Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling created and owns Harry Potter. (looks in mirror: Nope, not her.) Rights are held by JKR, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic. Warner Brothers and goodness knows who else. If the fans had copyright, the series would be much more interesting! Not profiting, just enjoying.
It was the final New Years Eve of the century, and the Wizarding World's most significant party was being held at Hogwarts. Candles flickered at every window of the Castle, their twinkling reflection in the lake below rivalling the brilliant stars in the clear night sky above. Reporters, and others eager to glimpse the heroes of the War, were clustered near the School gates, and greeted the arrival of each celebrity with cheers and the popping flashes of cameras. Names on the guest list would shine down through the years as among the most famous of their generation, for their crucial participation in the defeat of Voldemort: Longbottom, Lovegood, Krum, Granger, Weasley, and, of course, Potter.
Inside the Great Hall, Harry finished his cup of punch and glanced across the sea of colourfully-attired guests. Ron and Oliver were among a group of professional Quidditch players, discussing the charity match they would be playing on the Hogwarts' pitch New Year's Day. It was the most eagerly anticipated game of the year, since the War had forced the cancellation of the World Cup, and a Quidditch-starved public had gobbled up the tickets within hours of the announcement of the event.
On the dance floor, Hermione and Viktor were draped around each other, not dancing as much as swaying contentedly to the music. More couples were joining them, as the hour of midnight loomed near, and the guests were beginning to buzz in anticipation of the midnight festivities. Harry couldn't help but share in the general euphoria: a new century was dawning, the first year in memory that would be free of the shadow of evil that had haunted their world for so long.
Percy, standing with the group from the Ministry, looked up and caught Harry's eye, nodding at the large clock on the stage, which indicated ten minutes to midnight. Harry gave him a thumbs-up; it was time for the guests of honour to assemble.
He looked around for somewhere to set his empty cup, and, at the same time, one of the guests nearby turned, and Harry found himself face to face with Tom Riddle.
It was the last person in the world he would have expected to see, though he realized at once that this younger manifestation of Lord Voldemort must have materialized from the Horcrux they had never been able to find. He appeared to be in his middle-to-late twenties, which meant he had been embedded in the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff in the 1950s, around the time that Voldemort had applied for a teaching position at Hogwarts.
He was just as handsome, his manner as charming, his smile as fascinating as Harry remembered, and when he spoke, his voice was just as compelling. "Would you like to hear about my plan for world domination?"
"Sure," Harry managed, unable to take his eyes from the man who had captivated his dreams for the last six years.
Tom took his arm and steered him into an alcove. "It's an invention," he confided. "I call it a spell-box and it can be used to power any Muggle device that operates on petrol or electricity. Every Muggle will want one, because they don't rely on the depletion of natural resources as do their traditional energy sources, and witches and wizards will want them too, so they can enjoy devices like computers and I-pods. But here's the really clever part," he continued, leaning close to Harry's ear, "They won't work forever. They must periodically be recharged, and the method for doing that will be a closely-guarded secret."
Tom's breath was warm on his cheek, and Harry tried with difficulty to maintain his composure. "It sounds brilliant," he said cautiously. "But I'd want to see a prototype before I commit to anything."
Smiling, Tom stepped back. "I'd be delighted to demonstrate my invention anytime you'd care to see it."
"You know, you seem awfully familiar," Harry ventured. "Have we met somewhere?"
"That's difficult to say," Tom replied with a frown. "You see, I have a problem with my memory. It happened during the War. I can remember nothing at all before I found myself a prisoner of Lord Voldemort. I was clever, though, and managed to escape, but the healers at St. Mungo's have been unable to help me discover anything about myself, other than my name. Still, when my spell-box becomes a success, I hope to use my fifteen minutes of fame to discover my origins, humble though they may be." His smile was contagious, his manner warm and friendly, and Harry was having difficulty imagining this pleasant young man as the Dark Lord. On the other hand…
There was a loud "ahem" and the Minister of Magic, his voice magically amplified, announced, "The moment we've awaited is at hand! I'd like our honoured guests to join me on the stage for the countdown to midnight!"
Harry quickly asked Tom, "Are you here with someone?"
"No, I don't have a date." He smiled again, and Harry marvelled at how guileless he seemed. "I was invited because I own the Pride of Portree."
"Really?" Harry was astounded. "Well, look, I'm Harry Potter. Would you like to join me up front?" He watched carefully as Tom absorbed that information, but saw no telltale flash of cunning in his expression, no crimson glow in his dark eyes.
"Harry - ? I had no idea! Yes, I'd love to! My name, by the way, is Tom Riddle. Or so I'm told. Rather fitting, really."
Harry took his hand, and they began to thread their way across the Great Hall. A sudden thought struck him. "Do you know anything about Hogmanay?"
"No. What is it?"
Harry grinned as he thought about the old Scottish custom of first-footing. According to tradition, the first visitor to cross over the doorstep in the New Year set the luck of the household for the next twelve months. The best luck was thought to be brought by a tall, dark and handsome stranger…
They climbed the stairs just as the lights dimmed and the countdown to midnight began. Harry's friends clustered around them, most of them smiling, not a few weeping, all of them survivors on the threshold of a new era. Tom seemed a bit uncomfortable among all these emotional strangers, and Harry realized that he was a survivor too, the final remnant of Lord Voldemort's soul, as free as the rest of them to determine his own future and that of the Wizarding world.
Fireworks exploded at the first stroke of midnight, and laughing, Harry threw his arms around Tom and kissed him. Without hesitation, Tom hugged him close and returned the kiss. Then they were tugged apart by Harry's enthusiastic friends and engulfed in a group hug that lasted beyond the last chime of the clock in the bell tower.
As soon as he could extricate himself from the sentimental group, Harry looked about for Tom, who appeared somewhat forlorn. He brightened immediately when he saw Harry, and they joined the happy throng clustered at the windows, watching the fireworks together hand in hand.
"What is this thing called 'Hogmanay'?" Tom asked in the expectant pause just before the finale.
"Celtic New Year's traditions," Harry told him. "Listen, I live in Hogsmeade, d'you think you might like –"
"I'd love to come home with you," Tom answered, and as the sky erupted with kaleidoscopic brilliance, they kissed.
The New Age had begun.
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