him, he watches amused as that beaming smile cracks though he silently applauds the quick comeback when Tom just nods his head, instead of arguing.

“When you’ve got those down enough, we can have you try new ones. No hurry though as you have plenty of time to learn before your first school year.” And of course, before he can set up Tom’s first play date.

They head down, hand in hand as they look for a place to have breakfast, both tired already of the Leaky.

They try a place that promised amazing crepes and while he isn’t a fan, he does enjoy Tom’s expressions when he eats his first one. Tom seemed to favor the fruits on the side more.

That done, Harry solemnly looks down at Tom who frowns back up at him.

“What?”

“I should have thought this through a bit more but sorry Tom, I’ve got to apparate us to the Ministry.”

Seconds pass by with Tom lost before he can recall what the word, ‘apparate’ means. His little face pales before he sucks in a breath, his chin tilted out. “If you must,” he intones dramatically.

Nodding somberly, Harry grabs Tom’s limp hand, grimacing as he apparates as quickly as possible. When they pop near the bottom of the steps leading in, he beams down proudly at Tom who does not in fact, throw up this time though still faired a bit of queasiness, nonetheless.

Tom is silent as he follows Harry, his hand still held. Harry though, barely notices as he makes his way to where he needs, confidently. While he isn’t happy with where he needs to work, while he doesn’t owe any of these people anything, he’s already made up his mind. Once made, it’s hard pressed to change it and therefore, he will not quail at the thought of having to work with these strangers. Once he’s done with what he needs to do, he can always quit and apply to where he actually wants. Away from all of the violence.

Heading to the pulley’s after checking in, he goes ahead to level 2 where the Auror headquarters should be. Stepping inside as he waits, he contemplates his next set of actions. He needs to make sure not to stand out, to find out where information on misuse of magic is held outside of its’ office which just so happens to be on the same floor. He remembers that not all important information regarding dark wizards were not always kept with the Aurors or in the Misuse of Magic office because for security breach reasons. His goal? To get a position in the Enforcement Patrol where he can easily blend in. The faster he deals with Dumbledore and Grindelwald, the faster he can leave the Ministry behind.

When they step off the pulley, they see many witches and wizards milling about in one giant blend of dark colours. Occasionally the sight of scarlet and navy robes appeared before quickly whisking away with purpose.

The office he’s ultimately looking for isn’t found in its original place from what he’s used to, but a lot of things aren’t anymore, are they? And he’s just going to have to adapt to that.

Taking in a silent, deep breath, his hand tightening only the slightest around Tom’s, he steps inside the Auror’s head quarters where cubicle after cubicle is seen with Aurors frantically going through paperwork, tired faces sipping on coffee, haggard uniforms hanging by only a thread of what little patience is had, and pictures of captured or targeted criminals pinned to the walls. A sorry sight for most but the little bit of familiarity in this otherwise strange, and unknown world of new, brings some comfort to Harry.

Off to the side is a desk masquerading as a paper wall of information and little booklets. He only knows about this desk from an off-hand comment from Sirius who had enjoyed adding little drawings on occasion when he passed by, James of course, encouraging the behaviour if not already adding to the mess himself Remus had at once added.  

It’s a desk notorious by those only in the known, namely, already recognized Aurors. A desk that will, with only a little reading of your wand once placed amongst the mess, gives you an advantage in the job of your choosing so long as it resides on Basement level 2. And of course, the individual must be currently jobless. A massive disadvantage, however, for those who had no connections to the Ministry itself to let them know, which he’s sure was the point as those who wouldn’t were mostly muggleborns.  

No one pays him any mind, used to random people coming and going as they pleased. One of security measure? He thinks not. He pulls out his wand to set down, curious as to what will happen. Sirius never did get the chance to tell him. Only when he goes to do so, his pouch hanging from his belt, whistles from within, loudly, startling a sleeping witch who grumbles darkly after banging her knee into her cubicle.

Murmuring a hurried apology and letting go of Tom, Harry wrestles his pouch open to discover that of course it had been the Elder Wand’s doing. Shrilling sparks erupt from the tip, angry and demanding.

Once his hand touches it, it of course settles into silence, as if it’s done no wrong. The witch from earlier literally hisses at the sight of him as she drags away a dirty and empty coffee mug, her robes tattered and singed. When she passes by, she doesn’t hesitate to smack the back of a man’s head who had also been sleeping.

Harry decides it is none of his business, so he pulls out the Elder Wand, eyebrow raising in question. When he glances at the desk, the wand pulsates once as if in answer.

“No,” he mutters darkly. “Absolutely not, you’ve caused me enough trouble.”

“…are you talking…to the wand?” Tom asks, dubious, arms crossed.

“No,” Harry quips, trying but failing to stuff the wand back into the pouch.

“You’re not a very good liar,” Tom mutters under his breath, tapping his foot.

“I’m an excellent liar actually,” Harry lies, sighing in defeat as he gives up putting away the blasted wand.

“What have you lied to me about?” Tom hisses, stomping his foot.

“Erm, nothing?”

Ashamedly looking away as all he felt is a bit of amusement at the sight, Harry resignedly places the Elder Wand on the desk, covertly making sure no one is still looking. The desk at once vibrates, rattling and creaking as papers go flying either away to somewhere else or onto the floor. A hue forms around both wand and desk, Harry and Tom stepping away as the rattling escalates before it then settles down.

Tom frowns, disappointed, and Harry imagines his own face isn’t far off. He isn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but an old wooden, creaking desk doesn’t even come close. They both stand there, awkwardly, waiting to see if anything else will happen.

Tilting his head to the side, Harry is about to ask, ‘what now?’ when the lone drawer of the desk slams open with enough force to displace it, crashing into the ground as it slides, loudly at his feet. Tom had already ran behind Harry’s back, safe.

Inside the drawer, is a stack of papers, addressed to his alias. Bending down to grab them, he stuffs them inside his pouch as he grabs the Elder Wand and places the drawer back into place, having to hit it a few times as it refused to slide right in. He supposes that’s it then. A bit anticlimactic but in this case, he won’t complain.

“Congratulations,” a haggard man mumbles, eyes bloodshot as he watches Harry and Tom leave for the door.

Harry quirks an eyebrow, confused, but thanks the man, nonetheless, because manners.

“What’s he congratulating you for?” Tom demands when the door closes behind them.

“I haven’t a clue,” Harry shrugs.

“Then what are we doing here?”

“Getting me a job.”

Huffing, Tom stomps his foot again. “You don’t even need one.”

“Of course, I do,” Harry dismisses. “Now, let’s go see if that house of ours is ready.”

Perking up, Tom eagerly makes a grab for his hand, downright demanding he get a good room with a large bed and a foot stool and everything else he will need for his room obviously. His fear of abandonment from yesterday clearly already forgotten as his list of demands grows.  

Harry half listens as he thinks about the stack of papers he’s just acquired, wondering what he’ll find in them. All he knows is that it is supposed to be a major help so long as you qualify if you did not do too well in your academics. How so though? He wishes he knew.

HawkIron has been more than helpful than what is actually required of him, and the ‘official’ documents of his school track records are not really the best. From what he remembers, the qualifications to be an Auror are ridiculously hard and they’re notorious for turning many away. That had been in the late 90’s and early 2000’s, he has no idea if anything is the same during this time period or even harder. He just knows that he does not have the time to go back to school to get those Outstanding and Exceeds Expectations grades. Not and raise a child anyway.

Sighing, what he actually wishes for is a more noncaring attitude so that he can live his life in peace. What’s that feeling like? He snorts at the thought. One day, he silently promises himself.

Tom does not stop talking all the way to the apparating point and even then, he continues to the realtor’s office. It was less talk and more demands, but Harry doesn’t mind, not when he still feels a bit out of it from yesterday and dealing with the mental fortitude to go back to the Aurors. Patrols only, he chants in his head. Only patrolling, nothing too strenuous and nothing too flashy. A perfect undercover away from prying eyes and to which helps build his alias. Nothing could possibly go wrong. In fact, he wills that nothing will go wrong.

~ . * . ~

“Is it still moving?”

“I don’t think so…though maybe we should add another.”

“You add another, and it’ll topple over you in your sleep, then what will I tell uncle?”

“That I made a valiant effort to preserve our family heirloom.”

“Does that mean I get to keep it for myself?”

“Do you even want it?”

“…as it stands now? No. I don’t reckon that I do.”

Both Charlus and Fleamont stare despondently at the stacked luggage atop a still box, holding the blasted and possessed invisibility cloak.

“I don’t think it’s Peeves this time,” Charlus adds after a long moment.

“No, I got that when it tried to strangle the poltergeist. I’ve never seen him so scared.”

“Too bad no one else saw it,” Charlus sighs. “Well, what now?”

“Now? I suppose I should mention it to dad, but…”

“He’s going to take it away,” groans Charlus. “Then I won’t be able to borrow it.”

“As it stands, you certainly can’t borrow it now.”

“What about a stasis charm?”

“Spells just slip off the bloody thing.”

“Right,” nods Charlus. “What if it just wants to go out and that’s why it’s acting like that? Sometimes I just go a bit insane if I stay indoors too long.”

“You a dog or something? Need potty training?” Fleamont grins, standing up from where he sat on the ground.

“That’s right, I can bark too, want to hear?”

“No. Why don’t you go moon over Dorea instead, reckon she’s lost interest in you already.”

“You take that back!” Charlus stands in a huff. “If you wanted to be alone, should have just said, you berk.”

As Charlus leaves, Fleamont frowns down at the hidden invisibility cloak. He and Charlus had had to fight it into a box before the rest of his year mates came back into the room, not wanting to explain as he couldn’t guess as to why this was even happening in the first place. He has had the worst sleep of his life as the bloody well thing tried to escape last night out the window!

He'd almost woken the entire tower with his shriek of surprise. Instead, he’d made Charlus sleep on the luggage, surprising and scaring half the boys. He didn’t need this kind of stress! It’s his last year of Hogwarts and he’s already stressed about his exams as well as Euphemia setting her sights on some Hufflepuff boy! He’s bloody well more attractive than that bloke in house yellow.

Cursing, he face plants onto his bed, wondering if he should just send it back to his da—

“I’ve got it!” Charlus screams, door slamming into the wall as he rushes in, scaring Fleamont’s heart back into another world of existence. “Someone’s clearly calling it! They must have found out how precious it is and want it for themselves. This is intent! This is greed, this is—er well anyway, someone is trying to steal it!”

Charlus is huffing in excitement, eyes wide as he stares imploringly at Fleamont who is still trying to get his heart back into order. He knows he’s just lost a few years’ worth of his life he won’t be getting back anytime soon.

“So, what then?” Fleamont quirks a brow, getting back up.

“So! We follow it!”

“Absolutely not!” Fleamont snaps, fully standing, glaring down at his much younger cousin. “That’s just asking to be murdered!”

“You know,” Charlus teases, his grin double-dealing for an 11-year-old. “Euphemia’s beau would do it in a heartbeat.”

“She doesn’t have a beau!” He bites hotly, taking out his wand. With a murmur and a swish, he moves away the stacked luggage. “Let’s go then, everyone’s busy with lunch.”

“Wait, right now?” Charlus pales. “I mean, sure, yea, let’s go!”

Grumbling under his breath, Fleamont opens the box, the two boys staring down at the unmoving cloak, expectantly but it remains still.

Hesitantly, Charlus also pulls out his wand, eyes focused. What little tension he held is fled away when nothing happens and stays that way for the next minute. “I don’t think anyone is calling it now,” he says, looking to Fleamont.

“Yea, s’pose so.” Rolling his eyes, he crosses his arms. “So? What’d you see?”

Tone judging, Charlus replies, flatly, “nothing. As you just well saw.”

Rolling his eyes again, this time more exaggerated, Fleamont groans, “no! Was Euphemia with that bloke?”

Grinning obnoxiously, Charlus sings, “oh? Is Monty worried his girlfriend is no longer interested? Hurts, doesn’t it.”

“You cheeky bloody ber—”

Fleamont goes flying across the room, standing too close to the box where the cloak suddenly with renewed strength comes bursting out, entangling the 16-year-old.

“Monty!” Charlus shrieks, his wand hanging uselessly at his side.

Fleamont gets himself free, his wand thrust out and pointed to the now fleeing cloak as he shouts out, “incarceous fropello!”

Threads of rope spring from the wand to rapidly wrap around the cloak, holding on tight as the fabric of possession flutters agitatedly in place. Fleamont struggles for breath in a rush of adrenaline, as he holds his wand in place, holding the rope in charge of the cloak.

“Good one Monty!” Charlus cheers. “Should we follow it now?”

“Absolutely. Let’s get this over with so I can get a good night’s sleep.”

“And so Euphemia doesn’t leave you of course,” Charlus quips, overjoyed at the news of an adventure though also a bit scared though he’d never admit it aloud.

“This has nothing to do with her,” Fleamont mutters darkly.

“Or, just maybe, it does.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Well, I think you’ve been poisoned one too many times. You know, from the potion fumes. You’re infected.”

“Please,” Fleamont moans. “Shut up.”

“And you’re rude.”

The boys quietly make their way down the tower stairs, Fleamont holding onto his wand with both hands just in case. While the cloak seemed determined to leave, it must have realized that they were letting it go freely, so it didn’t seem to struggle too much right then. Coast clear, they leave Gryffindor dormitory entirely, Fleamont whispering as they made sure no professors were within sight.

Fleamont did have to drag the cloak away when Professor Beery came around a corner with a Slytherin student. Charlus is bouncing on the balls of his feet, the thrill and excitement building up within him.

When Professor Beery and the student leave, the cloak dives right back out from their hiding spot, almost as if in understanding, using the shadows and less known pathways to get around. This of course makes Fleamont uncomfortable.

“Hey, do you think it’s another student?”

For a moment, Fleamont doesn’t respond, his trepidation growing as he realizes how reckless he’s being.

“I’m not sure,” he says instead of putting a stop to this. The more curious part of himself wins, wanting answers as to why the invisibility cloak is acting out in the first place. His father has never given him any reason to think that this is somehow normal.

They’re going up to the fourth floor, where luckily, they have not yet encountered anyone else but that could soon change as lunch isn’t too long.

The cloak stops in front of a large mirror hidden in an alcove, just fluttering in place, waiting.

“What’s it doing?” Fleamont murmurs aloud, confused.

“I think it’s admiring itself,” Charlus answers, expression mirroring Fleamont’s.

“I doubt that’s the case.”

Charlus just huffs, cautiously moving around the cloak to peer into the mirror, even standing on the tip of his toes for a better look.

“Well, I’m not seeing anything else, are you?”

Shrugging, Fleamont concentrates on the mirror. “Let me see your wand.”

“Why?” Charlus steps back, clutching his wand to his chest protectively.

“Well, I can’t exactly use mine at the moment,” the older teen gestures to said wand where the rope holding the cloak is still attached.

“Right,” Charlus sheepishly answers, handing his wand over.

Swishing it around in a specific shape, the teen murmurs softly, “revelio.”

The mirror lights up, revealing a large gaping space behind it. Eyebrows quirking up, he levitates the mirror away, uncovering a very large passageway.

“Woah! How did it know it was there!? Where do you reckon it leads?”

At this point, Fleamont really should have just turned around and called it a day. Should have just said, he was going to write to his father about the cloak and live a life, free of responsibility so he could concentrate on Euphemia and his potions. Instead, he grins, looking down at Charlus as he says, “only one way to find out.” Anticipation drumming his veins in song for an adventure.

“Well, if you say so.”

“You do remember this had been your idea, right?” Fleamont complains as he carefully puts the mirror back in place behind them, then continues to follow the cloak once it begins to move again. He has to use Charlus’s wand to lumos their way as it got dark relatively fast. The tunnel itself was large enough to hold quite a bit of people at once and still be comfortable.

“Since when did you start listening to 11-year-olds?”

“Today in fact,” Fleamont grins.

“I’ve sad news for Uncle Henry,” sighs Charlus, shaking his head.

For a long, long while, they follow the tunnel, the cloak seemingly gathering speed 40 minutes in to their travel.

“Really, who needs an invisibility cloak this badly?” Charlus whines, miffed and out of breath as they pick up the pace.

“Someone desperate I presume,” Fleamont sasses, ready to leave the tunnel already.

“Maybe we should head back?”

“Oh, I think there’s light just ahead,” Fleamont shouts, excited, not hearing Charlus. In the process, he wills away lumos, relieved.

Where the light gathered, stood crates and barrels, not quite blocking the path but not exactly leaving enough space to leave the tunnel without moving said objects.

Both boys move a few away where they cautiously head out, taking a look around.

“It’s just more dirt and tunnels,” Charlus complains.

“Hold on a second,” Fleamont pauses mid-step. “I think I hear voices.”

“You mean the ones in your head?” Charlus laughs nervously.

Fleamont ignores him as he moves towards the sound, the cloak following eagerly if you could call it that. After a few turns, the noise of people grows louder and ahead are steps leading up to two large doors belonging to a basement.

“What in the world,” Fleamont blurts.

Carefully, they step up, Charlus being the one to open the doors. “We’re in Hogsmeade!”

Sure enough, Dervish and Banges stood in front of them, meaning they’d just come out of the basement of Hog’s Head Inn.

They close the doors, people passing by paying them no mind, used to seeing students out and about all the time. If they thought it strange to see them when classes should be in session, no one bothers to call out to them.

Feeling a tug, Fleamont looks back to the cloak, feeling weird. “Why in the bloody hell is the Hogs Inn connected to Hogwarts? Isn’t that dangerous?”

Charlus looks back at him strangely. “I don’t find it odd at all.”

“You’re 11, of course you don’t find it strange.”

“Hey!”

“Let’s go, the cloak wants to move some still.”

Catching up, Charlus whispers, sticking close by, “that must mean I was right, and the person is here somewhere.”

“Perhaps.”

Instead, the cloak stops in front of a sign.

“The Knight Bus? The cloak wants to go for a ride?”

“Honestly Charlus, why did I even bring you?”

“’Cause it was my idea!”

Cursing under his breath, Fleamont thinks he really should turn away before his parents find out he went and skipped out on school, seeking out an adventure he hasn’t any clue about. Though, his next class happens to be with Mr. Binns and there’s only so much history on the Goblin’s wars you could learn about. Decision made, he points Charlus’s wand towards the sky, a screech down a bit of ways, heard clearly, startling a few.  

  The Knight Bus skids to s top before them, a young man stepping off to give them a strange look. “Aren’t you boys supposed to be in school?” He looks pointedly down at their uniform they still had on. He then quirks one eyebrow at the sight of the cloak captured in rope.

“Do you actually care?” Charlus sasses back.

“No, not particularly. None of my business really. Step on in then,” he gestures after asking for payment.

Charlus dives right for the bed, as Fleamont takes a seat on one of the benches, curious.

“Mum hasn’t let me on one of these yet,” Charlus grins.

“Me either,” Fleamont shrugs. “Can’t be all that bad.”

They grin at each other, pleased.

“Where to?” The man asks, stepping back in.

Both boys look to the cloak, the man following their sight, bewildered. The cloak however remains in place because of course it could not speak.

“Until it moves, I suppose.” Fleamont shrugs, uncaring at this point. He’s just glad he doesn’t have to take History at that very moment.

“Whatever,” the man mutters. “Might be extra payment if it’s too long.”

“Not a problem,” Charlus chirps.

Soon, the bus takes off, the boys’ smiles falling fast as they desperately cling to their seats in terror. All the boys could think is that they found out why their mothers hadn’t wanted them to use this form of transportation and should have minded their business. Charlus is screaming, his bed slamming against the back wall as he almost flips over entirely. Fleamont fares no better, his legs lifting from his seat as if the bus is bouncing in place. He only just barely clings to his wand though Charlus’s goes flying from his hand. The cloak floats in place, unaffected as the man with the tab grins at them, standing comfortably.  

“Stop!” Charlus cries, the bus thankfully listening.

The boys hurriedly throw themselves out, Fleamont moving like a drunkard man of the night as he accio’s the missing wand.

“I se-see why mum said no,” Charlus croaks.

“Definitely not for the feint,” Fleamont agrees, clearing his throat, seeing double.

“Oh, we’re in Diagon,” Charlus whispers, hiding behind Fleamont from a nosy wizard.

Fleamont doesn’t get to reply as he’s tugged harshly in place, the cloak throwing itself against the ropes in a sudden hurry.

Diagon is busy and people have no qualms at shouting at them when they shove and push to follow the cloak, running to keep up or else the wand might very well escape from Fleamont’s grasp.

“Merlin, make it stop, I need to breathe,” Charlus gasps.

“Breathe later!” Fleamont yells.

A second later the cloak comes to an unexpected stop and as it does, Fleamont’s concentration splits, spell breaking in the process and thus freeing the cloak. Without hesitation and reflexes honed by years of Quidditch, Fleamont tackles the fabric to the ground, Charlus following soon after as people run away nearby, angrily.

Gulping for air, they lay there, unmoving as they wait for feeling to come back to their legs and for their heart rate to come back down.

“I think I’ve dropped a lung back there,” Charlus rasps, next to him.

“Hmm,” the older teen grunts.

It takes them five minutes to get back up, the cloak hanging limply from their grasp.

“You’re fooling no one,” Fleamont growls out.

“Hey, who is that?”

It’s the tone that piques the older teens’ interest. He looks though at Charlus first and what he sees gives him pause, his gut clenching in fear. Charlus is pale, eyes widened in betrayal as his finger points ahead.

Slowly, tentatively, he tracks the location his little cousin is locked in on, his heart racing for an entirely different reason.

He doesn’t notice it at first as there are so many people out who block his view several times but when he does, he cannot look away. His heart stops completely, his own eyes widened in disbelief and hurt.

Across the way, in front of the Leaky Cauldron, stood a young man who is clearly a Potter. A Potter who faced their way, holding a child’s hand, mirrored in image after Fleamont and his own father. A Potter who didn’t look that much older than Fleamont himself.

A noise next to him quells him back to the present, his thoughts racing in uncomfortable turns. When he focuses on Charlus once more, it’s to see the younger boy crying, no longer holding onto the still cloak.

“Are-are you crying?” Fleamont squawks, upset for some reason.

Charlus just cries harder in answer, his hands covering his eyes. Fleamont envied that Charlus had so far been the only member of the family not in need of spectacles.

“Why are you crying?”

“Because!” Charlus sniffles, face completely covered now.

Fleamont looks down at the cloak, wondering why it isn’t moving anymore, but honestly, he’s just avoiding the sight of the man down the main pathway.

“Uncle Henry cheated!” Charlus finally cries out aloud, his foot stomping on the ground. A witch tuts softly as she passes by in faux sympathy.

“No he didn’t!” Fleamont cracks, heated. “Father would never!” His voice breaks.

“Why Uncle Henry, why? Oh, poor Monty!”

“You!” Fleamont shouts, but Charlus is just getting started, now pointing at the sixteen-year-old.

“Even from here I can see he looks just like you! Ergo, Uncle Henry! The cloak brought us here, and you know why!” 

Fleamont shakes his head in denial, backing away as he clutches the cloak to himself all the tighter.

“The cloak is handed down to the eldest heir of the Potter line. It’s clearly trying to tell us who it rightfully belongs to!”

“Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Charlus stands there, continuing to cry as Fleamont shakes his head, rejecting the idea that his father could ever cheat on his mother. That he could turn his back on his own family. Instead of confronting his own fears, he flees, dragging both cloak and a sobbing cousin back to the school. He will get to the bottom of this. There is no way his father cheated.

~ . * . ~

A commotion draws Harry’s and Tom’s attention but all he glimpses is two fleeing boys, their robes flapping behind them in a hurry as people rush to move out of their way.

He sighs aloud fondly, remembering the days he had snuck out of Hogwarts. He then looks down at Tom, smiling tiredly. “Did you get everything?”

Tom smugly shows his pouch before looking at him expectantly, excited. Harry had brought them back to the Leaky to gather their things as they’d already seen the house they’d be staying at, Harry buying it right then and there as he hadn’t wanted to wait for another.  

Of course, Tom had been pleased at the sight of their new home though Harry had been of the opposite mind. He had been hoping for something a bit cozier, something smaller with just enough space for two people to live comfortably.

What he got instead resembled nothing short of a mini manor with an overly large garden he hasn’t the hopes of upkeeping anytime soon what with his determination to get a job at the Ministry.

He’s doomed to spend all of his money before he can make any at this point. It’s only been days since he even got access to it all.

Making sure he’s holding the much smaller hand securely enough, he apparates, Tom seemingly pleased that he’s getting accustomed to this form of travel.

Greenery greets them first, tall and short trees clustered into a mini forest of its own over acres of land with offensively large iron gates fencing in the property. The realtor had been quite ecstatic with this find as the manor had been up for sale for a really long time but no takers because of the location. The problem?

An acromantula’s nest resides just a few acres away from the home and on the other side of that, there can be found a very large cave that is rumored to be the home of a runespoor, both beasts protected because of their value. The acromantula’s themselves just so happened to have a rare mutated genetic that gave their webs a natural fine faux gold shimmer in high demand in the fashion circles and particularly, the current Minister of Magic.

Buyers were not thrilled to learn that they could potentially stumble upon two very dangerous type of beasts as they weren’t to be moved nor hunted, well protected they were. The realtor himself had not been too happy to disclose this but his hand had been forced by the Minister himself who got involved anytime an interested buyer was presented.

So, one could only imagine the gratitude and exuberance the man showed to finally be rid of the property for good.

The only thing that interested Harry had been that the manor had its own warding system built in from the grounds and the trees, and all he would need to do was to add his and Tom’s magical signatures to them for recognition. He will of course be adding his own measures to the mix once he can get a good look as one shouldn’t casually add layers not meant to mix together but he’s quite sure it should be fine.

Letting go of his hand, Tom impatiently makes his way to the gates to start his walk up the very long pathway to the manor. Grumbling, Harry follows, promising himself to get a broom or set up an apparation point. Or Floo, whichever came first.

A long while later they make it to the door where Tom wastes no time in bounding up the dark wooden stairs in search of the room he boldly declared as his earlier.

Harry leaves him to it as he takes another look around to make a mental note of what they’ll need which is unfortunately, quite a bit. He can already feel his pockets being lighter.

He takes a longer look at the place, his heart feeling heavy and burdened as he finally, fully, accepts that there will be no going back home. He recalls HawkIron’s offer of the Goblin’s library for time travelers, but he isn’t sure how helpful that will prove to be once he’s done what needs to be done here.

In the end, he supposes he’s getting exactly what he’s always wanted just not how he had envisioned it, which is building his own family. Making new memories that were not tied to the Dursley’s, were not tied to his parents being martyr’s, Dumbledore’s need for good, Snape’s guilt, Sirius’s lapse of memories, all of it.

Hermione and Ron would do just fine without him as well as the Weasley’s, the children, Teddy who still has Andromeda.

Last night will not be the last time he will have a cry about his situation, but he isn’t going to mope around when there is a lot to be done for the peace and family he wants.

No one here is his, not even Tom, but they could be.

The potential is already set.

Now, he just needs to work for it, fight as he hadn’t for Ginny.

A very, very small part of him, missing since that night in the forest, awakens, feeling alive and present as it hadn’t been before. Grimacing, Harry touches the scar on his forehead, knowing that there is no longer anything behind it, but that doesn’t stop the thrill and adrenaline from surging right along with his magic, waiting.

His new future begins now, his decisions going forward important to raising Tom and finding out what’s happened to Dumbledore.

He can only hope that no one has to die in the process.

That very small part of him, however, disagrees, recalling those days he had been terribly bored a year after Voldemort’s passing.

Those achingly long days without the wizard made of nightmares as Ginny shouted at him in the background that he needed help, that the horcrux once removed, had done something.

Uncomfortable with his thoughts, he clears his throat, moving away.

He’s fine, he only needs an outlet, that’s all.

Didn’t the realtor mention a dueling room somewhere? With that, he makes his way towards the basement, in search of said outlet. Everything is just fine, no problems at all.