Second:
Christmas Eve
Disclaimer: Owning something as amazing as Harry Potter would have required a lot of creativity and originality, and honestly, that is just a lot more effort than I'm willing to put into my life right now.
Written By: KillerInADress
It took two days before Madam Jeen would allow Harry to get out of his hospital bed, and another one after that before she'd let him do it alone. In fact, by the time she'd let Harry get up, dress himself, use the restroom, and return safely to his bed, (all without her help), it was already Christmas Eve.
Harry found that he liked Madam Jeen well enough, but he longed greatly for Madam Pomfrey's etiquette when it came to using the restroom, and showering.
"Nothing I haven't seen before, young man." Madam Jeen would say as she stripped Harry of his standard blue hospital pajamas, and ushered him into the tub.
He also found that he missed modern medicine—almost as much as he missed having a bath without a supervisor—as so many of the potions and spells from his time didn't seem to exist yet, limiting Harry to a slow healing process and quite a handful of pain relievers in the meantime.
Harry had just finished his breakfast, and was preparing himself to be poked and prodded to Madam Jeen's content, (having spent the first two days fighting her, before learning that her threat to use a wooden paddle on him was not an idle one), when in through the large infirmary doors walked Professor Dumbledore, auburn beard tied with a small string, and wearing a set of outrageously yellow and red robes. Harry smiled.
"Good morning, Professor. Your robes look mighty festive today." The dark haired boy said in greeting, and got a cheery chuckle in response.
"I am glad you like them. They were a gift from Horace Slughorn – the Potions Professor, I'm sure you'll be meeting him soon – he gave them to me last year as a birthday present simply because they, 'match your house spirit, Albus' – I'm Gryffindor's head of house, you know – and I felt that they would certainly be celebratory enough for the holidays."
Harry blinked in surprise. He'd quite forgotten Slughorn worked at Hogwarts in the 40's. "Well, they really are brilliant, sir."
"Very kind of you, my boy, very kind. But I'm afraid I did come here with more in mind than spreading merriment." Dumbledore said, pulling up a visitors chair with a wave of his hand. "How are you feeling? Has Madam Jeen been tending to those ribs of yours?"
"I'm feeling great, actually. Madam Jeen even said I could go down to the feast tonight if my headache doesn't return before then."
"I'm happy to hear it. Now, I've shown the drawing you gave me to Professor Celtain Cauress, and the most he has been able to decipher, is that it originates from the Asphyian runic alphabet, I am sorry to say we do not know much more than that."
"It's alright, Professor. I know these things take time." Harry said reassuringly. Getting back home before Christmas would have been too much to hope for anyway, Harry silently added to himself.
Dumbledore watched him thoughtfully for a moment. "Indeed. Well, in the meantime, I do think we should go over your background for while you are to be here with us." Harry opened his mouth to argue that he wasn't supposed to talk about the future, but Dumbledore held up a hand to stall him. "Also," Dumbledore went on as soon as Harry pressed his lips back together. "There is the matter of your name…Madam Jeen told me that your name is Harry Potter. Any relation to…"
Dumbledore left the end of that question open, and Harry nodded silently.
"Ah," He said. "Well, I think a small change is in order. Potter is not so unusual a name—nor is Harry—but for safety sake, I feel it would be better to change it slightly, just in case. How does Harvey sound? Or Harold?"
"Hadrian." Harry said before he even had time to think about it, shocking himself with how easy it seemed to come to him. It was like the name had been waiting to tumble from his lips since the moment he had appeared in 1942, and Harry couldn't have stopped it if he tried. "Hadrian Potts."
Dumbledore blinked, taken aback, but quickly recovered himself. "Hadrian Potts it is. And your blood status?"
"Half-blood, sir."
Again, Dumbledore looked at him in surprise for half a moment, before continuing as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "Very well. Welcome to Hogwarts, Mr. Potts. I will be your transfiguration teacher for the duration of your stay with us, so if you need anything at all, you know where to find me. " Smiling slightly, Dumbledore settled back into his chair a bit, seemingly at peace with the world.
"Thank you, sir."
Dumbledore nodded. "It is my pleasure, I'm sure." He offered.
He then turned very serious. "Now, about your arrival here; Headmaster Dippet and I feel that it is in your best interest if we claim that you escaped a band of dark wizards by using accidental magic to take you somewhere you felt safe, and found yourself in Hogwarts. With this war, many other young children such as you have been reported to have done something similar; only, they went to relatives and houses away from the danger. Not broken through years of hard-built security wards that have been placed around this castle for many centuries. However, accidental magic is rather unpredictable, so I do not feel anyone will question such a story."
Despite being a former Gryffindor, Dumbledore always had been a little too good at manipulation, Harry thought, his eyebrows burrowed. "I suppose that is as good a tale as any, Professor." Harry said after a moment. It wasn't like he could tell anyone the truth in any case, might as well have a story prepared, should anyone ask.
"Albus, I didn't know you were here."
Dumbledore began to say something else when Madam Jeen exited her office and took notice of her new guest. Dumbledore rose to greet her, whatever he'd been about to say long forgotten. "Aiana, wonderful timing, Hadrian has just been telling me that you think he may be able to make it down to the fest this evening."
Aiana paused, looking at Dumbledore as if he might be mad. Opening her mouth to speak, Harry felt he knew what she would say, and so quickly thrust out a hand in greeting. "Hadrian Potts, Madam, it's a pleasure to meet you. Thank you for taking care of me after my accidental magic injured me when I tried to escape the dark wizard's plaguing my village, and found myself all the way out here in your school."
Harry winced at the falsetto his voice had adapted during his story, and the nurse stared at him in bewilderment for a long time before she shook her head slowly. "If this is something to do with your time-travel affair," She said, moving over to him and withdrawing her black wand from one of the pockets on her apron. "Then I don't want to know anymore. Keep me out of it. I only wish to run a few more tests, so hold out your arm."
Lowering her voice to grumble on about time traveling children and their tales, (causing Harry to grin widely, and Dumbledore's eyes to twinkle with thinly veiled mischief), Madam Jeen started a series of diagnostic spells.
When Madam Jeen had finished up her testing and was forced to proclaim Harry 'healthy enough to go to the fest, if you promise to check in with me first thing tomorrow morning, young man', Dumbledore explained to Harry that he'd be back just before dinner and would escort Harry down there, where he would be sorted before sitting down with his new house to enjoy the Christmas Eve fest.
"Sir, couldn't we just hold the sorting here? Must we make it so…public?" Harry asked, not feeling eager to have the eyes of the whole school on him, just like in his own time at Hogwarts.
"We must, I'm afraid." Dumbledore answered gravely. "Traditions are nothing if not important here at Hogwarts. Don't fear, my boy, we will not keep you in the spotlight for longer than absolutely necessary."
Harry nodded.
"Ah, before I forget," Dumbledore pulled free a familiar-looking mokeskin pouch from the folds of his robes. "I do believe this is yours."
Harry reached out to accept the small bag from the older man. A tiny hand-carved HP near the top confirmed it to be the same one Hagrid had given Harry for his seventeenth birthday, and the very same pouch that Harry had lost during a raid on his first real mission as an official Auror.
How?
"Yes, it is. Thank you." Harry said, hanging it around his neck to look through later.
"You were clutching it tightly when you arrived, and if I may say it, the enchantments surrounding that mokeskin are some of the best I have ever come across. Not even the combined efforts of Nettleburg, Merrythought, and myself could break through them." Dumbledore told him, looking both impressed and perplexed by the little container.
Harry got the feeling Dumbledore longed to ask him something, but after hesitating just long enough for the raven-haired man to notice, the transfiguration teacher said his farewells and left Harry to a boring afternoon of potions and Madam Jeen's insistent tests.
Harry tried arguing that she'd already said he was healthy, but all that got him was a dark look and a brisk, "Are you a trained medi-wizard? I thought as not. Open."
Which Harry wisely did, gulping down the chalky substance without further complaint.
When it finally came time for dinner, and Dumbledore arrived to rescue Harry from Madam Jeen's clutches and escort him down to the Great Hall, Harry felt inexplicably nervous. It wasn't like Harry was any stranger to being stared at by the whole school; it was just that this wasn't his school. His time, his sixth year. He'd already been sorted once before, could he be resorted? What if the sorting hat refused to even talk to him because he wasn't from this time…what if it couldn't sort him?
"There is no need to look so petrified. The sorting will be the simplest part of your time here, I'm sure." Dumbledore said, showing Harry the side of him that he rarely ever showed anyone. The side of him that was most… human.
"Sir, do you…has the hat ever refused to sort someone?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.
"If a hare can jump the stump, then so shall the rabbit," Dumbledore answered cryptically, and this was the side of him Harry hated the most. The side that was all riddles, and vague nonsense.
Entering the Great Hall, Harry was amazed to see just how very few students had stayed for the holidays. In his own time, Harry almost always stayed at Hogwarts, but never before had it seemed to empty.
Dumbledore took him right up to the teachers table, where a stool and the sorting hat had been placed before hand. No whispers followed him as he walked, so Harry assumed that Dippet must have already made a speech explaining about the new student who was to be sorted before dinner.
Instructing Harry to take a seat, Dumbledore gently placed the sorting hat atop his head, and Harry could practically feel his ever-growing tension to see which house Harry would be placed.
Harry held his breath.
"Ah," Said the voice in his ear. "Back again, Harry Potter?"
Beneath the brim of the hat, Harry's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.
"Or perhaps I should say you've, 'come before'?"
"you—you know who I am?" Harry wondered in astonishment.
"Certainly, certainly. I can see all things resting in your mind, and though it is still to come for me, for you, I have already sorted. Now I see you are in need of another sorting, and be that, a rare thing, it is hardly unheard of, is it? Tell me, then, Harry Potter; will you choose Gryffindor this time around as well?" The hat asked smartly.
Harry felt dumbfounded. "You mean—you mean I have a choice? You still want to put me in Slytherin?" He had thought it was only Voldemort's piece of soul in him that made the hat consider him for the house of snakes.
"Just because you are in the past does not change the things I have said in my future. You would have done, and still might do well in Slytherin. I make this assessment on which you are, not what you borrowed."
Harry felt his heart leap.
"Perhaps you would do even better there this time, as I have placed young Tom Riddle there just a few years ago; I see a will in you. A want to change what is to come, and should you go to Slytherin, perhaps—"
"No." Harry said sharply inside his own mind. "No, I can't. Slytherin isn't—being in Slytherin won't- I mustn't change time. I can't—" Harry took a deep breath and continued more slowly. "Thank you, but Gryffindor is my home. It's where I belong, and where I never should have left. If you are offering me the choice, then I am asking you to put me where I truly belong."
The hat was silent for far too long, (in Harry's opinion), but when at last it spoke, it said something that Harry had not been expecting, and was woefully unprepared for. "If that is what you wish, then it shall be. But heed this, young one; though our choices make us who we are, some times it is far better to trust ones' self, than the words of others who know not of what is to come and what has already begun."
And with that, Harry was suddenly taken back many years—back to a day when Dumbledore said something similar to Harry about 'ones' choices far more than ones' abilities', when he had been frightened that maybe, just maybe, he truly was becoming like Voldemort.
Thoughts so far away, Harry completely missed the sorting hat shouting out, "GRYFFINDOR!", to the rest of the hall, and it wasn't until Dumbledore had touched his shoulder gently that Harry shook himself free from his ruminations and realized that the hat had already been taken away, and the clapping from the Gryffindor table was already dying out slowly as people seemed to notice Harry was still sitting motionless on the stool.
Harry quickly jumped to his feet, mouthing a silent, 'thank you', back at the sorting hat before taking a seat at the far left table. He wasn't sure the hat could even see, but it made him feel better nonetheless.
As soon as Dippet finished the Christmas Eve speech, allowing them all to enjoy their dinner, Harry was bombarded with introductions and the odd question. Harry greeted and answered all that he could, and when the other students finally started to return to their dinners, Harry looked around the hall in amazement. In many ways, it felt like being home in his own time, but there were little things that reminded Harry just how far from home he really was. Not least of all was the teachers' table, where he could only identify a few of the people currently seated there.
He felt a prickling along his skin and looked over at the Slytherin table's only two occupants. He found himself greeted with the sight of a first year, (who was poking suspiciously at a bit of casserole with his fork), And the dark head of hair that belonged to none other than Tom Riddle, bowed low over a thick book.
From this distance, Harry couldn't be sure, but years of Malfoy-watching had adapted Harry to notice little things, and although Tom Riddle seemed to look exactly as he had when he'd come out of the diary in Harry's second year, something about the hair made him pause. Was it too long?
In the end, just seeing him there, innocently reading a book and looking, to all the world, like the dedicated student he was supposed to be gave the green-eyed wizard chills up and down his spine, and Harry shivered involuntarily.
As Harry continued to watch the other teen, trying to decide if it might not be better to just turn himself into the Ministry now, so he wouldn't have to share a dinning hall with the future dark lord, Tom Riddle discreetly flip his book around so it was facing the right way up. Harry's eyes widened. Tom had been looking at Harry.
The raven-haired time-traveler felt deeply unsettled about this revelation, and, not feeling very hungry anymore, Harry pushed his plate away from him slightly and in an effort to resist the urge to get up and walk back to Gryffindor tower, because he was supposed to be new, and knowing where it was without anyone helping him would be suspicious, (and also because he didn't know the password in yet), Harry went back to observing this older Hogwarts.
For the rest of the feast, anytime Harry felt the familiar prickling sensation of eyes on him, he'd always turn back to the Slytherin table, trying to catch the other teen out. But Tom Riddle was never looking at him, so Harry let it go.
When the feast finally started to wind down, and prefects were rounding up the first years, Harry was so thankful to be getting away from the uncomfortable feeling teenage Voldemort gave him, that Harry paid extra attention to everything the Gryffindor prefect was telling him, feigning interest even though he already knew where the forth floor lead too, and had no trouble with the trick step, having spent so many years jumping it in his own time.
The moment he figured out which bed was his, he barely had it in himself to offer the other students a goodnight before he collapsed on-top of his bed and shut his curtains tightly. He was so tired, he longed to just lie down and sleep, but he needed to see what was inside the pouch before not knowing drove him crazy.
Drawing the small thing out of his shirt and over his head, Harry looked it over fondly. Hagrid was still a student in this time, only a few years younger than Harry. The raven-haired wizard knew he'd need to meet Hagrid again soon. He was just grateful to have someone in this time who, though they did not yet know Harry, Harry knew he could easily get to know again.
Pulling the pouch open, Harry noticed something odd about the way magic seemed to shift around it, almost like the opening of Hermione's magically extended purse had during their hiding in the war. Tipping it over so the contents spilled out onto his bed, Harry gasp.
Out of that small pouch fell a trunk, which looked just big enough to hold all the school things Harry would need; three large packages, two wrapped in bright red and green paper, one in a silvery blue; two wands – his wand, and the Elder wand which Harry hadn't laid eyes on since its return to Dumbledore's tomb; and a small ring with a black stone in the center.
Harry immediately clenched his hands into fists so he wouldn't be tempted to pick it up. The resurrection stone, un-cracked and un-harmed from the time when Dumbledore had destroyed Voldemort's horcrux buried within the innocent-looking piece of jewelry.
Then, Harry noticed a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye, and for one wild moment, Harry thought it was the golden snitch Dumbledore had given him, secretly hiding the ring within until that moment when it 'opens at the close'.
But no, Harry was perhaps even more surprised to see a large pile of gold, silver, and bronze resting around the other various items. A feel in the pouch told Harry that there was even more gold sitting at the bottom, as if he'd emptied out his Gringotts vault into this one small, magically enlarged bag.
Head spinning with a million unanswered questions, Harry picked up the gift closest to him, admiring the bright and festive paper for a moment before he looked at the tag, and dropped the gift back onto his covers so fast, one would think it had burn him.
|To: Tom Riddle.
Happy Christmas!|
It had said. In a handwriting that looked similar to Harry's, but if one looked just closely enough, you could see the hesitation in the R, indicating that the person who wrote this was actually left-handed, not right-handed as Harry is.
Frowning down at the offending package, Harry reached for the other two, and looking over the two gift tags, felt his frown deepen.
The blue package had a tag that said:
|To: Tom Riddle.
Happy Birthday!|
In the same attempt at chicken scratch, while the other tag said:
|To: Harry Potter.
Use it well, and have a very, merry Christmas.|
In what appeared to be a passive attempt at the note Dumbledore had written him in his first year. Again, the R's were all wrong, and something about the Y's made Harry sure that it was written by the same left-handed person. He'd always been good at telling which hand people wrote with, having watched the old muggle school teachers force Dudley to write with his right, as they seemed to believe that it wasn't 'proper' to write with your left.
Harry always suspected it was one of the reasons why Dudley hated written assignments so much.
Setting the other gift addressed to Tom aside, Harry opened the one for him, already guessing what he might find inside. Sure enough, as soon as he opened the wrapping, a silvery, flow-y type cloth fell out and onto the bed, temporarily turning the majority of the bed contents invisible.
His father's cloak.
Harry gently ran his hands over the material, feeling the familiar watery fabric fall in-between his fingers. He had arrived, clutching this pouch, but how—why—what was going on? It was—
Harry picked up the cloak and folded it, putting it on his pillow. He was tired of thinking how impossible it all was. It was getting him nowhere, and frankly, he was just too tired to be worried about the fact that he now, once again, was in complete possession of the deathly hallows.
Tomorrow, he would worry about what would happen should Tom get his hands on these items in this day and age. Tonight, Harry only focused on returning everything back into his pouch. Everything except the trunk, which he crawled out of bed to place at the end of his four-poster, grateful that his fellow roommates all had their own curtains closed. He opened it up, just to confirm that it was, indeed, filled with school books, a hand full of quills and parchment rolls, and, to Harry's amazement, three sets of black school robes, folded and stowed in the top corner.
He also left out the cloak, the two gifts for Tom Riddle, and his own wand. Safe in the knowledge that no one could open this pouch but him, (as Dumbledore had even been forced to admit he'd tried and failed), Harry placed the pouch and two gifts on the bedside table. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do with the gifts for Riddle…should he give them to the boy? Should he open them first, make sure they aren't anything Tom could use as Voldemort later?
Sighing, Harry decided he would as leave that for tomorrow. Crawling back into his new bed, Harry placed his wand and cloak underneath his pillow, and, even with his mind full and heavy, Harry laid down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep almost at once.
Sunlight streamed in through the crack in the curtains hanging around Harry's four-poster, gently dragging the Man-Turned-Teenager out of his deep slumber, and into that half-real, half-dream like state where Harry could easily convince himself that he was really sleeping in his and Draco's bed back at their small flat, and Draco would be back any minute now, trying to rouse him from the warm blankets by offering a hot cup of coffee, and a few slices of toast.
Then a grumbled shout of, 'Watch it, you numpty! You almost stepped on Vincent!", Shattered Harry's imaginary world into a million pieces.
Frowning at that particular insult, (which he hadn't heard in ages), Harry rolled over, and stuck his hand outside the curtains, searching for his glasses.
Someone handed them to him.
"Alright there, Hadrian? Finally decided to join us, have you?"
Harry put on his glasses, and drew back his curtains to be greeted by the teasing smile of Andrew Williams, Gryffindor's fifth-year prefect, and part-time jokester. Harry returned the smile. Andrew reminded Harry of the Weasley twins, (only with a lot more control over his prankster side), and Harry found that he liked him a lot.
"Yeah, alright." Harry replied brightly.
"Good to hear. You'd best get dressed if you want to come with us to breakfast, though. Millin and Frankston aren't the most patient of blokes." Andrew said, dropping his voice and pointing at two of their dorm mates, who were currently arguing over which one got the better Christmas fudge. "Also, I know you just got here and all, but it looks as if someone's sent you a present. I put it on your trunk." Andrew added, turning away to look in the mirror while he knotted up his red and gold tie.
Harry walked to the foot of his bed, looking at the package in surprise. "Who the bloody…" He trailed off. It was from Dumbledore – the real Dumbledore—Harry could tell by the handwriting. "Erm—thanks. You can go on without me to breakfast, if you like. I have to go visit Madam Jeen for a check-up anyway. Promised her that I'd stop by first thing in them morning."
Andrew turned to him, running a hand through his dark blonde hair. "Oh, really? Well would you like me to go with you? I don't want you getting lost on your first official day here and all—"
"No, it's quite alright, thanks. I think I remember my way back after last nights' tour." Harry said quickly.
Andrew watched him for a moment before nodding. "If you're sure... Just know that if you get lost along the way, you can ask any teacher or prefect, and we'll help you. It's a pretty big castle. Even I still get turned around sometimes."
Andrew chuckled and Harry smiled at him reassuringly. "Thanks for the warning, but I think I can manage. I've always liked a little bit of adventure anyway."
The blonde laughed even harder. "I guess it's a good thing the hat put you in here with us, then. Imagine trying to find adventure in Ravenclaw, or, Merlin forbid, Slytherin. Nah, their lot just likes to do things they've planned out before hand. Totally boring, if you ask me. No real excitement ever happened from out of a book."
Harry was suddenly very thankful he'd picked Gryffindor a second time. Laughing, Harry said, "You know, I had a friend once who lived out of the books she'd read. Completely obsessed with trying to get me and Ron to think about things before we did them. We were lucky to have her, though. Probably would have gotten ourselves killed long before now if she hadn't…made plans, and…"Harry trailed away, no longer feeling very happy with anything.
Hermione had always been his go-to. She knew everything there was—the brightest witch he'd ever met, she was. Without her, how could he ever even hope to find a way back to his right time? He couldn't do the kind of research she always did. It was always Hermione who did the planning, the thinking. Harry was only ever good at the doing. Oh, how he missed his best friend right now.
Andrew turned to look at Hadrian when he suddenly stopped talking, and upon seeing the boy's poignant face, realized that maybe the poor kid had lost those friends in his fight with the dark wizards, and quickly tried to apologize, feeling awkward. "Shite, Hadrian, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—fuck. Do you…do you want to talk about it, or…something?"
Andrew looked extremely uncomfortable with the idea of talking about Harry's feelings, and for a moment, he looked exactly how Ron would have—only with less red hair. Harry tried to smile. "I'm fine." He said, grabbing Dumbledore's gift as a way to distract himself. Inside the brown wrapping lay a set of black school robes, Gryffindor symbol set on the left, and a letter telling him that if he was still with them for the start of term, Dumbledore would gather him the supplies he'd need.
Unsure of whether or not he should tell his Head of House about the trunk from inside Hagrid's pouch, Harry pulled on the robes over the clothes Madam Jeen had given him to wear, and said his goodbyes, heading for the Hospital Wing before the nurse decided to come find him and make sure he hadn't expired without her careful eyes watching over him.
Honestly, that woman was somehow worse about her Patients health than Madam Pomfrey had been. (She wasn't quite as bad as Draco could be, but that might also be because Draco believed in punishing Harry while he was still bedridden and couldn't escape his boyfriends' wrath).
Harry felt fine except for a small pain in his chest when he had to jump or run. The medi-witch had warned him that his ribs weren't completely healed yet, but she had done all she could and apart from a few pain potions and plenty of rest, (which he promised her he'd get), then the remainder of the healing process with up to his body.
Harry had had worse and dealt with it in tougher situations, so he'd thanked her the only way he knew how. By promising to try not to injure himself any further.
And Harry did intend to keep that promise. He was going to keep his head down and be invisible in this time. He wasn't going to draw any attention to himself, and since Voldemort didn't know about him yet, he had no reason to find himself in any danger while he was here.
After all, he wasn't, 'The Chosen One', he was just Hadrian Potts, normal Gryffindor student at Hogwarts. And normal students at Hogwarts didn't almost die every year they attended. So Really, Harry didn't have anything to worry about.
At least, that's what Harry tried to tell himself. But, like every other time in his life when things were just about normal, Harry's gut would get this feeling that Harry had learned not to ignore.
If only my gut had had the sense to warn me about that stupid rune.
"Well, everything seems to be in order, Mr. Potter—"
"Potts." Harry corrected.
Madam Jeen glared. "Yes, Mr. Potts. Now," She went on stiffly. "How much did you eat at dinner? Remember, you need to eat at least a healthy portion every meal to regain the—"
"I ate almost an entire plateful, Madam." Harry lied. He'd told the same lie over and over to Hermione many years ago, but somehow, he felt even guiltier for telling it now. I must be getting old. He grumbled to himself.
The nurse watched him carefully for what felt like ages, before she pursed her lips slightly. "Good. Then I guess you'd best get down to breakfast before all of the fruit is gone. Off you go." And she shooed him out of the infirmary.
Harry left without complaint, but he really wasn't feeling all that hungry, so instead, he went back to the dorm room in Gryffindor Tower, fully intending to go through the trunk at the foot of his bed, and then draft a letter out to Professor Dumbledore, explaining the strange situation.
Only, when he returned to his bed, he caught sight of his bedside table, empty say for the tiny, innocent-looking pouch.
Where the bloody hell were the gifts addressed to Tom Riddle?! Harry thought, his eyes wide as he quickly snatched up the pouch and felt inside. He couldn't see or feel anything like wrapping paper, and after 'accio' didn't even bring forth the presents, Harry truly started to panic. It was so stupid of him to have left them just sitting out on his table. A house elf must have seen it last night while cleaning, and decided to deliver it to Tom for him.
Throwing himself onto his bed, Harry groaned loudly. Who knew what was in those boxes? It could have been anything! Dangerous dark artifacts. Books on advanced dark magic. Hell, maybe it had even been a set of Vampire fangs for use in a potion to create inferi!
Harry turned over, shoving his face deep into his pillow. He should have looked! He should have just opened the bloody things and checked before leaving them laying about where anyone could have gotten them!
Maybe the gifts are poisonous, Harry thought then. Maybe, when he touches one, he'll die. Then he'll never have the chance to kill my parents, or my friends, or—
It should have made Harry feel better, but in the end, he just felt worse, so stopping his thoughts from continuing down that dark pathway, Harry forced himself up and moved back down to the trunk, intending to actually do what he set out to do in the first place.
Before he had the chance to open the chest, though, a thought struck him. What if the house elves haven't given Riddle the gifts yet! What if they still have them—or at least one of them!
It was a long shot, but what did Harry have to lose by going down to the kitchens and asking them?
Turning on his heel, Harry raced down staircase after staircase, passed empty corridors and classrooms, down hallways that he knew so well, he could have walked them in his sleep; down towards the entrance to the kitchens, where—
"No running in the corridors."
That voice stopped Harry dead in his tracks, cold dread pooling into his stomach. There, at the other end of a hallway Harry had just turned down, was none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle, future dark lord and mass-murderer. Tom approached him, looking politely confused by Harry's reaction. But Harry knew better than to believe the innocent act. "I said no running, but it doesn't mean you aren't allowed to walk at a more reasonable pace, Mr. …Hadrian Potts, wasn't it? Nice to finally make your acquaintance." He held out a hand.
Harry didn't take it.
"Ah, yes, how terribly rude of me for not having introduced myself to you. Tom Riddle, Slytherin Fifth-year Prefect at your service." He gave a mock bow, dark eyes overcastted momentarily with a look of disgust, before it was quickly wiped away.
The time-traveler thought he might have a heart-attack then and there. "Fif—fifth yea—year?" He choked out.
Tom smiled at him, clearly mistaking his panic for nervousness. "Yes, the same year as you, I'm told. So of course, if you need any help finding a class or anything, you may always ask."
Harry felt trapped. He needed to get away – From Tom—from Hogwarts—from bloody 1942!—so he said, as politely as he could when felt like he might be sick at any moment, "Ex—excuse me." And tried to make a run for it, but Tom stepped into his path.
"Hold on, I wanted to ask you about—"
"Tom! There you are! We thought something might've happened to you." A loud voice called as someone came around the corner and the distraction was all Harry needed.
When Tom turned to address the newcomer, Harry, (hidden perfectly by Tom's tall figure thanks to his malnourished 16-year-old body), quickly pulled out his fathers' invisibility cloak and covered himself, thankful that he'd brought it along with him due to pure habit.
"Marcella. Wonderful timing, come and greet our new student. Hadrian, this is Mar—" Turning back around to face the spot Harry had previously stood, visible, Tom paused mid-sentence. From where Harry stood by the wall, invisible, he could just make out the surprise and annoyance slip from his mask and out onto the taller teens' face, before he smoothed it away and turned back to the Ravenclaw. "Ah, it would seem our newest student had somewhere else he needed to be."
"That Potts fellow? You met him? Andrew said he is quite the friendly type. Helped a second-year to get her foot out of that trick step last night and everything." Marcella said, looking almost thoughtful for a moment before she shook herself.
Tom frowned almost undetectably except for the twitch of his eyebrows. "Odd. He seemed rather shy to me," He replied with a forced lightness.
"Really? How strange. Anyways, we should go. We are late for the prefects meeting." Tom nodded, and together, they started walking away, Harry not daring to breathe until they were both well out of eyesight.
After another few minutes of silence, Harry finally moved away from the wall and took off the cloak, storing in inside a pocket in his robes. Kitchens and elves now the farthest thing from Harry's mind, Harry wondered almost automatically up to the owlery—a favorite thinking spot of his when he was still in school in his own time.
Tom Riddle was a fifth year. Not a seventh—not even a sixth!—a fifth-year student. Prefect, even. Harry laughed bitterly. Of course Riddle is a prefect. Why wouldn't he be? He's the 'model student'.
Feeling frustrated at himself and at Voldemort-To-Be, Harry sat down on the dirty stone floor, petting an owl nearest him, who gave him a soft, "Woot" In gratitude. Harry smiled. She wasn't as pretty as Hedwig, but she held her own grace about her with her speckled feathers.
Green eyes scanned the other owls, sleeping peacefully in their little dens. He thought of home. Of the owlery in his time and how these owls didn't look too much different from those he so often visited. Thinking back to his encounter with the tall dark-haired teen, dark brows knitted. What had Riddle been about to ask me? Harry pondered, now that he'd calmed down enough from the meeting to really pay attention to the details. He'd wanted to ask me about…something…but what could he possibly want to know? I'm nothing to him in this time.
Then, a thought occurred to him. Could he have possibly wanted to ask about the dark wizards who 'attacked' me? Was he hoping to learn a spell they'd used on me or something? Even in his own head it sounded foolish, but what other explanation could there be? To Tom Riddle, Hadrian Potts was just another Gryffindor student walking the great halls of Hogwarts. He shouldn't be asking Harry anything!
It wasn't until around dinner time that Harry finally convinced himself to leave the comfortable atmosphere of the owls and journey back into the fray of wizards and witches alike. After all, he'd been hiding out all day and if he didn't at least make an appearance at dinner, someone might start to worry.
Besides, he wasn't going to be able to just run and hide when the term started back up. He'd just have to deal with having classes with Tom Riddle…it wasn't like it would be every class, and at least he didn't have to share a dorm with the psychopath.
Harry sighed. How crazy was Tom at fifteen? Had he even killed anyone yet? Harry didn't think so. His first kill was…bloody, buggering, fuck! Harry about turned right back around and retreated to the owls again when he remember that next year, 19-fucking-43, was the year Tom Riddle opened the damned Chamber of Secrets.
As Harry forced himself to enter the Great Hall, he kept his eyes straight on the Gryffindor table, refusing to even glance at the Slytherin table. What a blooming load of bollocks that damn rune has gotten me into. Could have ended up anywhere, but with my luck, I arrive just in time to relive the first opening that fucking chamber!
Sitting down next to a first year he's never formally met, the amount curse words he'd just said thought of made him smile, shaking his head in amusement. He has definitely been spending way too much time around Ron lately. Hermione would have hit him upside the head with the daily profit if she'd been inside his head to hear the type of language he'd picked up from her husband when they were on the job.
Hermione's voice in the back of his head, telling him off for letting Ron influence that kind of behavior out of him only caused his smile to widen into a full on grin, and Harry suddenly found his appetite return to him. He could almost imagine his two best friends were sitting there now, Ron stuffing his face while Hermione scolded him for his poor table manners; could almost picture Draco sitting across the hall, making rude faces while Harry ate his potatoes, pretending he couldn't see them.
He could almost believe that Seamus and Dean would be walking in through those double doors at any moment, a new scheme already planned out as they try to recruit volunteers.
"You seem to be in high spirits. Has Hogwarts famous 'Christmas cheer' been getting to you?"
And just like that, Harry's happy memory broke apart like a piece of frozen glass, and the raven-haired man looked around him, seeing only strangers and people who should be much older than they are.
He didn't let out a sad, disappointed sigh, but it was a close call. "Yeah. Christmas is wonderful here." Harry said, turning to address Andrew Williams with a fake cheeriness, hoping he looked more excited and less miserable.
The blonde seemed to buy it, though, because he went on about his first Christmas here, about how big the trees had been and the wonderful play professor Beery had put on for them. Harry nodded, and smiled, and tried to seem interested, especially when his other two dorm mates got into the story, retelling the cheesy dialogue word for word and even acting out the more dramatic bits. And for a moment, Harry actually got into it, pretending to plead with Donnahov Frankston not to leave him when the other boy threatened to run away and throw himself off a tower because the man of his dreams didn't love him as much as a bullfrog.
But through the laughter, Harry felt a prickling, and looked over at the Slytherin table before remembering that he wasn't going to look at the Slytherin table, and the moment he met the dark, curious eyes of Tom Riddle, Harry felt his good mood vanish, and all those troubling thoughts came back to him in a flood. He glared, before remembering that Tom Riddle was not harmless, childish Draco Malfoy, and dropped his gaze to the table. He'd eaten more than enough, he figured.
"Hey, I think I'm going to head back to the common room." Harry said, standing up and offering the others a smile.
"Hold up, I'll come with," Said Andrew
"Me too. Haven't even started on Slughorn's essay but, who knows, maybe tonight is the night I actually do it." Said Carter Millin, standing up as well.
Well, if you guys are going, I guess I better. Otherwise it's just me and the two freshies." Sighed Donnahov Frankston, shooting the two first years that had also stayed behind for the holidays a distrustful look.
"I told you never to call them that." Andrew snapped, giving Frankston a light shove. "And anyways, they are a lot more scared of you than you are of them."
Millin snorted. "Not likely." He said, amused.
Harry looked between the three students with a frown. "What's wrong with first years?" He asked, puzzled.
"Nothings wrong with them," Frankston muttered. "I just don't like kids, is all. They make me nervous."
He just couldn't help it, he laughed. "What? Why?"
"Because they are devious! You never know what one of those little buggers is planning!"
Harry and Millin laughed loudly, making their way to the double doors while Frankston looked between them sulkily. Andrew's hand was covering his mouth, as if he, too, was trying hard not to laugh. "Wouldn't find it so funny if one of them snuck a dungbomb into your bed at night." Frankston muttered darkly.
Harry startled. "You guys have dungbombs here?"
Andrew gave him a funny look. "Of course we do. Down at Zonko's joke shop…but I guess you haven't had the chance to visit Zonko's yet." He added thoughtfully. "You'll see, though. They've got the best stuff in the world!"
Harry felt the annoying tingle as they exited the hall, but he didn't turn to look this time. It was becoming increasingly irritating, feeling eyes upon him. But Harry needed to control himself. This wasn't the same foolish rivalry he'd had with Malfoy when they were younger. Tom Riddle was dangerous, and Harry couldn't go around starting fights with him. If Riddle thought him a threat, he wouldn't hesitate to do him in. Not like Draco would have.
And anyways, I'm supposed to be keeping my head down, Harry reminded himself. No fighting. Just normal student Hadrian Potts. If Riddle wants to watch me during mealtimes then fine. I don't give a damn.
Except that he did. Harry had never been very good at hiding his emotions, and if this didn't stop soon, he may do something reckless and stupid, like—
"Hey, are you still in there?" Harry blinked and found two fingers snapping repeatedly in front of his face. He jerked back. "Ah, there you are. Thought we'd lost you there, mate." Millin smiled at him and Harry offered him a meek apologetic look.
"Sorry, just thinking."
"Well don't think too hard. We wouldn't want you to damage that tiny brain of yours." Said Andrew, laughing. Harry gave him a mock punch in the arm, which only made him laugh harder. Harry grinned smugly.
"Still twice the size of yours." He retaliated.
Andrew stuttered for a moment while Frankston and Millin looked on in shocked. And then, all four of them broke out into laughter.
Harry hadn't realized just how much he missed being surrounded by Gryffindor's again until that very moment. But even so, he'd give it all up if only to have his grouchy, whiny, snake of a boyfriend back in his arms.
Tom Riddle stepped out of the bathroom in a cloud of sweet-smelling mist, and fresh pair of pajamas on. He walked over to his bed, contemplating the mystery that is the new student. Honestly, it wasn't as if was all that much of mystery, but how he had acted during dinner was…puzzling. Still, all Tom wanted was an answer to his question, and then he could—
Tom paused, gazing down to see a package sitting atop his bed wrapped in offending red and green paper. Tom's brows knitted in confusion. He had opened all of his presents that morning, and everyone who ever sends him anything was a part of that small mountain of useless items and boring books that Tom knew he'd never again touch.
Approaching the innocent-looking gift carefully, Tom drew his wand and cast every revealing spell and curse detector charm he could think of. When nothing seemed amiss, Tom unwrapped the present using his wand in case he missed something, so he wouldn't be directly touching it.
Resting inside a plain white box sat a thick tome titled: "Magical Hieroglyphs and Logograms – A Guild to Magical Theory by Belard Gervoski."
Interest peeked, Tom still didn't entirely trust the book not to be a trick, so he charmed it to hang in mid-air while he looked for a note of some kind explaining who had send him the gift. Finding nothing more than a gift tag saying,
|To: Tom Riddle.
Happy Christmas!|
Tom frowned darkly. He didn't recognize the handwriting, and no self-respecting pureblood would dare say 'Happy Christmas' regardless. Tom glanced back to the book and with a flick of his wand, opened the cover and started to read. Before he knew it, Tom was so engrossed in the book that he hadn't even heard Lestrange enter the room until the other teen asked, "Why not just hold it? Forcing the book to hover in front of you like that must get tiring."
Tom would never admit to anyone that he had jumped, (however imperceptibly), at the others' voice suddenly breaking the silence. No one had sneaked up on Tom in a long time, and rather than dignify the inquiry with a response, Tom snapped the book shut and returned it to the box, which he then charmed to fly into his trunk. He had to admit that the book turned out to be a far more interesting read than any of the other wastes of perfectly good paper Tom had received that year. But without knowing who sent it, Tom wasn't about to take the chance that it was cursed in some way.
Perhaps I should add 'A Study of Ancient Runes' to my school time-table next year. They certainly do seem to have interesting theories. Tom thought to himself, finishing up his bedtime routine. But first, I need to find out who sent me that gift.
Notes: Well, there you are. Your first look at the great Tom Riddle! And Harry's still a Gryffindor?! *GASP!*
Thank you for all the lovely feedback. You've earned this chapter, and all the muffins you could ever want! –KIAD.