Silent night

And hope will fill us again

Shadows of the gone appearing

We'll believe once more

In the Christmas time

Carrol for the gone, S. Mucha

"What's that plate for, grandma?"

Victoire looked questioningly at Mrs Delacour, setting the plates on the magically enlarged table in Weasley's living room. It was their turn to host the Christmas dinner this year – last time they were in France.

Harry lifted his head curiously. He's noted that Fleur's mother pulled twelve snow-white plates out of the cupboard, though there were only eleven guests coming for the dinner, if he didn't miss anyone. Mr and Mrs Weasley, the Delacours with their daughters, son-in-law and granddaughter, Ron, Hermione, and he himself. Harry was never a mathematical eagle, but he was pretty sure of this simple calculation. Even little Victoire could obviously count to eleven without much trouble.

"It's for a stranger," the woman replied, sending out the plates to the right places with a light flicker of her wand and then - seeing the girl's clearly baffled expression - she added: "For the weary wanderer who can knock on the door. You cannot say no to them on such a night, right?"

Apparently this explanation sounded logicaly enough, because Victoire nodded and ran out the room in an unspecified direction with enthusiasm right for all four-year-olds. Perhaps she wanted to once again search the rooms hoping to find the hidden gifts that were supposed to be found under the Christmas tree next morning.

Actually, Harry wasn't sure why they were eating a festive supper before Christmas. He thought it might be a French custom the Weasleys decided to respect. On the other hand, he shouldn't complain probably, because they weren't giving up on the traditional Christmas Day dinner. This year he was simply given the opportunity to eat twice more than usually.

He had to admit that having a plate for a stranger was a nice idea. Never in his life had he seen anything like this, but it sounded quite touching. It was debatable of course whether anyone would actually let a stranger inside, even on this festive, magical night. The gesture, however, was simple and beautiful.

Harry focused on his interrupted reading again. Time and how to tame it. He found the book a few weeks earlier on Knocturn Alley and couldn't get away from it. It was indeed a very demanding read and he didn't understand everything right away, but at least it gave him some hope to find answers and the questions he was asking weren't simple. As far as going back in time was within his capabilities, the influence of what he did in the past on what he called the present, remained rather confusing. He's recently watched some Muggle movie in which meddling with time causes more troubles than good and one small change in the past led to disastrous consequences in the future. Was he ready to sacrifice all that he knew and stay in some other, strange time? Would Harry Potter still exist if he didn't?

All these existential thoughts gave him a headache. Harry's planning always ended like this - he couldn't make a decision. Maybe if he was sure that he was really able to change the past and, above all, to change Tom, it would be easier to decide to make a step. He couldn't trust his own feelings though, let alone have hope in Tom's. Well, he wasn't the most balanced people Harry's met in his life, was he?

I could use some help from The Spirit of Christmas myslef, Harry thouhgt and smiled to himself at the memory of a winter night at Hogwarts, when the Boy Who Lived was simply trying to save Christmas and maybe, just maybe, he was able to save something much more important. Hope was still there and he had to hold onto it.

"Twelve?" Mrs. Weasley's voice brought him back from his reverie. She was carefully counting the plates on the nicely decorated table. "I could bet on aunt Tessies' enchanted cheese there are eleven of us..."

"It's for a stranger!" Victoire said, running through the door, where she disappeared only a few minutes earlier. This time she was accompanied by Crookshanks, clearly frightened by the child's behavior.

"Stranger? Are we expecting someone?"

"Oh, no, no, it's just a tradition," Mrs. Delacour explained somewhat apologetically. "My mother was always doing it - leaving a plate for the unexpected guest and somehow I cannot stop the traidition. I've heard it's Polish, I think."

"Mom, didn't great-grandmother live in Bulgaria like uncle Victor?," the blonde girl asked, trying to catch Crookshanks, who deftly jumped on the railing of the old couch, effectively protecting his tail.

"You're right, darling," Fleur, who has just come into the room, answere, carrying a steaming tureen of something very tasty, Harry judged by the smell. Seeing the surprise on her daughter's face, she added: "Your great-grandmother... She traveled a lot."

"She led a carefree life, if that's what you mean," Mrs. Delacour added, laughing. "Great-grandmother had... many friends and often spent time outside Bulgaria."

"Uncle Candido says it's for the dead." It seemed Victoirie was nowhere near giving up. "He says you have to leave crumbs for them to show they're remembered."

"Or to eat after midnight," Mrs. Weasley muttered, waving her wand at an extremely rickety pile of glasses.

Mrs. Delacour and Fleur laughed and after a while they were joined by Victoire, who apparently didn't want want to lose anything of this incomprehensible mirth.

The front door opened in the very moment and three Weasleys entered with the cool breeze: Arthur, Bill and Ron. They were accompanied by Hermione, who was arguing about something with her fiancé. Nothing new. Some things never change, Harry thought.

He was happy. These people, this place – it felt so calm and for the first time in a long time he didn't want to blame himself for anything. Harry was no longer haunted by nightmares or sinister visions. The future seemed far away, non-existent in a way. He tamed his past, he wasn't afraid of it. The only thing left to enjoy was the present, as long as it lasted.

"Neville will start working at Hogwarts," Hermione said, dropping into a chair by the fireplace. Crookshanks jumped off the couch immediately and curled up on her lap; she stroked his fur absently, looking at Harry. "Professor Sprout is retiring, so he decided to try."

"What about his grandmother?" Ron laughed, brushing the remnants of snow off his sleeve. He was wearing his last year's sweater, fiery red with a golden R, a perfect copy of the one he got during their first year at Hogwarts.

"I think she finally understood that not everyone can become an Auror," the girl muttered, not taking her eyes off Harry. "Speaking about that – do you know what you're going to do with yourself, Harry? You cannot roam London's streets forever."

"It's pretty tempting," said the youngest Weasley brother, but seeing the disapproving gaze of his future wife - looking disturbingly like alike his own mother's - Ron stopped and under the pretext of helping to prepare the dinner he vanished from the room.

"Hermione, I know what I'm doing," Harry said finally, when the silence between them started to become awkward. "Actually, I have an idea..."

He hoped that his friend won't make him talk about it more, because it seemed that going back in time to save Lord Voldemort wasn't what Hermione expected from him. He was already beginning to miss her concern for house-elves and the sullen expression he had seen so often when he was ignoring his homework. Wasn't it Hermione's planner that tols him once to Do it today or later you'll pay? He couldn't wait any longer.

Hermione was probably going to ask him more questions, he could see it clearly in her eyes, but when she opened her mouth - probably to give Harry a pep talk - Mr. Delacour walked into the room with a huge platter of something that had to be a venison haunch with roasted chestnuts and behind him the rest of the guests was carrying other dishes. Even Victoire got a responsible job and with Fleur's little help she lit a white candle.

"Merry Christmas!" Mrs. Weasley said solemnly, this year dressed in a beautiful blue sweater with a decorative M, a gift from her daughter in law. Harry wanted to laugh every time he remember the memorable first summer Fleur spend at the Burrow and Molly Weasley's apparent reluctance towards the girl.

"Delicious!" Mr. Weasley gave a verdict, trying Mr. Delacour's spectacular dish.

The others nodded, too busy eating.

Festive music played from the old radio, this time happily avoiding Celestina Warbeck's repertoire, though Harry was sure he'll hear "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love " at least three times before midnight. Well, there was a charm to it - people he knew and loved were the sum of their habits and small, sometimes strange tastes. Though Harry's heard so many times that blood is thicker than water, he was certain that real blood, the one he was able to give - and gave – for his friends, created a bond much stronger than he shared with Aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon. He didn't think about them a lot, he tried not to, but he couldn't shake off the feeling that if he really managed to change the past, maybe some other Harry Potter wouldn't have to go through it all. Maybe he could enjoy a different life with loving parents, innocent godfather, maybe even real siblings.

That Harry wouldn't be him, right? Or maybe he would?

Outside, the snow was falling still falling, cold wind hitting the windows from time to time. The darkness of the evening only increased the coziness of the warm room. Harry looked at the empty plate next to his own. Was anyone really alone tonight? He remembered the grim Christmas many years ago, when he visited the grave of his parents for the first time. People hurried to the church for the night Mass, the choir sounded almost like angels from a distant world, but even then he had Hermione at his side. How cruel was the fate of the person they've left the empty plate for.

Suddenly, as if this thought worked like a beacon in a storm, Harry heard a knock on the door. For a moment he was sure it was only his imagination, but other guests raised their heads in surprise, looking towards the door in silent anticipation.

Knock, knock, knock.

There was no doubt – someone was really standing in the snow-covered garden in this unfriendly, cold night.

"The weary wanderer!" Victoire exlaimed, before anyone could react, and jumped up, running to the door. Bill followed, apparently somewhat less enthusiastic about the unexpected guest.

"Maybe it's George?" Mrs. Weasley looked questioningly at her husband.

"I thought he went to Hawaii with Angelina," Hermione chimed in uncertainly. "Ginny had other plans, right?"

"Yes, she'll come tomorrow," Ron confirmed, putting down his fork.

It seemed that the empty plate and letting strangers into the warm house were completely different thing. Harry was surprised, seeing the anxiety gathering in the room – perhaps he was too naive, but he couldn't imagine what was everyone so afraid of. Someone who was alone on the Christmas night, couldn't be dangerous. Abandoned, lonely, lost – to this Harry could agree. What man was alone at Christmas?

Well, they couldn't understand this. They had loving families, sticking together no matter what. But Harry knew what loneliness was - an emptiness that nothing could fill; a pain that could be only soothed with trust, the crazy risk of unveiling one's own weaknesses.

Cool wind burst into the room and Harry shuddered. There was a figure wrapped in a scarf at the door, but he couldn't see the person's face clearly. Victoire lost some of her courage and took a step back, but when she spoke, her voice was more curious than scared:

"Are you the weary wanderer?" She grabbed her father's hand just to be sure and when the stranger's didn't answer right away, she nearly jumped up: "Uncle Candido was right, the stranger is dead! Grandma, can you see it? We must find some crumbs!"

The people at the table were silent, exchanging glances - some concerned, others surprised, though Harry had to admit that he personally was a little amused with Victoire's conclusions. Remembering Nearly Headless Nick's birthday party he doubted that the dead would be tempted to eat their dinner.

Apparently he wasn't the only one who found Victoire's words funny, because he's heard a laughter coming from the door - the stranger was clearly amused, trying to look inside above Bill's arm.

Harry didn't have see his face to know who has visited The Burrow. He could recognize his laughter everywhere, at the end of the world and at any time; the laughter he's already hear in this garden last summer, when the Mrs. Weasley's flowers bloomed exceptionally beautifully.

"Harry!" Tom Riddle called him, as if they saw each other yesterday, not many months ago, as if they were separated by nothing more than just time.

He rose from the table, almost knocking the vase with fish soup and using all willpower to stop himself from shoving Bill and Victoire out of his way. Yes, they were split by time, painfully long and full of despair, by their past mistakes, even those they had no control over. Something brought them together nonetheless – not the prophecy, long gone into oblivion; something much stronger than common sense and their past ideals, stronger even than death.

"Tom," Harry smiled, standing so close he could see the snowflakes melting on Tom's hair. "What are you doing here?"

"I..." Tom began, spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, when Victoire decided to join the conversation once again:

"Uncle, if he alive?" Apparently the issue of the empty plate and its purpose was still occuping the girl's mind.

"It seems so," Tom said, smiling at her. Harry had the feeling that it comes a lot easier to him than it did the last they saw each other. What path did Tom Riddle choose to find himself in this place and time? "Though I have to admit uncle Harry almost sent me to the other side a few times," he added so quietly only Harry could hear him.

Why was he here? And why was he so... different? Back then, in the summer, Harry had a feeling that something had changed, that he could really change Tom, if he only sacrificed enough - himself. But it seemed that his belief in miracles was again put to test and perhaps the true Spirit of Christmas decided to show him that hope not only existed, but worked too.

"Harry's friend is our friend," Mr. Weasley said, standing by the table and taking a closer look at thte newcomer. "Get inside."

"It's the first time the extra plate come in handy," Gabrielle noticed, passing her new neighbor a platter of bûche de noël.

"That's right, even my mother didn't live long enough to get an unexpected guest." Mrs. Delacour studied the stranger with interest. Perhaps it had something to do with Tom's French, because – of course – he had to show off before two minutes had passed since his arrival. Harry had to admit that the might-have-been Dark Lord could really make an impression.

The guests were looking at Tom curiously from time to time, but the dinner quickly returned to a completely ordinary track – Hermione was trying to explain Fleur why house elves should have the right to paid vacation, Mr. Weasley was telling everyone who wanted to listen to him that the London Underground, which he had recently the opportunity to travel by once again, is absolutely magical, and Victoire tried to feed Crookshanks bits of fish under the table. Harry couldn't believe how easily his almost adoptive family accepted that night-time wanderer was his friend. It alarmed him how easy it would be to betray them if he only wanted to. He could bring anyone into this house, a criminal, a thief, a murderer... Well, technically speaking, he brought a murderer, and yet no one seemed frightened. They really trusted him. Harry felt a strange twinge in his chest, so terrible and heartwarming was the idea. They really were his family, a better family than he could ever deserve.

Did he really have to leave them? The answer seemed obvious. He was extremely lucky today, because Ginny wasn't there and she could recognize Tom for sure. How could he look her in the eye, if someone ever told her about the unexpected visitor? About Harry's friend? He couldn't expose them. He wanted to believe Tom has changed, he wanted it with all his heart, but he couldn't. Was he struggling for too long to simply acknowledge the existence of miracles? Or maybe he didn't want to believe Tom could changed without his help?

Perhaps now it was Harry's time to change. To decide not on past or future, but of who he was, who he wanted to be. Was he really bound to be The Boy Who Lived forever? The name was getting heavy on his arms; no longer a man - a symbol. But he was a human being, not an idea. He wanted to have the right to choose.

"Harry, who is this?" Hermioned hissed suddenly when he got up from the table and Mrs. Weasley made Tom help her with the dirty plates. "How is it possible that we've never heard about any Tom and then he appears here on Christmas Eve out of nowhere joining us for dinner?"

"It's someone important..." Harry replied evasively, trying not to look in Hermione's eyes. He had no idea how he should explain this. Hee couldn't just tell her truth.

Hi, Hermione, it's Tom Marvolo Riddle and if I gave you a moment, you'd probably find out that somehow if you rearrange the letters, you get the name of the most dangerous wizard of our times. We happen to be friends because of your time turner.

"Important?" The girl didn't look convinced, but after a moment her face changed completely. "Oh... Important? You mean that you... Harry, why didn't you tell us?"

"What? We're not..." he began, quickly realizing what she meant, then changing his mind. Well, it would be much easier to say that they were together than to explain why the Dark Lord ate dinner at the Burrow. "I was a little concerned how you'd react..."

"You shouldn't!" Hermione nearly cried, hugging him. Harry felt strange cheating on her. Well, was he really lying all that much?

"Don't you be afraid, come and take a sip of this steamy, tasty treat! "

Of course, Celestine Warbeck finally has arrived at the Burrow, just as Harry predicted. He didn't foresee, however, that with the first bars of the terrible songs two people will run into the room, Mrs. Weasley and Tom Riddle, demanding unanimously:

"Turn it up!"

The request was reluctantly fulfilled by Ron, who was standing closest to the radio and his expression only increased the general hilarity of the view. Hermione looked pointedly at Harry and left him alone, grabbing two champagne glasses on her way. He could clearly see she was happy for him, even if she didn't understand.

"The less she knows, the better she sleeps," Harry's heard Tom's voice somewhere near and turned to face him. He looked much healthier than in the summer and probably a lot better than during his quick encounter with the old baker specializing in apple pies with thyme. Wasn't Tom a little bit older now? How many years passed since their last meeting?

"I don't recall allowing you to mess with my head," Harry replied, though he was more amused than angry. It was still hard to believe Tom was really by his side.

They sat by the fireplace, with Celestine Warbeck still singing about the unfortunate cauldron full of love in the background. Harry suspected that the singer had to be rather popular during Tom's youth. Did he have a collection of her albums? Harry never thought about the Dark Lord in such a way.

Mr. Delacour sarved them with champagne and exchanged a few words with Tom in his native language. It sounded like a strange magic, though probably not a curse, because the Frenchman laughed, patted the stranger friendly on the shoulder and walked toward his daughters.

They weren't talking much - it seemed that silence was more natural for them. Didn't they say anything they wanted to before? Deadly curses, poison draped in words – there was no need to go back to it. They couldn't apologize because no words would express their grief. What else was there to say? None of them could - and probably didn't want to – talk about the way they felt. It was... well, for the first time in so many years.

Harry didn't notice when exactly Tom took his hand. It was so natural no one looked their way. Well, maybe Ron seemed a little confused, but Hermione quickly turned his attention to Mrs. Weasley's cheesecake.

Tom was warm, so completely different from Lord Voldemort, and even from that other Tom Harry's met in the garden - he was no longer like the first sunrise of spring or like a summer breeze; he was like the fire burning in Weasley's living room on a winter night full of miracles.

Time passed and the room slowly emptied. They were all going to sleep peacefully, without knowing who was under their roof. Would they believe if Harry told them who Tom was? Once he too couldn't believe that face was a mask of a monster. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure Tom Tiddle who was now sitting next to him was someone entirely different from the boy he's met so many years ago in the Chamber of Secrets.

"Midnight," Tom said softly, hearing the distant bells; darkness carried their sonorous voice over the snow-strewn fields. "The hour of magic."

"And Ghosts of Christmas," Harry added, looking at the gifts appearing under the Christmas tree. He recognized the longitudinal package with Victoire's first broom.

"You know I have to go soon." Tom stared at the fire, as if trying to see something more than the dancing flames. "It's not my place, not my time."

Is it my place and my time?, Harry wanted to ask, but said nothing. Something in those words was too final and he still couldn't make his decision.

Tom got up, looking for his coat. Something dark and slimy began to hinder his breathing and Harry could practically hear his thought: Apparently I was counting on too much. The number of miracles for one person is probably limited. Tom saw his coat on the back of one of the chairs, scarf lying on the couch; he had no idea how it got there.

Harry thought the fireplace was suddenly less warm. Did it lack fresh logs? Or maybe it was only him missing the closeness of another person? A particular person he shouldn't be sharing anything with?

"Gifts!" Harry exclaimed suddenly, when the weary wanderer was almost opening the door.

"I don't expect any," Tom Riddle replied, strangely unfamiliar, and Harry felt guilty. There was so much they could do. Together.

"Maybe you should?" He asked with a smile, pulling a package wrapped in red shiny paper – very similar to several others lying beside - from under the tree.

"For me? From whom?"

From the one and only Molly Weasley, the mother of so many children, Harry thought with a smile, seeing a green sweater with a golden T emerging from the package, a twin to his own gift as he realized a minute later.

"Much better," Harry said, immediately dressing up. "Warmer. Ideally for the road."

"The road?"

"I couldn't leave such a hopeless case alone."

...

"Dad, where's uncle Harry?"

"Uncle Harry? What Harry?"