Tom Riddle lied on his bed while his bones steeped in anger. This was the last summer he would be forced to endure this hellhole, he swore it to himself. The Muggle war was still in full force and yet again his request to stay at Hogwarts had been denied—Dumbledore's doing he was certain of it. The orphanage was somehow even shabbier than before with rations diminishing the already paltry foodstuffs provided. Soldiers, after all, needed food far more than orphans. The only boon had been that most of his old tormentors and pests were long gone—either lying about their age to enlist or choosing to do something better than wasting away here.

He closed his eyes, attempting to allow himself to rest for just a moment. The orphanage was quieter than he had ever remembered and it unsettled him greatly. It was the kind of quiet that preceded death and the entire city suffered from it. He felt exposed and vulnerable here in a place where he wasn't allowed to use magic. Tom had deep reservations about the underage magic law, especially considering how deeply it inconvenienced him in particular. Exceptions should be made for exceptional wizards. Arrogant purebloods had little inkling about how devastating the war actually was. Why would they care about Muggle buildings or Muggle lives?

All summer he had been forced to wait and wonder. What if an air raid occurred? What if it happened while he slept, unable to summon his magic in time to protect himself? What could he even do to protect himself if an entire building collapsed around him? Here he was, likely the greatest wizard in a generation, facing his potential end due to some idiotic Muggles.

Tom Riddle had found it rather difficult to sleep this particular summer.

He supposed he could have asked some of his acquaintances but he was far too savvy to know that openly admitting weakness was a social faux pas in Slytherin house. Letting his housemates know just how deeply this Muggle war was affecting him would only bring more attention to his less-than-exceptional background. It would also undoubtedly set back the very connections he was trying to cultivate. Tom was learning that persuasion was a fickle though effective mistress and these secondary Purebloods (in both magic and inheritance) were very, very capricious. All too eager to tie their broomstick to the brightest star in the sky. To gain power he could not look weak, even in the face of destruction.

He tried to close his eyes once more but his magic remained agitated. Something was about to happen, his magic could sense it. His body was rigid as he lied still, waiting. All was quiet until Tom heard a faint ringing in his ears—he bolted upright wondering if he was hearing a far-off siren miles away. He stood quickly, refusing to be caught flat on his back. The noise only became louder and louder—he now realized that it wasn't a siren after all but rather a humming noise that was quickly gaining strength. He glanced out the small window of his room but found nothing unusual occurring out on the street. There were still people milling about as it was just a few hours past noon.

The humming only got louder. His jaw clenched as he placed his wand in his hand; its effect was immediate, the soothing weight in his hand and the warmth of his magic mollified him. He was powerful— he was magic! — nothing could harm him.

He paced the room as his inner tension rose. It was as if at any moment his magic was ready to snap. Precognition was never a skill he thought he possessed but the way his instincts screamed made him wary. Something was going to happen.

A light flashed suddenly, blinding Tom. His magic immediately lurched as though struck while his mind raced for possible counter-curses. He felt clumsy and slow since he had never expected magic here of all places even though just as quickly the light faded into the bland gray of Wool's. His vision cleared while his heart was still pounding within his chest.

At first glance, there was nothing noticeably different about the Spartan room he had reluctantly occupied for most of his life. The same beige-gray walls, the shabby dresser by the corner and his second-hand trunk. But on his bed—the same standard cot issued by the orphanage for all its wards—was a girl wearing navy blue witch's robes. The robes were baggy and ill-fitting. She was still, almost unnaturally so until Tom noticed the slight rise and fall of her chest under the heavy cloth.

There was blood on her face—dark and black like someone had smeared tar under her nose and over her lips and cheeks. His wand hand twitched as he assessed this intruder in his bed. Keeping his eyes trained on her, he dared to step closer.

She looked peaceful lying there covered in blood. His magic was oddly calm about this new addition to his room, reacting as though she was just another piece of furniture rather than a living, breathing stranger.

He took another step, silently shifting through a dozen curses in his mind—each one more deadly and illegal than the last.

Tom felt the strangest urge to Scourgify the blood off her face so that he might get a better look at her features. He had never seen her before and he was nearly certain of it. He had difficulty forgetting faces—the only one he had managed to forget was his own mother's. Not that he wanted to remember the face of some Muggle anyway. All others though, he always remembered. His confidence in his memory was only second to his faith in his magic.

Even if he wanted to clean the blood off her face using magic, he wouldn't be able to. His lips curled in displeasure. The Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic was like a maggot under his skin—highly irritating and in desperate need of removal. Alas, he was only fifteen and going into his fifth year. He'd need to wait at least two more years before risking flagrant uses of magic in an area populated by so many Muggles. Learning that his privileged Pureblood housemates would never have any trouble practicing their own magic in their centuries-old manors had made him grind his teeth. Especially since those same manors were likely also warded to the teeth against Muggles, including their bombs.

The vein in his neck throbbed as he clenched his jaw painfully tight. Making up his mind, Tom turned to the door. He needed to make sure he had never seen her before and that meant seeing her face without the blood. A part of him was wary to turn his back on the intruder but she hadn't so much as twitched and he was quite certain that he could strike first if the need arose.

He walked briskly, knowing how to avoid the children in the halls (though most if not all knew to avoid him by now). He soon carried a rag as well as a basinful of water into his room without being seen. He had always clung to the shadows as a boy and now he wore them like a familiar piece of clothing.

Much to his confused relief, she was still lying on his bed as though he had never left. Not that anyone would dare ever enter his room except for Mrs. Cole. Only the matron ever bothered to deal with him directly even if the Muggle pursed her lips every time she had to speak to him.

Carefully, Tom drew closer to the bed as he tried to reason a way for him to wipe off the blood without leaving himself open to attack. He could always wake her himself and demand to know why she ended up in his room of all places.

Even with this in mind, Tom found himself wringing the cloth quietly before approaching her. His movements were slow and methodical. The rag quickly became dark with blood as it revealed smooth, unmarred brown skin to his eyes. Her flesh was warm though she didn't react to the damp cloth. Her features were completely unfamiliar to him—making it highly unlikely that she was a student at Hogwarts. Tom had made it a point to know everyone worth knowing, filtering prospective connections with a very fine sieve. It was especially curious considering that she appeared to be the same age as him.

The longer she remained still the uneasier he grew. His mind rifled through all the possible curses that could leave someone in a catatonic state. He doubted that this was an ordinary sleeping spell. He wasn't a healer, however, so his theories were little more than just speculation at this point. This deficiency in his knowledge irked him. It had always felt to Tom that he was playing an enormous game of catch-up though it had relieved him to discover how truly mediocre most wizards were. Nonetheless, he felt as though he was constantly trying to step outside the shadow cast by wizards far more experienced and knowledged and privileged than himself.

As he tossed the rag into the basin, he noticed a glint of gold from beneath the robes. It came from a gold chain that he could see around her neck. Thin and extremely delicate though it had still caught the light even inside his dim and dreary room. Using the end of his wand, he carefully and gently lifted the chain from inside her robes until it revealed an ice-blue sapphire.

The color of the gem was curious as he had never seen anything like it before—it seemed to almost glow with unusual magic. Oddly, it didn't feel malicious in intent and as though hypnotized by its shine, his fingers reached out to the stroke the stone's smooth surface. Jolting in surprise, Tom took several steps back as he berated himself for his idiocy. He had read about cursed objects before—what in the bloody hell was he doing touching one? Still, as several moments passed and nothing untoward had happened, he stepped closer again while staring at the jewel that laid so innocently on top of the witch's robes.

He suspected that the witch had likely come from wealth—those robes were fine quality and the necklace whispered of ancient magic. That was, of course, if she hadn't merely stolen those items. Considering how ill-fitting the robes were, it was not completely unlikely. Tom wasn't nearly naïve enough to believe that she had come into his room completely by honest means.

There were several annoying disadvantages when it came to being an orphan but the lack of funds was particularly irritating. Though he had learned tricks to broaden his meager means, watching his classmates throw around their unearned wealth so carelessly had jaded him. Their wealth was a form of power but it was a weak one. Especially considering how some of the richest of his class were also the most useless at magic.

His fingers reached out to stroke the edges of the stone again as he considered the situation. Tom noticed that the chain was especially smooth to the touch almost as though the interlocking links were actually moving. Looking at them more carefully, they almost appeared to move like miniature snakes—twisting and coiling into one long strand. Undoubtedly expensive, Tom's mind was already formulating ways to remove the necklace from her neck without the witch ever noticing.

His index finger and thumb began to rub the chain, admiring its craftsmanship until his fingers actually brushed the side of her neck.

Usually, between two people this casual brush of skin was nothing extraordinary to note but between Tom and this supposed witch—it was a very, very fortunate encounter indeed.

Tom's magic literally sparked from his fingers as a crackle resounded throughout the small, drab room. Gooseflesh rose on his skin as his entire body practically stood rigid at attention. His magic was . . . delighted? Confusion and concern and curiosity warred in his mind before concern ultimately conquered. Tom shuffled backward as though he had been violently burned though he felt no pain just . . . complete?

It was unsettling but at the same time invigorating—he felt alive. His magic practically vibrating with potential, nearly intoxicated with the sudden influx of new magic. Tom jolted, forcing his magic back from what he saw as an inherently malicious force. For a moment he had felt powerful, yes, but something had fundamentally changed about his magic. The girl on his bed flinched as he moved further away, her eyelashes fluttering as though she struggled to wake under her own power. Spellbound, he watched her face. Her eyelids lifted and it was though he was watching the sun break through the clouds—her golden-brown irises soft and unfocused on his own blue ones. She blinked slowly, as though gently removing the sleep from her sight. His breath caught as she abruptly rose to sit on his bed, his magic still and waiting.

"Teleportation?" Her voice was silk. "Unexpected but I suppose with the correct Arithmanic scheme. . ." Her words were odd just by their meaning alone but what struck Tom into shocked silence was her fluent Parseltongue.

"Speaker?" He asked abruptly in a hiss, for this had changed everything. He had never met a human Speaker before. Snakes had always been rather interesting company but at the end of the day, their own knowledge of magic was decidedly limited. Snakes could not cast their own magic, after all. Suddenly the strange witch in his bed seemed like an unforeseen boon.

"Speaker?" She repeated as she swung her legs over the cot as if to stand up. She sounded absent-minded as she continued, "I don't think that was quite the right translation for the Rune I saw but then again it appeared to be proto-Sanskrit based in. . ." Her brow suddenly furrowed in annoyance. "Where are my notes?"

"You're speaking Parseltongue," Tom stated plainly. The daft witch seemed to have lost her own wits about her since she was switching between languages without even knowing it. His irritation was tempered by his curiosity.

"Parseltongue?" She blinked as she abruptly stood up. The sudden motion seemed too much for the witch, however, as she fell back onto the cot nearly as fast. She clutched her head in pain as she muttered under her breath, "Parseltongue! That's it! Oh, where are my books?"

Tom watched with disdain and apprehension as blood began to trickle down from her nose. Of course, the first human Speaker he would come across would be a mad-woman. He was already feeling vexed by her presence and he had scarcely said four words to the witch.

"If you must bleed, I'd rather you didn't do so on my bed," Tom chided curtly. It took a great deal of effort not to show the sneer on his face, holding onto his public facade outside of Hogwarts felt strange.

"Bleed?" Her left hand rose to her face as if just now realizing the blood flowing from her nose. It was odd how that irked him—her blatant disregard for her own health was unsettling. He reasoned it was because he did not want to deal with a dead witch in his room—he very much doubted that anyone not even Slughorn would be willing to look the other way in that case.

She glanced down at her robes, frowning. Her fingers clutched the stone dangling from her neck and she eyed it carefully. "Parivartana."

Tom hid a frown. She hadn't been speaking Parseltongue since he didn't understand her and he absolutely loathed not knowing things. He fixed his grasp on his wand which had been deceivingly relaxed.

"Curiouser and curiouser. Well, I best head back to Diagon Alley—I suppose Curse-Breaker Weasley and the others received quite a shock when I disappeared." He vigilantly watched as she rummaged through her navy blue robes. "And, of course, my wand is missing too." She sighed before looking at him directly. "I'm sorry to impose any further but do your parents have a Floo I could use?"

The question didn't sting as it might have once when he was younger but that was a long time ago and Tom was no longer that weak little child. "It's a Muggle dwelling, I'm afraid the nearest Floo is likely several miles away."

The witch nodded but didn't comment on the way Tom had sidestepped part of her question. "Could you manage to spare me some ink and parchment then? I'll need to inform my department of what's happened."

Tom was rather curious as to how she expected to accomplish that without a wand or an owl but ultimately his desire to know more about the witch's origins won out. "Department?"

"Oh yes." She watched as he retrieved a scrap of parchment and a quill from his dresser. Oddly he was struck by the echo of a memory. The only other Magical being to ever visit him at Wool's was Dumbledore and that particular meeting had gone quite differently. "I'm an Unspeakable."

Tom knew very little about Unspeakables besides the fact that they all worked in the Department of Mysteries. Nott had described it as a place where old Ravenclaws went to die—experimenting on the most boring topics in Magic's history. Considering how his other Purebloods compatriots had quickly agreed, Tom had given it little thought but that had clearly been a mistake. One that he would need to correct post-haste. The witch was quite young for an Unspeakable, judging how she looked scarcely older than himself; it made him wonder.

She handled the quill expertly as she scrawled something almost too fast for his eyes to see before quickly folding the parchment into a crude-looking bird. She rubbed the quill nib into the wet blood on her left hand before writing what he could only infer were Runes. They certainly didn't look anything like the ones Professor Harang droned on about. He felt a sudden deep-seated annoyance at Professor Harang's incompetence—instead of teaching Runes he merely made the class memorize pages after pages of inscriptions. Tom was still the top of his class but he had neglected further self-study in Ancient Runes for more practical pursuits like staving his never-ending curiosity for Charms, Transfiguration and, of course, the Dark Arts.

The Runes on the parchment flashed gold before staying a jet-black darker than the ink he had given her. She cradled the parchment bird in her hands before going over to the small window in his room. Nudging it open, she blew onto her outstretched palms and the bird took flight, disappearing from view.

"What's your name?" Tom asked, feigning a nonchalance that was only convincing because of his superior acting skills. This witch's casual use of blood Runes was more enough to convince him that she would be a powerful asset. Her knowledge was valuable enough to envy a hundred times over.

"Padma, Padma Patil." She smiled as she wiped the remaining blood off her left hand using the rag left in the basin. "Apologies for barging in like this. And you are. . .?"

Tom hesitated before quickly smoothing it over. "Charmed. I'm—" He was interrupted by a loud knock on the open window where a Ministry owl carried a plain beige envelope.

"Well that was certainly quick," Padma noted with astonishment. "Normally everyone just ignores my memos."

The envelope detached itself from the owl's leg as it levitated in the air. The flap began to move animatedly it spoke in a thin, high-pitched voice:

Dear Mr. Riddle,

We have received intelligence that Unknown Magicks were performed at twenty-six minutes past three this afternoon in a Muggle-inhabited area. Please be advised that this serves as your first and last warning. Further use of magic will result in immediate expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

—Orla Beirne, Office of the Improper Use of Magic, M.o.M.

"Unknown Magicks?" Tom echoed, feeling numb. While the threat of expulsion had always loomed over his head with Dumbledore as deputy headmaster, Tom had never faced any consequences for anything considering how deep he had Slughorn and the others in his pocket. Certainly, he had entertained the possibility—the fantasy—of casting some highly immoral curses at Wool's but he wasn't nearly enough of a buffoon to actually get caught.

Almost immediately after the owl took flight once more, a crow soon perched on the windowsill. The silver brace on its leg caught the light as another envelope detached itself from its carrier. Pale silver in color, the envelope rippled and shimmered in the light before reciting its message (another woman's voice again but deeper than the last):

Dear Mr. Riddle,

Please disregard the previous letter as the appropriate authorities have been dispatched. Please stand back. Your cooperation is appreciated.

—Unspeakable Augusta Urey, Department of Mysteries, M.o.M.

Quicker than a thought, two more wizards appeared in his room. The older wizard, judging by the patchy brown hair and receding hairline, had a stern frown upon his face as he stared at Tom. "What in Merlin's name is going on in here? The Office of the Improper Use of Magic has flooded my desk with memos and droppings alike—falling over themselves about the magical readings coming from this very room."

"Oh you know how Orla gets, Croaker," the witch standing next to him spoke. Her voice matched the one from the second letter addressed to Tom. She was dressed in a warm orange color, her robes appeared silken on her body as they rippled on their own. She was young, definitely younger than her colleague judging by her unlined dark skin and the way her mouth was drawn in mirth. "Always eager that one."

Croaker grumbled as he gave Tom and Padma a look over—Tom had noticed how Padma had gone unnaturally silent in the face of the two new visitors. Tom opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the ministry witch. "Mr. Riddle, a soon-to-be fifth year at Hogwarts (better study for those O.W.L.s!), there have been reports of temporal disruptions since thirteen past three today, Friday, July 17th." The witch read off a scroll of parchment she had retrieved from her dragonhide satchel—likely the product of an unlucky Welsh Green. "As representatives of the Department of Mysteries, Unspeakable Croaker and I have come to investigate."

"Thank you, Unspeakable Urey," Croaker intoned.

"Temporal disruptions?" Tom asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Not to mention that a bird made of parchment made it through the wards that have protected and guarded the Department of Mysteries for centuries." Croaker looked down his nose at both Tom and Padma. "And just who are we to thank for this busy afternoon, hm?"

Padma took a deep steadying breath, drawing the attention of the officials. She appeared as though she was mentally fortifying herself for the interrogation that was looming on the horizon. "Before I answer any of your questions, Unspeakables, I must know the year."

Tom blinked rapidly. Temporal disruptions coupled with her strange robes as well as her not knowing the year?

"1942," Croaker responded, his eyes never leaving Padma's face. "How long lost are you?"

She swallowed and Tom could see her nerves tremble from the action. "Over sixty years, sir." Padma shifted, before slowly removing a bronze badge from her robes. With trepidation, she continued, "Unspeakable Patil requesting asylum and aid under Article C Subsection 99."

"A time traveler?" Urey whispered in awe, excitement dawning on her face. Her mouth was drawn into a wide, bright smile. "We haven't had one since—since Mintumble herself!"

"Calm yourself, Urey," Croaker chided. "Unspeakable Patil, your request is granted conditionally—you must return to the D.o.M. under my custody immediately."

She nodded, unsurprised by Croaker's request. Tom could see that she was wary though, judging how stiffly she stood. Urey, however, clapped her hands together which momentarily startled Tom. "Oh and that paper bird you made was just brilliant! So much better than dealing with owl droppings all the time. Is that what we have in the future?"

Croaker interrupted before Padma could answer. "Have you left this room or had any contact with anyone besides Mr. Riddle?"

Padma's brow furrowed. "Not that I am aware of."

Croaker sighed as he rubbed his face. "At least there's some daisies in the dragon dung here. Mintumble just wandered around the entire bloody place." Croaker turned to his colleague. "Check all items for contamination and inform the Office of Improper Use of Magic that this falls under our purview. If Orla kicks up a fuss, send all of her letters straight into the fireplace until further notice."

"Right-o, Boss." Urey responded cheekily with a mock salute. She then jerked her head in Tom's direction. "What about this one? We'll need to inform Hogwarts considering his ward status just to keep things on the up-and-up."

"Inform Dumbledore," Croaker grumbled, clearing wanting nothing more to do with Tom. "Dippet's still in South America if I remember correctly and Slughorn couldn't keep a secret like this to himself."

Urey snorted in agreement. "Likely'll try to use Patil to discover next use of dragon blood."

Tom couldn't help but privately agree about Slughorn—any Slytherin worth their scales would be tempted by the knowledge residing inside of Padma's head. Even his mind was reeling with possibilities. He was, however, greatly displeased that this would be brought to Dumbledore's attention.

"Mr. Riddle, please stay under the supervision of Unspeakable Urey. We'll need to check you for any temporal corruption after decontaminating this room. Unspeakable Patil, come with me." Croaker withdrew from his robes something Tom found especially odd for an Unspeakable to have on their person—a plain, silver fountainhead pen. He watched as the older wizard took out his wand from his sleeve and waved it over the pen, muttering the word Portus under his breath.

Tom mentally stored that spell away for future use. Portkey creation was highly regulated and none of the books he had found in Hogwarts had even mentioned the proper incantation let alone the wand movements for creating one. It would undoubtedly be useful considering as he was too young to Apparate legally. Tom wondered if the creation of portkeys was also carefully monitored. Though perhaps the Department of Mysteries operated outside the general laws that governed the wizarding populace. Either way, becoming an Unspeakable was sounding increasingly lucrative.

"Time?" Croaker asked gruffly.

Urey retrieved a platinum pocket watch from within her orange robes. "Forty-six past three. Twelve seconds."

Croaker grunted in acknowledgment before waving Padma, or rather, Unspeakable Patil over to his side. Tom watched as she delicately placed a single finger on the pen. "Five," Croaker muttered. "Four. . .three. . .two. . ."

The last thing Tom remembered was Croaker's voice gently rasping "one" before the world collapsed around him.


Urey looked down at the two young wizards resting peacefully on two identical cots that had been pushed together. She chanced a glance at her older colleague whose face was drawn into a grimace. Croaker greatly and utterly despised unexpected complications. A trait which was rather odd considering his high ranking in the Department of Mysteries—on a good day, they'd encounter several oddities before lunch.

"Looks like we'll have to call in Lovegood on this one," Urey spoke, finally breaking the silence. She knew full well that he'd stew and brood as he always tended to if she didn't say something now.

"This is a time travel anomaly first and foremost, Urey." His frown deepened and his tone resembling more of a child's than a man past his fourth decade. Croaker even sniffed for good measure.

"Soul bonds do fall under his purview, Croaker," She reminded him gently. "You know how Lovegood makes a mention of it in nearly every memo. He's likely been for something like this to fall into his lap for decades."

"Don't remind me," Croaker grumbled. "His damn spotted owl leaves droppings on everything except the bloody memo every single time."

"That parchment owl was brilliant." Urey was long used to Croaker's crotchetiness. She had been working with the wizard for over a decade now. The key was always to distract him from one of his tirades earlier than later. "And that mastery of Runes at such a young age? Do you think we start recruiting Hogwarts students before their N.E.W.T.s?"

"We don't assign badges to just any buffoon who can wave a wand. There's a very vigorous examination that prevents it." Croaker was firm in his belief but Urey had her doubts. Unspeakable Patil looked awfully young for someone so skilled. It was odd to think that someone so young had managed to pass the initiation that all Unspeakables underwent. Patil must have been a rare talent even for the future. Croaker sighed, stepping back from the sleeping pair. "None of this sits well with me."

"Your gut bothering you again, old man? I told you to lay off the extra rasher of bacon this morning." Urey smirked but she didn't feel the mirth of her statement. As excited as she had been, the complications were becoming increasingly unfavorable.

Croaker harrumphed but didn't take the bait. "We were lucky that my gut sensed there was something wrong otherwise the magical backlash from separating a newly bonded pair would have killed us and all those muggles on that street."

Urey nodded solemnly; it had been extremely fortunate that Croaker had managed to knock the pen out of Unspeakable Patil's hand when he did. Urey herself had barely managed to throw up her strongest shield charm in time.

The near-separation was enough to leave the room in shambles—the bed and the dresser had turned to ash from the magical backlash—and now another team of Unspeakables was clearing out the contents though Urey doubted they'd find anything useful in the debris. A team of Obliviators had also been sent out and with the Muggles so jumpy because of the war, she inferred it would be a very difficult task indeed. If that was the amount of destruction an attempted separation wielded, she had no desire see them actually separate.

Croaker pursed his lips. "Inform Lovegood's assistant, at least Birch still has her wits about her. We can't send Unspeakable Patil home with the bond like this."

"You can't mean to break the bond!" Urey whispered in astonishment. She'd never known Croaker to be so cold, especially considering that it might as well mean death for the both of them.

"The longer she stays here the greater danger she is to the time stream," Croaker stated with finality. "Like it or not, she's here on stolen time."

"What a load of dragon dung this's become." Urey shook her head before setting her eyes back on Croaker. Her large lips pursed in displeasure. "And Dumbledore's requesting an audience."

"Just as well, if we don't get this sorted by September then Mr. Riddle will be unable to attend Hogwarts." Urey thought Croaker spoke far too lightly about essentially expelling a student from Hogwarts for what could only be described as a divine act of magic out of his control. "Bloody Soul bonds—I'll need to update the protocol. Again."

Croaker left the room, leaving Urey to observe the two young ones. They slept peacefully, no doubt due to the heavy dose of Draught of Living Peace they'd been given after Stunning the pair.

The day was getting more and more extraordinary by the moment. Urey just hoped that she would be able to keep up.


Tom Riddle is still a creep who tries to steal things, unfortunately.

One plot-point that has always annoyed me about HP Time Travel fics is how it's usually centered around the main character never getting caught. Entire stories where their secret is never found out except for Dumbledore or the supposed love interest. You mean to tell me that the Department of Mysteries which actually studies time travel would never find out about illegal time travelers? Kay.

Reviews are treats for the soul :)