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Harry is no stranger to profoundly odd coincidences and circumstances. He is used to the whims of fate sending him from highs to lows to highs again, to feeling solid ground and having it ripped out from under him.
When the Department of Mysteries reaches out after the end of the war, he ignores their first few letters. He shuts his door on the representatives they send. He ignores even Susan, a former classmate who joined the department after the war. But as with all things, denial eventually cracks: he lets the Department take him back into the hall of prophecy.
"I don't believe in these," Harry tells his companion, whose face is blurry at the edges under the glamor of some of the Department's employees.
His companion isn't bothered. "Whether or not you believe is irrelevant. Fate is the path laid out in front of all of us; yours is simply... more exciting than most."
He walks Harry through the research that the Department claims to prove that this particular prophecy points to Harry. Taking it all with crossed arms and not particularly open mind, Harry lets him speak, and lets him uncover the orb. It's barely legible nonsense, as prophecies usually seem to be, saying more or less that Harry must prepare for a journey into the stars from which he may not return.
"Is this... implying that I will go to space?"
His companion shakes his head. "I wouldn't take it quite so literally. This phrasing has popped up several times during our research into prophesies — twice when the target of the prophecy has stepped into the Veil, once when the person in question was Vanished, and another time when a young woman was lost in the floo system, never arriving to her destination. It is speculated that each vanished to a different time or place."
"I'll take care with the floo," Harry replies, dryly. "And with the Veil, which I don't plan to lay eyes on again."
"There is no denying fate — no true delay of it, either. Perhaps you should prepare for your journey. By the alignment of the stars of the day the prophecy was told, we estimate less than ten years until it is fulfilled."
Harry finds himself done with the whole venture. "I'm not going anywhere. I've heard you out. This is the end of the harassment? No more letters and awkward visits from former classmates?"
"Our job is only to warn. We have completed our end — it is you who must carry the words of this prophecy now, Mr. Potter."
"You'll have to forgive me if I don't thank you."
The stars don't call to Harry when he looks up at the night sky, but he heeds some of the department's guidelines. He drafts a will for what will happen to his belongings in the case of his sudden mysterious disappearance. He tells his friends of the possibility of this. He spends time with Teddy and his friends in case his time really is limited.
Things don't work out with Ginny. She's kind about it, but living with a time clock that may or may not run out within the next few years frustrates and worries her too much to truly be with him. Harry understands, much as he wishes things were different.
Not unused to living under a prophecy, Harry refuses to live with fear in his heart, agonizing over every possible dark alley that may lead him on his journey.
And so when a portkey to the World Cup takes him into an unfamiliar version of Diagon Alley, Harry sighs and steps into an alley to wipe off the quidditch face paint. He has a feeling he's going to miss the game.
According to a newspaper bought with a knut, it's the 1930s, and Harry could conceivably be called incredibly early to the Cup. If he hangs around for the better part of a century, he would get to it. But that sounds a bit boring, and besides, he'd be getting on in age at that point. What if at a hundred years old, he's not interested in quidditch anymore? The thought is inconceivable to the Harry of today.
No two ways about it. He's going to have to find a way to make that game.
Since hearing the prophecy, Harry has learned to keep a sum of money and a survival kit on him. It has a tent inside, which he doesn't use for more than a week before renting a two-bedroom flat in a small magical housing district off Diagon Alley. He's pushing thirty — the tent life is no longer for him.
One bedroom's for Harry, which he reluctantly furnishes on the assumption that it will be easier to work on his way back to the future if he at least has a bed, and the other's for the time machine.
Any good time traveler's got to have a time machine.
Harry's not a very good one, and so his time machine is an unholy mess that tumbles out of his survival kit, a mess of wires, bits and bobs of metal, and a display with a crack through it.
"Didn't hold up well at all," Harry mutters to himself. He'd leave a bad review in the Prophet, but it would be directed mostly at himself and Hermione.
Not one to take a prophecy dictating her friend's life well, Hermione had come up with a plan to ensure that even if Harry did take a spontaneous trip into another world or time, there would be no nonsense about being stranded. Despite the substantial physical components of the machine, a large part of it is theoretical; theorizing that time turner dust could power the machine was all well and good, but all the time turners in the future were long gone.
As Harry unfolds the blueprints, he weighs the use of one of their backup time energy ideas against the likelihood of him being able to steal a time turner from this ministry of magic. It stands to reason that he could fail; while Harry has engaged in much espionage during the war, and some after, rarely have his plans gone without a hitch.
Bit of a pain, all this prophecy business.
Harry's glad to be done with it. He's made his fated journey; now, it's down to him to make it back, and neither his success nor his failure is predestined.
*
Living in the past turns out to be an adjustment. Life without his two best friends, living half in each other's pockets even as grown adults, is hard to get used to. So is the fact that takeout hasn't yet been popularized in the wizarding world; street food, yes, but Harry finds himself having to have a sit-down meal even in the Leaky Cauldron. There's different ownership, but the food tastes exactly the same.
Harry turns his latest issue over in his head as he eats, gaze unfocused. Working with Hermione for so long, the machine has gotten used to having two magical signatures involved. In the future, it had made sense: if it's accustomed to Hermione's signature, then it will have an easier time finding her, and hopefully the exact same version of her that worked on the machine. While Harry understands missing Hermione, the machine does have better things to be doing than pining. If it gets going properly, then they'll both be back to Hermione safe and sound, and they'd be eating Ron's pastries instead of what passes for food at the Leaky Cauldron. Never mind that the machine doesn't have taste buds — Harry will build it some as thanks.
Acknowledging that he might, possibly, be going mad without human interaction, Harry considers his options for a second magical signature for the machine. Dumbledore's only a last resort, being much too nosy. Minerva doesn't seem like she would have the time of day for him. Who else is alive during this time? Hagrid would be barely into his Hogwarts career, probably not yet expelled.
Turning the issue over in his head, Harry thinks that the machine probably isn't too fussy, and that there's worse things than a child doing some honest work. Harry had turned out just fine and his childhood was full of nothing but labor.
He settles his bill and grabs the leftovers, then turns on his heel, vanishing from the Leaky.
He's only been in this location in memory, but it's clear as day in his head, and when he opens his eyes, he's standing in front of Wool's orphanage.
Staring out one of the side windows is a young, dark-haired boy, not too much older than the one from the same memory. Harry waves at him.
The boy doesn't wave back, but after Harry gives him a few minutes, he joins Harry outside. Someone really should give the kid a lecture about talking to strangers, Harry thinks, especially ones who appear out of nowhere.
"What do you want?" asks Tom Riddle, arms crossed.
Harry's never met a Tom Riddle less intimidating. He could coo. "I'm building a time machine. I need an extra set of hands and child labor is cheap in this time. You want to help me?"
"You're what." It's not really a question.
Being that Harry is the one in need of help, he answers it anyway. Time travel, next century, time dust — hopefully not from snidget wings because Harry would rather not thanks, magical signatures, all that. And also, "A paid position, of course. A... knut? Per day."
Tom peers at him, still hesitant. "Two knuts. For work on this machine."
"Deal," Harry says, and reaches his hand out to shake on it. "You want to start today?"
"Alright," Tom says.
So Harry apparates them both. He receives some sharp words for it — something about it being rude to apparate someone without proper warning, which Harry quite thought he'd done, but this is quickly lost in Tom's evaluation of the machine.
"She's a beauty, isn't she," Harry sighs.
"It's a mess. Those wires shouldn't be doing that!"
"How do you know?"
"They're not connected to anything."
Harry claps him on the back. "Excellent. You're learning on the job already. Do you want the rest of my takeout?"
Tom turns him down the first day, but not on any day after that. After his initial wariness dies down, he even starts to complain if Harry's late to pick him up from the orphanage, and he becomes the third expert on the plans for the machine, poring over and praising Hermione's nearly illegible handwriting. Harry, in turn, takes his role as an adult engaging in child labor employment quite seriously, always feeding his charge and making sure that the kid is taking breaks.
It being June, Harry says, "I'm not taking you away from your summer homework, am I?"
"No, I've finished it all already."
"Good kid. You're..." Harry squints. Kids' ages are hard to tell. Tom's older than Hermione and Ron's two, but that's about all he can tell. "Entering your third year?"
"Second," Tom says, though he sounds pleased.
"Very knowledgeable for a second year. Exceeds expectations," Harry replies, nodding. Despite the way Tom looks at him like he's an idiot, Harry keeps on, knowing an extra bit of praise never hurts with an orphan. At worst, he'll sound like Slughorn.
Harry's not running a factory; Tom gets weekends off. A few weeks in, Tom asks him to pick him up anyway, to take him to Diagon Alley for school supply shopping, and Harry agrees. Then he stays with Tom because a kid should have an adult around, even if the kid's a future Dark Lord and the adult is Harry. Then Tom takes out his little pouch of knuts, and he looks so forlorn counting them up to a sickle, and Harry takes over the purchasing of supplies before a crocodile tear can wreak havoc on his emotions.
Future Dark Lord, Harry tells himself, even as he buys Tom an ice cream cone and carries the bags.
"My friend, the one one who introduced me to the magical world in the future, he once bought the ten-scoop cone. By the time we finished shopping, he had already finished it."
Tom's questions are numerous, always. He learns that Harry's a half-blood, though not raised in this world, and that he attended Hogwarts. He learns of Harry's successes and struggles — Harry hides the names, but doesn't bother to lie; he's lived a wild life. It may as well be the source of a few stories.
"No one gives you a hard time in the future for being a half-blood? Or your muggleborn friend, the one who made the machine?"
"We created it together," Harry grumbles, but, "No. The way things are in this time... It's easier in the future. I don't mean that we live in a perfect society. We don't. The minister's barely competent, people still find things to fear and project their worries onto. People will be people no matter when or where. But there's far fewer boundaries when it comes to blood status. It's what we fought for in the war and anyone knows I'll pick up my wand for the cause again if needed."
Tom nods. His lips twist in a short, unhappy expression. "It's not fair. This is my time, and it's awful, the prejudice at school."
Harry's heart pangs. There is little he can do for Tom — he knows it. "A very good friend of mine, when I asked her why she was doing something I thought useless, told me that she would be the change she wanted to see in the world. And you know what? She was. It's not forever, this mentality. Even now, there are people who would never judge you for your blood. You just have to find them."
"I doubt they can be found in Slytherin," Tom mutters.
And Harry can only agree. "Sure. But by the end of this summer, you'll have more than enough practice with inter-house friendships."
"You were a Gryffindor, weren't you?"
"Guilty," Harry says, and he gives into the urge to ruffle Tom's hair. "Guilty as charged."
He leaves a more thoughtful Tom at the orphanage, and Harry in turn hopes that something about their conversation may have sparked ideas for a different life for Tom. From the preliminary readings from the machine, this isn't the past of Harry's own world. It's a step back and to the left, so there's no worry that a change in Tom's future could impact Harry's own. It was a relief to hear — that he hasn't ruined his own chances with this wild venture.
At the end of the day, Harry knows that this is only a brief period in Tom's life. Tom Riddle has had an inordinate impact on Harry's life, but for Tom, Harry Potter is just a strange man with a strange machine, who will exit Tom's life as suddenly as he's entered it. If not this summer, then in the fall, when Tom returns to Hogwarts and Harry will work on the machine alone, and hopefully finally succeed.
There's no need to feel maudlin, to wonder what might have been if Harry had truly been trapped in this time.
The Diagon Alley trip isn't the last of its kind. Harry grows used to picking Tom up on the weekends and bowing to the whims of a twelve year old, especially when that twelve year old has never had an adult in his corner. It's not the best use of his time, but Harry has never had a claim to perfection. Half the breaks are for him — he needs to stretch his back and rest his eyes and keep out the maddening thought of what if the machine never works. So there's Diagon Alley, then Knockturn, then Hogsmeade, which Tom has never gone to, not yet a third year. Harry reminisces on his third year while Tom seems to be adding dementors to his list of least favorite things in the wizarding world. Then there's the British Library and its magical collections, Stonehenge, various towns that appear in Tom's readings. They walk down the main street of Godric's Hollow and Harry spends a long moment looking at things that aren't for him — things that were never meant to be his, whether he wants to blame fate or Voldemort or a twelve year old boy. They don't bump into any Potters. It's a relief and it's not.
"You haven't told me your last name," Tom says, after a while.
"It's a secret. Time travelers don't share their name so freely, you know."
"Is your first name really Harry?"
"Yeah, that one's mine."
There's another reason why Harry doesn't reveal his name: when it gets out that a strange man broke into the ministry and stole a time turner, he'd rather not become too much trouble for the Potters of this time. He's in and out with no issues, but that doesn't mean there won't be an investigation later. Hopefully, nothing will reach him until he's long gone.
July becomes August. They make progress with the machine. Still, Tom grows surlier instead of happier as the days pass. Harry tries to bring it up once, bungles the matter, and decides that emotions are probably overrated. Especially with pre-teens. Harry remembers being a pre-teen; there was nothing but nonsense in his brain, rattling about and settling in conspiratorial shapes.
On one late August day, the display lights up in a way Hermione spoke of once, and Harry drops the parchment he's been working on.
"It's time," Harry says, half in awe, half in disbelief. "I'm going home! We did it, Tom."
He's laughing, hugging the kid, gaze focused on this blasted machine that is finally working. It takes a few hours to confirm with his notes, then another hour for him to settle his affairs in the past. Tom doesn't ask to be returned to the orphanage and Harry doesn't volunteer it. He's not quite sure what he'll do in the future without this kid.
So when Tom says, "I would like to come with you," and outlines a full list of why this would be beneficial to both Tom and Harry, Harry doesn't say no.
He only says, "Are you sure? There's a destiny here for you — a life that is yours. I can't promise you the same in the future, only that I'll try my best to give you a good life."
Tom doesn't look at Harry when he says, "I'm going. I— I believe you."
Harry offers his hand and Tom takes it, and they're off.
*
The World Cup is a spectacle, loud and chaotic. It takes almost twenty minutes to finally find the Weasley contingent.
"Mate! Thought we lost you when you didn't turn up with the portkey group. Who's this, then?" Ron asks, glancing down at Tom.
"Tom," Harry says, trying for casual. He glances down at the kid. "Tom Potter?"
Tom's hand squeezes more tightly around his own. He looks like one breeze might knock him down, but then he's smiling, just a little. His eyes are bright. He nods.
Harry nods in turn. "Yeah, Tom Potter. Remind me to ask Minerva about Hogwarts enrollment..."