Hey guys, welcome to the party~

Now, before we start, fret not, Consuming Shadows is still at the forefront of my mind, and there is absolutely no way I'll be putting that on hold for now. This is just a little something that's been creeping into my mind for the past month or so, and I just had to get the blasted thing out.

So, as the summary states, this is a time travel story (I'm a sucker for these things, and figured I might as well try my hand at it haha), as well as a body swap. I'll be honest, I've never particularly liked body swap stories purely because I haven't really found any seriously written ones/ones with intriguing plots. But oh my lord, recently I stumbled across an AMAZING webcomic by Haribo called "At the End of the Road" - and guys, I can't praise it enough. It has completely destroyed my soul. The characters, the plot, just everything makes me melt. If you haven't read it, I highly recommend :)

This story does take some inspiration from that webcomic, because it is awesome and all throughout reading it was I was like "It is Harry, and it is Tom, my god, I need to do a thing" and ideas just exploded in my head. So bless Haribo for giving us that gem.

Thanks to everyone who's giving this a read (defs check out that webcomic), and let's give this a go.

WARNING: The beginning of this chapter deals with the aftermath of the rape of a minor, and the attempted suicide of the same minor. If that bothers anyone, please, please, please, either don't read, or skip the italised section in the beginning.

They left, one by one, cruel laughter echoing back to him as they returned to the main alley just a few metres away from where he lay.

No one had come when he had screamed, when he had cried and pleaded. No one had cared. Here, in the bowel of darkness, everyone minded their own business.

He stayed where he had been thrown, body trembling more from the cold night air that was seeping into him than from how violated he felt.

He had stopped reacting to this torture. He just…did not care anymore. It was better that way, to just block it all out.

His clothes were torn open, and he could still feel the ghosts of their hands running along his chest, over his neck, down his thighs – nothing more than mocking caresses until they turned harsh and bruising.

Their horrible words still swirled in his ears, terrible whispers that permeated the quiet of his mind and kept him from falling into the peaceful embrace of unconsciousness.

He reached up slowly and wiped at the tears that painted his cheeks, smearing the dirt and grime onto his pale skin.

With aching care, he pushed himself up into a sitting position, staring with blank eyes at the mess they had left him in.

His stomach rolled, but there was nothing for him to throw up.

He forced his clumsy fingers to pull his pants back up his legs, to redo the buttons of his shirt, and to try and fix his jumbled hair. He ignored the sticky wetness clinging to his body as he tucked his shirt in and pulled his belt tight, two notches more than he usually did.

That done, he stood shakily, leaning heavily on the disgusting wall next to him as he waited for his legs to regain their strength.

As he stood there, his head rolled listlessly to the side-alley opening. His dark eyes watched emotionlessly as countless figures moved back and forth, black cloaks hiding even blacker hearts.

No one so much as glanced in his direction, though more than one had to have heard or known what had happened.

He wanted to feel hate. He wanted to burn them all for their selfishness.

But he was exhausted, and could not bring himself to waste what little energy he had left on the likes of them.

Tilting his head back, he stared up at the night sky. His fingers brushed blindly over the wall behind him, feeling the numerous grooves and cracks between the stones.

The wall stretched high above him, towering into the night sky, looming.

And suddenly, he knew what he had to do.

He turned, and without even a second to reconsider, he began to climb.

The rough stones cut into his soft hands, leaving bloody marks wherever he scrabbled for a grip. His nails were shredded from where he scraped them, and his body was quickly becoming numb as the autumn night air brushed against him – more insistently the higher he went.

He lost his hold only once or twice, his hands too slippery to get a good grip. But he was determined to get to the top. He had to do this right. What was a little more pain when he was so close to the end anyway?

When his hands finally curled around the lip of the roof he almost sobbed with relief, hauling himself up and over with his trembling arms, and collapsing against the freezing tiles. He rolled onto his back and closed his eyes while he regained his breath.

From here, he could see the entirety of Knockturn Alley, the twisted dark buildings and small blobs of witches and wizards scurrying along.

And in the distance, the bright, cheery lights of its twin, illuminating the dark sky.

His family would be down there somewhere, soaking in the atmosphere and enjoying the acts and festivities of Samhain, as they did every year.

They would not even think to start looking for him for another couple of hours at least. They were so used to him wandering off on his own, so used to him sneaking off to read or lose himself in an interesting store.

His chest hurt suddenly.

He never should have left their side tonight. He never should have strayed too close to Knockturn Alley's entrance. He had known of the dangers. He should have taken the precautions.

But he had just wanted to get away from it all, for even a little while. He needed to get away from the relentless jeers of his classmates, the snide rumours and unforgiving stares that tormented him every day at school.

He could not stand to be with his happy, happy family when he felt so tainted, like he was somehow too wrong to be in their presence. Unworthy, somehow.

It would be better this way.

He stood, moving to the very edge of the roof so the tips of his shoes were overhanging the night sky.

This was it.

Finally.

He wondered if they would miss him, if they would even care.

It did not matter.

He took one last moment to gaze over at the beautiful, twisted world, before tipping forward.

He wanted to die.

Harry shot up, wrestling with his sheets and gasping for breath as the image of the ground rushing to meet him melted into that of his dimly lit bedroom.

Bile rose in his throat, and he barely made it to the bathroom in time to empty his stomach in the toilet. He coughed, spitting the last of the foul, burning liquid from his mouth, and wiped at his lips.

He stayed there for a full minute, waiting for his stomach to settle, before standing and flushing. One hand reached up and fisted in his thick hair. He tried to slow his breathing as his vision swan with the change in position.

"Harry?"

He was covered in sweat, his shirt was sticking to him uncomfortably, and his hair was plastered to his neck and forehead.

He quickly yanked the night shirt off and tossed it to the side, leaning over the sink and staring at the white bowl intently.

Just what the hell was that?

"…Harry?"

"In here." He called, knowing she would find him eventually and there was no point trying to pretend nothing had happened. She had likely heard him throwing up.

"Harry, are you alright?"

He looked up into the mirror to see Ginny in the doorway. She was wrapped in her gorgeous black lace sleeping gown, the same one he had delighted in taking her out of last night. Her hair was messily up in a bun, and her face was freshly washed, meaning she had been up for some time already.

"Yeah," he croaked, then immediately cleared his throat to get rid of the grit in his voice. "Yeah, just a…really weird dream."

"What kind of dream?" She asked as she glided towards him, coming to a stop just behind him. Her hands, calloused and warm and familiar, landed gently on his back, rubbing the tense muscles there absently. "The war?"

He shook his head.

"Voldemort?"

"No," he swallowed, grimacing at the lingering burn. "I don't know…it was kind of like the visions, but not, at the same time."

She perched her chin on his shoulder, arms snaking around his waist. He stared at the appendages to give his mind something to focus on. The difference between her fair skin and his own darker shade was stark.

She raised an eyebrow, probing but not demanding. Ginny always knew exactly how to handle him.

"I don't know." He repeated. "It was just really vivid."

She hummed softly, "What was it about?"

"A kid," he said slowly, trying to recall the details from his jumbled emotions. "he'd been attacked and assaulted." He closed his eyes, feeling despair well in him even though it was just a dream. "He climbed a building in Knockturn Alley and jumped."

Her fingers, which had been tracing nonsense on his abdomen, stuttered to a stop. "Oh." She murmured. "How old was he?"

And this was why he loved her so, so much. Others might brush it off as just an intense nightmare. But Ginny treated it like it was real, because she knew he needed to get this stuff off his chest otherwise it would fester.

"About fourteen? I think. It was hard to tell."

Harry sighed deeply, turning in her hold and wrapping his arms around her. "I'm sorry, it's nothing. This case is probably just getting to me."

She patted his chest, tucking her head into his shoulder and sighing softly. "Are you any closer to getting him?"

He pressed a firm kiss to her head, just in front of her bun.

"Maybe, Kingsley asked for Ron and me to head in early today to talk the case over. Hopefully we'll finally catch him."

"Good," she said, slightly vicious. "that bastard deserves to be thrown in Azkaban to rot."

Harry sighed, "He'll get a trial first Gin. No more Sirius'."

"You already know he's guilty Harry. You have so much evidence."

"Which, hopefully, means this trial will go quickly and he'll get what he deserves."

She smiled up at him, stretching for a brief kiss. "Alright, you have a shower, and I'll finish up breakfast. We don't want you to be late."

"Sounds good." He kissed her one last time, watching with a small smile as she slipped back into the bedroom.

His smile disappeared as he glanced back to the mirror, replaced by a light frown.

Whatever that had been, it had not felt like a dream.

It had been so long since he had had one of the intensity, and he was honestly thrown. Just what was he doing, dreaming about something like that?

Yes, the case he and Ron were on was…confronting, but Harry had never been particularly bothered by most of the other crimes that came across their desks.

Enduring a war, and sharing a mind with a Dark Lord for most of your life had the annoying habit of exposing you to the sickest and most disgusting acts imaginable. He had always been a rather unflappable person, and had suffered through a number of atrocities as well.

His intense reaction was almost more surprising than the dream itself.

Harry sighed again, stripping the rest of his clothes and jumping into the shower, pushing it out of his mind for now.

When he finally entered the kitchen, fully dressed, Ginny was in the living room. She was half in her Quidditch gear, leaving her upper body bare except for her bra.

"Nice." Harry commented as he moved to the table where a plate sat for him. Ginny smirked at him from over her shoulder.

"When you get home," she promised, "now hurry up and eat so you can get going."

"Yes ma'am." He saluted, taking a seat and a bite of his breakfast. He groaned in delight. "Have I told you you're amazing?" He asked around the eggs.

"Not today you haven't." She laughed, reaching over him to snatch a piece of toast from his plate.

"You're amazing."

"I know." She said through a mouthful, "You're going to be late."

He grinned, finishing his last few bites and placing his dishes in the sink. He kissed Ginny again, because he could and he would never get sick of the taste of her lips, then ducked into the fireplace with a handful of floo powder. "See you tonight. Kick their arses."

"Always do," she replied, leaning on the back of the couch, smiling at him. "stay safe. I love you."

"Love you too."

And then he was gone.

OoO

"Get out of the way!" Harry shouted, feet pounding against the cobblestone floor as he followed his target.

People scrambled to the side, either simply reacting to the authority in his voice, or because they recognised him. Harry did not particularly care, so long as they moved.

He shoved a poor man that was too slow to move out of his path and pumped his arms faster, eyes pinned to the fleeing figure of Robert Summers.

He wanted nothing more than to throw a hex, but with the street so full, he could hardly risk injuring some innocent bystander.

He and Ron had been completely caught by surprise when they had stumbled across the man, hiding in his half-sister's abandoned shop. They had been following up on a lead from Kingsley, checking in on any family connection – close or distant – that Summers might use to avoid them.

They had just assumed the man would not be stupid enough to remain in such an obvious place, but clearly they had overestimated his intelligence.

"Summers!" He barked, causing more people to part. "Stop!"

Summers kept running – not that Harry had expected anything else. No one ever stopped when they ordered.

Summers tripped over a stray cart, sending items flying and causing another ruckus as he stumbled and almost fell. Despite the man's girth though, he was remarkably agile, and was on his feet and running in a split second.

Harry bit back a curse as he leapt over the fallen items and shoved a few more people out of his path.

Ron was somewhere behind him, delayed due to a curse Summers had stupidly thrown into a crowd of shoppers, but Harry knew he would be following nonetheless.

Harry saw Summers veer to the side, and knew instantly where the man was headed.

If he thought he could somehow shake them in Knockturn Alley then he was even dumber than Harry thought.

He took the upcoming turn mere metres behind Summers, almost crashing into a haggard looking witch. The woman jolted in shock, and Harry barely slid to a stop in time to avoid slamming into her.

He pushed past her, somewhere between gentle and rough, and started off again.

Fortunately, he had little trouble eating up the distance between them again. Summers was much like a bull, carving through the crowds like a knife. All Harry had to do was follow the gap.

Harry swerved around another corner, ducking under a broken pipe hanging down into the street.

He straightened in time to see Summers slip into a building, the door hanging half off its hinges, and most of the windows boarded up.

With narrowed eyes, Harry went after him.

He scaled the front steps and carefully tugged his wand from its holster.

Carefully, Harry peeked around the doorway, taking in the dusty, decrepit insides of what appeared to be shop. A number of glass containers lined the walls, with what looked like a counter towards the back.

There was some broken glass on the floor, and Harry stepped around it slowly, testing the floorboards before putting his full weight on them.

He paused just a few feet inside, eyes swinging in all directions, searching for his target.

A sharp creak to his left had him spinning and sending a simple stupefy in that direction.

Summers dodged with a yell, shooting a sickly yellow curse in retaliation. Harry stepped to the side, batting the curse away with a simple wave of his wand.

He jumped away when Summers continued his assault, gritting his teeth as the spells and curses hit his shield without pause.

Harry watched through the bright flashes as Summers began circling towards the staircase. He waited until Summers turned to bolt up the stairs before dropping his shield and giving chase yet again.

The sound of their footsteps on the wooden stairs was deafening, and it was hard enough navigating the dilapidated staircase, with its sharp turns and many levels; Harry was just grateful Summers was more preoccupied climbing than trying to stop him from following.

Harry vaulted up the last few steps, catching the door that was swinging closed with his shoulder and crashing into the top floor with none of his usual grace.

He just spotted Summers scrambling out of the far window, the scuffed tips of the man's boots disappearing as he clawed his way onto the roof.

Harry swore, tearing after the other. He pulled himself out of the window, grasping at the lip of the roof and tugging himself upwards.

"Summers!" He snapped, seeing the trembling man rushing to the other side of the roof with no caution. "Enough of this crap. You're done." He claimed the other's wand with an expelliarmus, tucking it in his belt.

Summers shook his head frantically, backing away further. "No! No!" The man cried, "I'm innocent, I never touched her!"

"If you're innocent, why did you attack my colleague and I? Why did you run?" Harry tread closer, keeping half an eye on where he stepped and the other on how close Summers was to the edge of the roof.

"You're aurors!" Summers shouted, stepping back in fear as Harry prowled ever nearer. "You're like wild dogs! You don't listen!"

"It's not my job to listen to your whines." Harry commented, stopping just a few feet away. "I just bring in people like you."

"I didn't do it!"

Harry scowled, his patience wearing thin. The chase, first through Diagon Alley, then Knockturn Alley, had already pushed him to his limit. Summers' pathetic attempts to change his mind were doing nothing to endear him.

"Look, if you're innocent, why not just come down to the Department and we can clear all this up then? Running makes you look guilty." But Summers was already shaking his head again.

Harry sighed. "Fine." He said, raising his wand, ready to knock the bastard out and bodily drag him into a cell.

There was very real fear in Summers eyes, and Harry took a moment to wonder if it was at the prospect of facing justice for his assault on his niece, or because he was staring down the wand of Harry Potter.

Perhaps a combination. There was a reason Harry was one of the youngest aurors on the force, why his training only lasted a short eight months rather than the customary three years, why his record was quickly rising to the level of Alastor Moody himself.

From here, he could see the entirety of Knockturn Alley, the twisted dark buildings and small blobs of witches and wizards scurrying along.

Harry shook his head, blinking heavily as his vision swam suddenly. His lungs seized and he tried to suck in air, finding it difficult to breathe.

What the hell is going on? He thought as a rush of blistering cold rolled through him that had nothing to do with the wind.

He could still see Summers, but behind him, everything was wrong.

Why is it night? Harry clenched his eyes shut, and hissed quietly at the budding pain in his head.

Someone grabbed his wrist, jolting him back. Harry slammed his fist into Summers' nose, forcing the man to let go from where he had been trying to pry Harry's wand out of his hand. The man stumbled away.

Harry stopped breathing as his vision overlapped again as he finally got a look at where they were.

It was different, surrounding buildings had changed, the sun was shining cheerily down on them, the tiles he was standing on were chipped and blackened.

But it was the same.

He stood, moving to the very edge of the roof so the tips of his shoes were overhanging the night sky.

Summers slammed into him, sending them both crashing to the ground. Harry grunted as his head snapped back and cracked onto the roof, and he shoved Summers off of him.

He shot to his feet, but before he could raise his wand, Summers was on him again, trying to pin him with his larger body.

Harry bucked, switching their positions and sending two sharp punches to the man's head, trying to put him down.

Summers reached up wildly, flinging his own fist. Harry swayed back to avoid the hit, but lost his advantage as Summers kicked him away.

He went rolling, and his gut lurched when the roof disappeared from under him.

His arms shot out and gripped onto the gutter, stopping his fall with a terrible screech as the aged metal dipped precariously with his weight.

He wondered if they would miss him, if they would even care.

The metal screamed again, the section Harry was holding onto almost completely tearing free. He cursed, the beginnings of fear licking at him.

He took one last moment to gaze over at the beautiful, twisted world, before tipping forward.

He could hear someone calling his name, but his attention had narrowed down to the slowly breaking gutter.

He could not use his wand, Ron was somewhere else completely, and he doubted Summers would suddenly grow a conscious and help him.

"Fuck."

He wanted to die.

The metal snapped.

I want to live.

OoO

He groaned, eyes screwing shut against the harsh light spilling through the room.

Harry brought a hand up and pressed his palm against his head as he pushed himself upright. The soft, heavy blanket he had had draped over him dropped to his lap in a clump.

He leaned forward over his legs, eyes still shut as he waited for the intense pounding in his head to piss off.

Harry gripped at his hair, and slowly opened his eyes.

"…A hospital?" He murmured, voice sounding horribly thick.

He sat up straighter, glancing around the room; taking in the bland curtains, the open window, and the small white vase on the table next to him, a handful of bright flowers on the verge of wilting.

What?

Harry looked down at his covered legs, frowning thoughtfully.

But…what happened? Why am I in the hospital? Did I get hurt?

He moved to pull the blanket back, but froze when he caught sight of his hand for the first time.

His eyes widened as he studied the pale limb, turning it over to see the same skin colour on the other side – a shade severely different from his normal warm brown. He held the other one up, chest heaving when he saw it was wrong too.

He took a shuddering breath, dropping his arms and ripping the blanket off of him. His feet were the same, and the sight of them – not his own, what the fuck was going on? – had him springing from the bed in panic.

Harry backed away, but he could not escape his own body. He knocked the side table so the vase wobbled, and slammed into a wall, feeling something dig into his back.

He blindly turned and realised it was a door.

Harry shoved the door open. He rushed inside and was confronted with a wide, shining mirror.

He half-collapsed on the basin, staring at the face looking back at him.

It was all wrong.

Too pale, too smooth, too fucking young.

His hair was more brown than black, and his eyes.

Gone were the familiar sharp green eyes he had once abhorred, then treasured because of their connection with his mother. In their place, two soft grey ones pierced him.

Harry's jaw clenched, his hands tightened around the edges of the basin, and his magic crackled around him as his emotions erupted.

"What the fuck is going on?" He whispered, reaching up to touch a cheek that did not belong to him. He felt the smooth skin of a boy that had never shaved, felt the underdeveloped jawline, the straight, almost feminine nose.

He wrenched his hand away in disgust, because this was not him.

There was no stubble, no glasses, no untameable hair and – he glanced up – no scar.

This was not Harry Potter staring back at him. This was…someone else.

He stepped away from the mirror, turning his back on the wrong reflection and closing his eyes. He pressed his hands to his face and tried to steady his breathing.

Calm down. Calm down. Clearly something's gone wrong. This has to be a dream. There's no way this is possible. Think, Potter. What happened?

Harry slowed his breathing, casting his mind back.

He had been on a case with Ron. They had found Summers. There was a chase, they got separated. He had followed Summers to the roof –

His eyes snapped open.

The roof.

It had rocked him at the time, but he was positive that that roof was the same one from his dream. The one the boy had jumped off of.

Idiot. He thought. Never let yourself get distracted on the job. Fucking hell, no wonder he got the jump on me.

They had fought, and then…

The gutter dipping, the screech of metal, the rush of wind in his ear.

"I fell." He finished hollowly.

That was right. The gutter had given out, and he had dropped.

But that did not explain why he was as he was. Why was he in a child's body? A boy that could hardly be more than fourteen?

Harry exited the bathroom, took two steps, and promptly tripped over his own feet. He stumbled into the bed, a fierce scowl appearing on his face as he stared down at his - considerably shorter - legs. He huffed, and leaned heavily against the bed, glancing around the room once more. His eyes landed on the clipboard at the end of the bed, and he reached out to pluck it from its place.

Name: Nathan Ciro

D.O.B: 17 March, 1927

Underneath were a list of simple observations, temperature, blood pressure, and more. Yet Harry's eyes had trouble moving past the date of birth.

The 17th of March, 1927.

1927.

He lowered the clipboard, staring blankly at the opposite wall.

1927…how is that even possible? He'd have to be at least seventy-two by now.

He did not like this at all.

Harry moved to stand, and as he did his foot brushed against something. He looked down and saw another file sitting on the floor. He scooped it up and started flicking through it, realising almost immediately that it was about him – or rather, the kid who's body he was in.

The list of injuries he found had his eyebrows raising. Broken bones. Torn tendons. A shattered wrist. Swelling in the brain. It just went on.

The most eye-catching one though was the coma. Three-months, completely unresponsive.

Harry flipped to the last page, breezing over the short hand-written notes, and coming to a stop on one in particular.

Patient suffered from a severe fall, but showed signs of sexual assault…

Harry snapped it closed, dropping it beside the clipboard and taking a deep breath. This could not be happening. He pressed his hands on the soft mattress when they began shaking minutely, willing it to stop. His mind was in chaos. He bit his lip, pushing through the confusion and fear and multitude of other emotions, and focussed on what was important. First thing first.

He looked down at his – Nathan's – hands and clenched them repeatedly. They moved on his command, without a hint of pain.

He slowly started stretching, noting the lack of injury – not even the slightest twinge. Whatever these healers had done, they had done it well.

Harry looked back at the documents, eyes inevitably landing on the damning date of birth again.

This made absolutely no sense, but the documents were screaming facts at him.

A young boy, who was assaulted, and then suffered from a fall from a great height?

Harry did not believe in coincidences. This was too specific, too many connections were being drawn.

What were the chances that he would have a dream about a situation similar to what this boy faced, and then wake up in his body.

He looked down at his hands again, studying the delicate things critically.

Now that his mind was kicking into overdrive, his panic began to ebb away.

He had no earthly idea what had happened to him, if this was just another intense, disturbing dream, or if this was really happening.

All he knew is that, as of right now, he had no choice but to play along with whatever happened, until he figured out a way to fix this.

Whatever this was.

His head snapped up when he heard the door to his room open. A young woman entered, worry etched into her pretty features.

Their eyes locked, and she froze just on the threshold.

Harry raised an eyebrow at her.

She promptly dashed from the room, shouting for a healer.

He sighed deeply, taking a seat back on the bed and forced himself to wait for her to return. Maybe then he could finally start getting some answers.

So that happened haha. Not sure when the next update will be, but let me know what you guys think so far~