Title: Would Be He: Lion or Lamb?
Rating: T – M
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle. (End pairing is still undecided)
Summary: By the ripe young age of twenty-one, one might think that Harry Potter would have learned that 'normal' just wasn't his thing.
Of course, by that wonderful age of twenty-one, one might also believe that Harry Potter would have learned enough about dark magic to know that touching a mysterious-looking rune written within a ritual circle carved into the stone floor of an abandoned building—that was just recently cleared of dark wizards— is a bad idea.
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, Harry Potter owns me! And, apparently, a pair of leather pants…0.0
Written By: KillerInADress.
First:
Dragonhide Gloves.
Strangely, it had been an overly normal day.
Or, at least, it had been overly normal for Harry Potter, 21 year-old Auror who was currently trying to breathe in as little as possible to avoid the offending smell of rubbish and old fish.
"Alright, that's everyone, I think," Ron Weasley muttered, looking over the list of captures that another Auror had just helped him fill out. He frowned. "Hey, Dawlish, find any of those potions yet?" He shouted across the room.
John Dawlish stood up, tossing an empty container aside. "Not yet, Weasley. Just a ton of rubbish and a few half-cut newt eyes… They must have been tipped off by someone and hid the stuff before we got here."
"Or had a buddy of theirs apparate them away," Suggested Marcus Totlie, a transfer from France with a wicked eye for crime scenes.
Harry was over on the far side of the large warehouse-turned-dark potions lab, looking for any clues that might lead them to the illegal potions smuggling ring that the auror's had been chasing down for ages. So far, no matter how many places they bust, not one dark potion can be found. It was truly starting to frustrate Harry how slippery these guys seemed to be.
"Can't have. We had Anti-apparation wards up, remember?" Ron said, frowning. "Maybe they drank them all?" He added.
"Some of those potions do pretty nasty things, Ron," Harry called, not bothering to turn and look at his friend. He thought he just saw a bit of strange writing underneath that big trash can. "And anyways, where are all the potion bottles? It doesn't make sense."
"It was just a thought," Ron said, a bit defensively.
"It's thinking like that, that helps narrow things down," Harry muttered, but he was no longer paying any attention to the conversation as he finally managed to move the rubbish bin aside, and found himself faced with a ritual circle of some kind. "Hey, guys, I think I found something!" Harry called out, pulling on a set of Auror standard dragonhide gloves and sinking down to his knees to get a closer look at the strange markings.
Now, by the ripe young age of twenty-one, one might think that Harry Potter would have learned that 'normal' just wasn't his thing.
Of course, by that wonderful age of twenty-one, one might also believe that Harry Potter would have learned enough about dark magic to know that touching a mysterious-looking rune written within a ritual circle carved into the stone floor of an abandoned building—that was just recently cleared of dark wizards—is a bad idea.
Perhaps next time, Harry will listen when his Auror partner yells, "No, DON'T—!" –Dragonhide gloves pulled on or not—but, then again, may be that lesson is just too little too late.
The pain was one of the worst Harry had ever felt. It was as if his own magical core was screaming out to him in agony, tearing itself apart from the inside out while simultaneously burning hotter, as if it was preparing to cast an unforgivable. Harry couldn't move; couldn't even breathe. All around him the air and space felt condensed, as if he had just apparated and was stuck in limbo between destinations A and B. Everything burned, and when Harry tried to cry out in suffering, not a sound was made.
And then, quite suddenly, Harry felt his body jolt upright and he sucked in a breath so deep, his lungs ached with the very pressure of it.
"That's it, that's it — breathe. Inhale, exhale, inhale…" Someone was saying…or shouting. It was surprisingly hard to tell with the horrible pounding in his ears. "Drink this, child. Drink," The same voice encouraged him as something thick and cool was pressed against his lips. Harry tried to open his eyes, but the sting in his head doubled tenfold, so he shut them tightly again and made himself drink from the cold glass of what felt to be a heavy water goblet pressing ever closer to his chapped lips.
And, to Harry's welcoming surprise, it was the refreshing tastelessness of water that slid into his open mouth.
"Good…good…" The voice murmured softly. A female voice, Harry noted, somewhat, vaguely.
The cup was swiftly taken away when Harry inhaled a little water down his airway pipe and started to choke. A small but firm hand began patting his back soothingly, and as soon as the coughing fit cleared enough for the young wizard to drag in sufficient oxygen again, Harry tried to open his eyes once more. It took a great effort, but Harry did finally manage to open his eyes adequately so he could just make out calming blues, whites, and greens with his blurry vision. He must be in hospital, then. Damn.
Closing his eyes with a strangled groan, Harry felt himself being pushed back down upon hard pillows, and tried not to think about how much trouble he was going to be in with Draco later. He could almost hear the blonde's voice in the back of his head, shouting at him with his grey eyes narrowed. 'This is the third time this month, Potter! I swear if you so much as breathe without my O.K so, I'll poison your bloody food myself.'
"Can you hear me, child? Are you feeling sore anywhere? Does it hurt you to take breaths?" The female was asking him in a rushed sort of tone. Must be a nurse, Harry thought distantly.
Even so, that voice made his brows furrow slightly. Child? He wasn't a bloody child! And where was Draco? He should be in here, ordering his staff around and playing the pretentious Healer that he is, all the while talking very loudly, making a whole lot of noise, and generally trying to show Harry just how upset he is by making a scene… like he always does.
Mind you, it's not that Harry isn't thankful for the peace and quiet—what with his pounding head and all—and the gentle, soothing voice of the woman over that of his angered, (and worried), boyfriend. It's just that it is odd. In the end, the green eyed wizard decided that his boyfriend must simply be busy tending to someone else, and no one had yet to inform him of Harry's return to consciousness.
Harry opened his mouth to reply to the nurse, only instead of words, another groan escaped him, this one much stronger than his last. To be honest, everything felt tender. But Harry was no stranger to pain, and apart from his still throbbing head, the rest of it wasn't bad enough to worry over.
"I—I'm fi—fine." Harry choked out, voice sounding strangely broken. "Just a hea—headache, I think."
There was a scoff towards his right. "Well I hardly think you are fine, as you were on death's very door not but moments ago." The woman sniffed. And her stern indignation over his idea of health was so reminisce of Madam Pomfrey, that the raven-haired man was forced to bite down on a smile.
Pushing his eyes open for a third time, he managed to locate the old nurse, who looked rather like a tall blob without his glasses on. She smiled tightly at him. Not as warm a smile as the old school matron at Hogwarts used to give him, but one that felt just as comforting nonetheless.
Harry tried to return the greeting, only to end up frowning at her instead when he took in the hazy colors of her outfit. She wasn't wearing the pale blue robes of a St. Mungo's nurse, nor did she don the light green of a Healer. Instead, what looked to be a burgundy dress was half covered by a clean, white apron. Her chestnut-colored hair was tied back, hidden in a piece of simple cloth, and in her hand, she held a glass goblet that had a great H symbol on it that Harry would've recognized anywhere.
He felt confusion and unease creep up slowly into his chest. Green eyes glanced around the rest of the room, taking in all the small changes to what was unmistakably – even with his impaired vision – the Hospital Wing at Hogwarts. But—why was he here? And where was Hannah Abbott? Last Harry had heard, Hannah had taken over for Madam Pomfrey, and Neville couldn't have been happier.
He shifted his look back to the older witch, who placed his glasses on him. "Ah, there you are, I was beginning to fear I may never meet you properly, young man." The lady said softly, still smiling as if she hadn't noticed Harry's troubled gaze. "You are in the infirmary at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and if I may say it, you certainly have kept us worried these last few days. I am, of course, on orders to notify the Headmaster the moment you had awoken… however, I feel that perhaps waiting a few more minutes won't harm anything. No doubt they will have plenty of questions for you, and I doubt they'll give you even a moment of rest. What is your name, child?"
Hearing her confirm that he was, in fact, in Hogwarts was more of a shock than it really should have been, except that inquiry was what hit home the most. He could feel the air on his forehead, which meant that his hair was pushed back and his scar was on full display. She doesn't know who I am! Harry thought with a start.
"My name is Harry Potter." Harry answered slowly, searching her face for any recognition, any sign of wondering gaze towards his lightening-shaped scar. Finding none only strengthened his suspicions. The thought that she really might not have the faintest idea who he was both scared, and delighted Harry in equal measures.
"Well, Harry Potter, do you know how it came to be that Professor Kettleburn nearly had a heart attack when you arrived, tumbling out of the staffroom fireplace in a rush of bright purple flames, covered in a multitude of near-fatal wounds, and clutching a small pouch that no one seems to be able to open?" She half asked, half demanded.
"I—what?" Was Harry's intelligent response. Traveling through a purple flame? There was no such thing. Harry should know. He'd only spent months in that cluttered room, going over folder after folder of floo travel information for a case.
The nurse was looking at him seriously now. "Gave Mr. Kettleburn a right fright, you did. Not an easily startled man, mind you." She said with a tone that bordered on reprimanding. "Now tell me, dear, how did you get past the wards around Hogwarts? Did someone let you in? What kind of floo did you use? I've never heard of purple flames before. Red, yes—yellow, certainly—but purple?"
Suddenly, Harry understood that she had not held back from calling the others because she thought he needed a bit of time to rest and readjust…at least, not entirely. She wanted to get answers out of him, and for whatever reason, she seemed to think Harry would give them to her if they spoke alone.
Frowning, Harry told her candidly, "Nor have I, to be honest. And I've spent more than enough time in the travel department at the Ministry learning about the bloody floo."
"And what would a young boy such as yourself be doing in the Ministry of Magic travel de—"
"Hang on," Harry cut in, frowning ever harder as something occurred to him. "You said, 'on orders to notify the Headmaster', Headmaster who? What's happened to Professor McGonagall?"
Pausing in her inquiry as to what Harry could possibly be doing in the Ministry of Magic, it was the nurse's turn to frown down at him. "Who?" She asked in bewilderment.
"Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts, previously known as Gryffindor's Head of House, and professor of Transfiguration…surely she hasn't retired? If she had, I'd have heard news about it before now."
The nurse's brown eyes were wide. She looked as if she had never even heard of McGonagall, but that was impossible.
"And as far as that goes, where is Nurse Hannah Abbott?" Harry added, trying to push himself into an upright position to better see the around the room now that he had his glasses back. "Neville's only just told me she got the job two months ago, so that they could be closer because Neville is here teaching Herbology so much of the time, and—"
"My boy, there is no one working here by those names." The witch said sternly. "Did that trip through the purple fire addle your brain, child? I am the only nurse currently employed here, Herbert Beery is the professor of Herbology, and headmaster—"
"But that's not right!" Harry hadn't meant to shout at her, but the woman just wasn't making any sense.
"And Headmaster Dippet has been the Headmaster of this school since—"
"What?" Harry cut in, that name tugging unpleasantly at something in his memory. "What did you just say?"
"Headmaster Armando Dippet," She repeated, giving Harry a rather impatient look. "He was Headmaster here long before I was offered this job, and I do believe his predecessor was one of the members of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black. There hasn't been a Headmistress of Hogwarts in as many years. Longer than you've been alive, young man, so I'd thank you to stop saying such nonsense before I send you away to a Mind Healer."
Pain in his body and head long forgotten, Harry scanned the room hurriedly to find something – anything! – That had the days' date upon it. In the end, he was forced to turn green eyes back to look into searching brown. "What is today?" He asked, fear gripping him tightly. It's not possible. It can't be. He thought to himself.
"December the 20th. A mere five days before Christmas." She answered, seemingly taken aback.
Harry attempted to take in a calming breath. "No, I mean—what year is it?"
If anything, the nurse looked all the more puzzled about this question. "It's nineteen-forty-two, soon to be nineteen-forty-three. Where have you been that you don't even know the year?"
She went on to mumble about teenagers these days and not even remembering what year it is, but Harry had stopped listening, panic threatening to over come him. No, it can't be! It's impossible! It's a dream, or—no! Harry thought wildly. And it was impossible. Time travel was a very limited process. There was simply no way that Harry could have traveled all the way back to 1942… "That rune!"
"Excuse me?"
"I'd never seen it before, that's why I…but I was wearing dragonhide gloves! It shouldn't have been able to—"
"My dear boy, what are you going on about? What rune?"
With a start, Harry realized he must have been thinking to himself out loud. Oops. "I'm sorry, Miss…" Harry trailed off, now fully aware of the fact that he'd never learned her name.
"Madam Aiana Jeen," She supplied briskly.
"Madam Jeen," Harry went on. "Is Albus Dumbledore the current Transfiguration Professor here by any chance?"
And although Harry already knew the answer, (having seen more than enough of Dumbledore's memories in his sixth year), the dark haired wizard still found himself holding his breath as Madam Jeen blinked at him a few times before saying, rather cautiously, "Yes, he is. Do you— what are you doing?!" Madam Jeen screeched in alarm the moment Harry threw back his covers and attempted to stand. He needed to see Dumbledore, but he'd quite forgotten about how much pain his body was in and trying to leave the bed had brought it all back to him, making it easy for the nurse to grab him by the arms and move him back onto the hard mattress. "Well I've never—" She started to say indignantly, but Harry cut her off.
"Madam Jeen, I must speak with Albus Dumbledore right away. It's an emergency!"
"Whatever you're thinking, it's hardly grave enough for you to try to leave this bed. And if I'm going to be calling anyone, it will be the Headmaster, who, I see now, I should have called for the moment you were stable."
Resisting the urge to growl at the witch, Harry accepted defeat and said, through clenched teeth, "Call him too, if you must. But I must see Dumbledore…Please!" He added, in case she had Pomfrey's old habit of taking rudeness as a personal insult.
Looking torn, Aiana Jeen looked between her office door and Harry several times before her brown eyes landed and stayed on Harry, narrowing slightly. "You'll stay in this bed while I make the call?" She asked with a suspicious look.
Harry nodded.
"You won't try to leave?"
Again, Harry nodded. "I promise."
She frowned. "And you'll cooperate with any and all of their questions?"
Harry hesitated. "I'll…answer what I can." He finally decided on, not knowing everything there was to time-travel, but remembering enough to know that some things shouldn't be said. Even to a wizard like Albus Dumbledore.
She watched him for another minute or so before acquiescing, however reluctantly, to his appeal. "Then, I will give them both a call." And she turned back towards her office, still shooting Harry looks as she went, as though not entirely satisfied he'd still be there when she returned.
As soon as her door closed, Harry felt the pure panic trying to consume him, but he willed it away for the time being, as there was no proof yet that he was stuck here. Slumping back onto the firm pillows with a rush of air leaving him, Harry tried to distract himself was thoughts of quidditch, and just how much Ron, his auror partner, must hate the mountain of paperwork he was surely stuck with right now.
For a moment, Harry smiled. Except the distraction didn't last long, and sooner than he would have liked, Harry was back to thinking about his current predicament, 1942…was it—no, could it be possible? Hermione had once talked to Harry in great length about her work with time-travel down in the Department of Mysteries, although, as far as Harry knew, the Unspeakable's had never thought to use Runes for time-travel properties… what if those dark wizards had been planning to go back and—
True alarm shot through him so strongly that Harry bolted back upright, regretting the action almost immediately as it made his head and chest ache something horrid, but he ignored the throbbing and focused instead on the thought that had just occurred to him. If it truly was the year 1942, then Tom Riddle was here, right now, alive, in Hogwarts, about to become—
The Matron's office door was thrown open as in walked a man Harry had only ever seen in memories; Armando Dippet, followed closely by Aiana Jeen, and Albus Dumbledore, looking so young with his auburn hair and beard, that Harry almost didn't recognize him.
"Good evening, young man. Aiana, here, has just informed me that you had come to, and wished to speak with me. I do apologize that I could not have gotten here sooner, very busy, you understand." Armando said cheerily, coming right up to stand beside Harry's hospital bed. Even as he smiled kindly down at him, Harry could tell just how hard the man was trying not to bombard the younger man with his inquisitiveness. "So, young one, are you ready to tell us how you've come to find yourself in my school?"
Harry's bright green eyes frantically searched out Dumbledore's piercing blue ones, and he found them behind familiar half-moon spectacles, looking back at him with that little twinkle. Now that he had him here, Harry wasn't sure where to start. Somehow, he doubted saying, 'Hi, you don't know me yet, but I'm from the future where you used to manipulate me for what you thought was, the greater good, while one of your current students' chased me around my whole life, trying to kill me…oh! And he was also a raging psychopathic sociopath, and the greatest dark wizard of all time. Did I mention I watched you die?' would go over all that well.
"Well?" Madam Jeen prompted. "The Headmaster has asked you a question; it's rude not to reply accordingly."
Deliberately taking in a deep breath to control his growing dread, Harry asked, despite already feeling like he knew what the answer was going to be, "Would it be possible to speak with Head—Er—Professor Dumbledore, alone?"
And as he had predicted, both Aiana Jeen and Armando Dippet shot down his request at once. Claiming that, "Anything you can say to Albus, can be said in front of us,"
Dumbledore merely looked thoughtful.
Harry sighed. It wasn't like he hadn't been expecting it. "Then I'll just say it, shall I?" It wasn't really a question. "I'm, erm… I think I may have, uh… Oh, fuck it." Steeling himself, Harry said in a rush, "I traveled back in time; I'm from the future."
Everyone blinked.
"To be fair, it was an accident." Harry added when the silence started to become uncomfortable. In for a knut, in for a sickle.
"How far back have you come?" Dumbledore eventually asked, twinkle seemingly vanished from his eyes.
"I'm from the year two-thousand-and-one, and Madam Jeen told me that today was December 20th, nineteen-forty-two, so about…seventy-one years."
Aiana Jeen sucked in a breath when her name was mentioned, but still she did not speak.
The headmaster did, though. "My boy, surely you must be mistaken – hit your head a little too hard coming out of that fireplace, perhaps? Time-Travel is a very restricted branch of magic. Why, even the Ministry has yet to find a way to trek back farther than a few hours at a time. To come back seventy-one years in time is—"
"I'm not sure how it happened, sir. Only that I touched a rune written—"
"That is enough!" Dumbledore said firmly. Cutting off Harry's explanation and looking a little paler than he did before.
"What is the meaning of this, Albus? How are we to understand if this boy isn't allowed to—"
"Armando, my good friend, do you need reminding of the laws and regulations regarding time-travel? It has never been a good thing to know too much about ones future, and if we continue questioning this boy, he may say something that, to him, is simple fact, but to us, it may be revolutionary." Dumbledore turned incisive blue eyes on Harry for a long moment before he looked back at the grey-haired Headmaster. "Anything we ask from this point onwards should be thought through carefully before hand."
Dippet was looking more like the fragile old man he was with every word Dumbledore said, however, he had a resolved sort of finality about him that suggested he still had some fire left in him. Harry briefly wondered if the old wizard had been a Gryffindor, but the thought was gone almost as quickly as it had come.
"Quite right, quite right," Dippet muttered, brows furrowed.
Harry felt like he might need an update on time-travel rules, but was little too busy keeping down another wave of dread to ask. It's going to be okay, He told himself firmly. Dumbledore will have an idea of how to get you back home. Just breathe.
"Am I allowed to ask him about his symptoms?" Madam Jeen piped up, worrying her bottom lip slightly. "I have never bothered to learn anything about this time travel business, or its policies, and to be quite frank, I don't want any part in this. But he is still in my care, Headmaster, and he may as well be for the next few days if his ribs do not heal soon. Oh, what I wouldn't give for something that fixed bones instantly." She tacked on, looking wistful.
"But there is something like that!" Harry said without thinking, not at all surprised to hear that his ribs were damaged. It had certainly felt like it. "Poss—"
"No, child!" Dippet said quickly, thrusting out a hand to stop Harry before he could finish his sentence. "You do not know the damage you will cause telling us of things which have not yet been invented."
Harry frowned, looking around the hospital wing in an effort to try and remember when that particular healing spell had been made. He could have sworn that Hannah and Draco had once had lengthy (and boring), discussion on it…created in 1958…maybe…
"Oh, but could you just imagine the possibilities of such a healing tool? Mending bones in half the time – or even two-thirds of the time!" Madam Jeen was saying, looking excited at the prospect.
"Aiana, please, control yourself." The Headmaster said tightly. "You should not have even received such information. Who knows what that little slip could have cost the future?"
"Armando is right, Aiana. We need to be cautious of what we ask."
"But, Albus, think of what we could—"
"No, Aiana. We mustn't change anything!"
It was then that Harry caught his reflection in the mirror hanging over the wash bin near Madam Jeen's office. "Blimey!" The young wizard said in surprise as he looked at his own face. He looked to be about fifteen. Or sixteen, more like.
How did that happen? Time travel didn't change ones' age!
"What is it, child? What's wrong? Has your pain returned to you?" Aiana was by his side an in instant, but Harry didn't know what to say to sooth her. It wasn't the aches that bothered him. What kind of rune did I touch?
Well, thought Harry, at least I now know why they kept calling me, 'child'.
"Fine, just…what do we do now? Should we call auror's? Get me checked into the Department of Mysteries as a personal pin cushion?" Harry asked, and if there was bitterness in his voice, no one commented on it.
"No, that would only make things more difficult, I think." Dumbledore said slowly, thoughtfully.
"Albus?" Headmaster Dippet gave Dumbledore a knowing look.
Dumbledore smiled weakly. "Oh, Armando, you know as well as I what the ministry would do to a boy his age."
Dippet chuckled. "I wish I could say that I don't know what you're referring to, but alas, an old fool must admit defeat." With a heavy sigh, Dippet stroked his short beard for a moment, thinking, before he turned back to Harry. "I suppose we'll just have to keep him here with us until we can find a way to send him home. How old are you, boy? You don't look a day over thirteen."
Harry bristled slightly. Yes, he was a bit shorter and thinner than he should be, but he hardly felt he looked thirteen! Then, green eyes widen as the more important part of that sentence made it through stubborn ears. "You mean there really might be a way to get me back to my time?" Harry wondered, all hope not yet lost.
"Indeed, there might. Your age, please, child?" Dippet repeated patiently
Biting down on the strongest wave of panic yet, Harry tried to remember when Voldemort was born. He would be in his seventh year, now, wouldn't he? Sixth and Seventh years did occasionally have to work together, so, if Harry said he was fifteen, he'd be in his fifth year, and fifth years never had to work with seventh years, and that would mean Harry would never have to seen Tom Riddle outside of meal time and the odd walk by in corridors.
"Er—I am fifteen, sir." Harry said, tacking on the 'sir' as confidently as he could manage when his voice cracked embarrassingly. Merlin, he didn't miss puberty.
"Fifteen?!" Aiana gasp. "You're terribly malnourished. I had thought—only, you were also covered in various injuries and I couldn't be sure…" She trailed off.
Looking back over to the mirror, Harry did suppose he looked a lot like he did in December his sixth year. Just recently returned from his Aunt and Uncle's house two months ago, barely starting to fill out again thanks to Hogwarts wonderful food and plenty of flying out on the pitch.
He couldn't be sure that time travel this far into the past wouldn't have turned him back into a sixteen year old, but, merlin, what was happening to him?
"Fifteen, hmm?" Headmaster Dippet was also looking over Harry with a concerned look, but in the end, he shook his head and gave Harry an encouraging smile. "Then that would put you in your fifth year here at Hogwarts. Are you familiar with Hogwarts?—don't answer that. Never you mind, Madam Jeen is more than adequate to update you on the comings and goings of Hogwarts, and it has never hurt anyone to be reintroduced to the rules, if I do say so myself." He winked at Harry, and turned pale eyes upon Dumbledore, who seemed to be more interested in watching a sparrow outside of one of the windows instead of discussing Harry's less-than-satisfactory upbringing.
"Dumbledore, you will, of course, assist me in finding a way home for our young man?"
"Certainly, Headmaster." Dumbledore said pleasantly, still gazing out the window even though the bird had flown off.
"Uhm, Professor, would it help if I tried to draw out the rune symbol I touched? I know I'm not supposed to give away anything from the future, but it truly is my only lead to how I got here."
Dumbledore finally turned away from the window to regard Harry with blue eyes while Dippet frowned down as his feet, brows knitted deeply in thought. Aiana was looking between the three wizards with baited breath.
"Well, Albus?" Dippet asked eventually lifting his head to address his transfiguration teacher.
"Celtain Cauress is the best runes expert I've ever met," Dumbledore said. "But we mustn't tell him why we need it studied—the less people who know, the better—and should it be far too advanced…"
"Indeed. Indeed… And you'll work with him, I presume?"
Dumbledore bowed his head.
"So…is that a yes?" Harry asked, not entirely sure what just transpired between the two older men.
Dippet laughed. "Yes, my boy, that is, indeed, a yes. Please, draw out the symbol you remember and Dumbledore or I will come and retrieve it later, when you've had some time to rest."
"Thank you, Headmaster." Aiana said with a grateful smile. "Blessed am I, to work under someone who understands the art of healing."
Dippet nodded. "How much longer until he is well enough to be sorted?"
"Another two days at least, Headmaster." She replied.
Again, Dippet nodded, and then offered Harry a grin. "Good, good. Well then, young one, you rest up, listen to Madam Jeen, and when you are better, we'll get you all settled in."
Suddenly, Dippet became solemn. "The wizarding world is fighting a war – not sure if you knew that—and I'm sorry to say that you won't be the first student we've had to add to the school year a bit later than the rest. We should count it a grace, though, as it means you won't stand out. Of course, most everyone else was sorted before the holidays, but as soon as you're well, we'll get you all sorted into one of the four houses we have here at Hogwarts, and then you can just focus on your studies while Dumbledore and I look for a reversal for your problem. Who knows, maybe you'll even find yourself to be ahead of your class when you get back to where you belong, after all this extra work." The headmaster added, looking cheerful.
Harry just didn't have the heart, or even the O.K so to tell the old man that he was actually a 21 year-old auror who'd never actually finished his Hogwarts education, and would probably be more help on the research end, than having to relearn the difference between Stellit-mite, and Stellit-tight.
But of course, they didn't want to know anything more about him than the knowledge that he was from the future, and Harry was sure that if he tried to explain how his body had somehow changed back to when he was sixteen, or why he was claiming to be fifteen to escape having to share a classroom with the crazy Dark-Lord-In-Training who lived just down the bloody stairway, well…
In any case, the Library was open until curfew for fifth years, and he could easily do his own research without fearing he'll let something slip with every word he says.
That was something, at least.
So, instead, Harry nodded.
The two professors took their leave shortly after, discussing possible allies to speak with about their mission, while Madam Jeen tended to Harry; checking him over with diagnostic charms and making sure he was comfortable enough, before she too, retired to her office.
It wasn't until Harry found himself alone in a hospital bed in the year of 1942 that he finally allowed the dread and fear to overwhelm him. How was he going to get home? Was there even a home left for him to go? Just how much might he have changed by coming here?
Thinking about his time only brought along thoughts of his loved ones there, which he pushed out of his head with difficulty. Thinking of Ron and Hermione and Draco wasn't going to make it any easier while he was stuck here in the past.
And Harry refused to cry in a hospital bed!
Then, the worst thought Harry could have ever had popped into his head. Fred. Fred wasn't dead yet—or Tonks, or Lupin—they weren't even born yet! – If I stopped Tom Riddle from becoming Voldemort – if I befriended him; showed him that muggles weren't bad – or…
Harry cut off his train of thought. No. He already didn't know what his presence here had done to the future, and besides, he, more than anyone, already knows just how evil Voldemort is. Even at the age of 17. It isn't worth the risk to attempt something so dangerous with such a narrow chance of success.
No, Harry would keep his head down, do what research he could, and try to do as little damage as possible to the future until they found a way to get him back to his right time.
Guilt overpowered the fear in Harry's veins, and Harry's determination not to cry in the infirmary was put to the test.
"I'm sorry, everyone. I'm so sorry." Harry whispered to the empty room as the faces of those, who lost their lives during the war, seemed to taunt him for his selfishness. "I'm just so, so sorry."
And if a small tear fell from his chin and splashed onto his tightly clasped hands, well…no one was there to witness it.
Notes: Boy did that end on such a darker note than I originally intended… Ah, well. Here you go, chapter one! I hope you guys don't find the story too interesting, as I must regretfully say that the likelihood of my updating this in the next…ever, is pretty slim. It's not that I'm not excited to try out this kind of story, it's just that it is bound to be much harder to write than my usual stuff, and I've never tried Tom/Harry before now, so…there's that.
Anyways, the first chapter is more to see how you guys take to the story than it is my agreeing to continue, so, let me know where you stand on this, and I'll see if it's even worth it to finish the second chapter. (Which, just fyi, Harry gets sorted in and I'm still undecided about Tom's reaction to him…just so you know).
Yes, well, thanks for reading; your feedback is always appreciated, and a free muffin to anyone who gives me comments. Thanks everyone! –KIAD.