"I must be mad," Tom noted to his companion, "I must be utterly mad to have let you talk me into this."

It was an oddly clear and sunny day. One of those days that wasn't quite sure whether it was still spring or early summer. The flowers and trees were still in bloom but there was that early hint summer of warmth to the air that would be pleasant in any other world.

In this one it was an undeniable sign that as the end of term was approaching so too was the destruction of Diagon Alley's muggleborn district.

He'd wasted so much time uselessly waiting for Dumbledore that they were nearly out of it.

Yet, here he was, walking down the London streets with the emperor of Ubik dressed in his now familiar muggleborn disguise of Harry Evans, and heading to the Black family's London townhouse. Going not to deal with Regulus Black but instead to simply talk to him.

True, Tom supposed they did have to confirm it was him (which would take roughly two seconds with legilimency even if Black was a half-decent occlumens) and technically he could simply avoid Diagon Alley like the plague while waiting for it to explode, but that was beside the point.

The point was that the time for simple talk had passed a very long time ago. Talk was reserved for when Black had been in school, when he'd been impressionable, not two seconds from pushing down on the doomsday button.

"No, for once you are being a conscientious and moral man," Azrael said with a small hum, adjusting those absurdly thick glasses as he stared ahead, "And I'm very proud of you for it."

"For once?" Tom balked, "Could you try to make that less condescending?"

"I suppose I could try," the emperor said with a small amused smile, "But I don't think either of us are under any illusions about your true nature."

Funny, Tom often wondered about that. It wasn't so much that he'd claim to be a good man, he knew far better, but it'd often crossed his mind that Azrael had only the vaguest idea who he truly was.

Still, that was a conversation reserved for another time.

"Regardless, you and I both know we're running out of time," Tom said, "And when has talk ever accomplished anything?"

"You'd be surprised," Azrael said but Tom just gave him a flat look.

"I'm serious, if he hasn't changed already what can we possibly say to make him change now?" Tom asked.

Tom tried to imagine if it was him. Had anyone, ever in his life, managed to simply talk to him and change anything let alone everything? True, the course of Tom's life and ambitions had changed drastically, but that… That wasn't talk, he didn't think that talk ever would have managed that, instead Tom had meandered into those realizations himself.

Everything you truly learned in life you learned alone.

At least, that's how Tom saw it, and he imagined that was how young Regulus Black would see it too.

"And yet," Azrael said with an almost fond smile, "Here you are, still willing to try."

Yes, Tom supposed he was. He rationalized it by saying that he had to confirm his suspicions anyway, that if it all went south, he could obliviate or simply incapacitate the boy and be on his merry way. He didn't lose much through this. Yet, Azrael had a point, he still was doing it.

He'd sought out his old friend for more or less this reason. To give Tom the justification he needed to take the harder, more moral, path that he wasn't sure he could believe in.

For a moment they walked in silence.

It was a muggle street, not surprising as most of London's streets were muggle streets, with only a few hidden nooks, crannies, and alley ways squirreled away by the magical population. It was currently filled with throngs of people, tourists attracted by the summer weather and looming holidays as well as your usual London residents enjoying the weekend.

Tom was dressed like them today, as was Azrael, but it was moments like these walking through these streets that he felt so alien. He'd spent most of his adult life desperately keeping up with muggle events and histories, maintaining the heritage he'd scorned as not only a source of pride but identity, shaping himself into the muggle studies professor he felt Hogwarts deserved.

Yet, even with all of that effort, even though he was labeled as perhaps the most muggle of muggleborns (a muggle who used magic he'd been called more than once) he instinctively knew that he did not belong to these people. Many of their concerns were not his, their world was not his world, and for all that he could try to escape back into their fold they somehow seemed further away than even Mars.

Azrael's voice cut into his thoughts, "Tom?"

"Hm?" Tom hummed distractedly.

"About your daughter," he said, "About Harry…"

Tom's head didn't turn fast, but it did turn. Azrael was staring at him even as he moved forward, unnaturally green eyes burning from behind those thick lenses. His voice, youthful as ever, had that edge that made you stop and listen to every word out of his mouth, "I know you've been teaching her."

Tom let out a sigh of relief, "Is that all?"

The way he'd said it, Tom had thought it might be something serious. Azrael didn't smile in turn though, didn't relent in the slightest, said, "Tom, you know you can't account for everything."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Azrael didn't act as if Tom didn't know what he was talking about, no, instead he pressed onward, "There's only so much you or any of us can do. You're far more likely to hurt her turning her into a dueling monster than anything else."

"Oh, so I should do nothing?" Tom asked with a sneer.

"No, I'm just saying that you should calm down and let her have a childhood. Let her live in a world where she doesn't have to be terrified—"

"And what kind of a world do you think she lives in?" Tom asked, stopping in his tracks and turning on him, instinctively setting up the wards to deflect any attention, "She lives in a world where people want to kill her. No, they don't just want to kill her, they're willing and able to do it and have once already. And it doesn't matter to them that she doesn't have a wand yet or that she's not even old enough to dirty their precious school."

"That doesn't mean—"

"You're not a father, you don't understand."

"I was a father!"

Tom almost took a step back. He didn't know if he'd ever heard Azrael shout before. He'd heard him angry, heard him regretful and disappointed, but shouting was such an uncontrolled human response to a situation. That last day on Mars, there'd been no shouting, no screaming at one another. There hadn't been any shouting with Tom's rejected confession either.

He'd always been so quiet and so measured.

Hearing him shout, seeing him look like this, it felt so wrong. Like somewhere beneath all that pageantry and strangeness he'd collected for himself over the many years of his life, there really was a Harry Evans.

Azrael sighed, adjusted his glasses again, a strange nervous tick born out of his disguise or else brought out by it.

"I didn't just have a wife, Tom, I had three children. Our youngest was a little girl, and when she was little… I had issues with the older two, but her and I, we were close for a very long time. Believe me when I say that I know how you feel, that I worried about them and the attention I brought to all of us constantly. I thought I'd do anything to protect them, no matter the price."

He raked a hand through his thick dark hair, revealing the faded lightning bolt scar on his forehead, and for a moment looked away from Tom and instead out towards the crowded street.

"I'll admit that I became estranged from them, all of them and my wife. When it became clear that I was, I mean, I never was a particularly great… Well, it was better for everyone if I took a graceful exit from their lives. But Tom…"

He trailed off for a moment, as if not quite sure how to end that sentence, before starting again, "You have more of a chance than I ever did, even if you've borrowed it, but you can't squander it. I know that you think you aren't, that you're preparing so you'll never have to go through this again, but by avoiding any kind of limit on what you're willing to do…"

He gathered himself, his limitless confidence returning, and said simply, "There can't be a third time."

"A third time?" Tom asked.

"You know what I mean," Azrael said, and here there was some contempt, a lack of amusement at Tom's purposeful misunderstanding when they both knew exactly what he meant and exactly how far Tom would go.

"If anything happens to Harry in this world, whether you or pureblood vigilantes destroy her, you can't go back again."

Azrael extended his hands, pulling at an invisible thread tying everything together, "I remember everything just like you do, this world and the previous one, but I can feel time being stretched thin. I'm sure, if you concentrate, you'll feel it to. Do it again, Tom, and it will snap."

At the word snap Azrael snapped his fingers, an oddly loud sound despite the noise of the city. They both kept their eyes on his pale fingers, at how they were still poised to snap together.

Then Tom said, "Then I better not screw it up."

Azrael led them confidently to town house on the west end. Unlike Potter's, this one was placed on a muggle street, Number 13 Grimmuald Place. It looked like any ordinary townhouse, well to do certainly, and far beyond Tom and Lily's meager budget but not out of place from its neighbors.

There was no external sign of magic, no hint of wizardry or the ancient wizard aristocracy that was housed here. If Tom had to pick any house in all of London, while he wouldn't not pick this one, he wouldn't have drawn this one out of a hat either.

"This is it?" Tom asked his companion.

Azrael nodded, "Yes, this is the Black family home."

"Family home?" Tom asked, he'd just assumed it was one of the many Black estates, and that it just served as the family's London residence. Certainly, that was the way that Orion, Lucretia, and the rest of the Black clan had all talked about their homes during Hogwarts. The way Azrael was talking about it made it seem as if this was the Black's main headquarters.

He'd heard they'd fallen on troubled times, or rather, been in a steady decline for a number of generations now but he hadn't imagined that they'd be reduced to this. And it wasn't as if the homes were divided among the children either, as it was always the firstborn son of the main family who was to inherit all the lands, seats, and titles…

"Are you sure?" Tom asked.

Azrael just gave him a frank dull look, "Yes, I am very sure."

"I just thought it'd be… bigger," Tom finally settled on, "Or perhaps plated in gold and platinum."

Lily would agree with him if she was here.

"You're stalling," Azrael accused.

"I'm not stalling, I'm just a little surprised," Tom said, "The way they always talked the Blacks were swimming in money the likes of which a peasant such as myself could never dream of."

True, it was still in downtown London, on a muggle street no less where the rent was nothing to sneeze at. That is, if the Blacks bothered to pay muggles such things rather than confound them and the tax officials who came knocking. Still, Tom had expected, well, he guess he'd just expected more.

"And you're still stalling," Azrael said, and this time his smile was fond, almost amused. He held out a hand to Tom, motioning towards Number 13's front steps, "Shall we?"

Tom reached out then hesitated halfway, feeling his wand pressing into his arm from its harness, "Who is going to open that door?"

It didn't have to be Regulus Black who opened the door. Orion could be in there, if Tom were any less competent, he'd have caught both Tom and Azrael on his wards by now. More, Regulus might not even live in this place, could have moved out and—

"Tom," Azrael said slowly, "You're more powerful than you let yourself remember. Both you and I know that it's Regulus Black in there and we can ensure that it's him and him alone who will be compelled to open his own door and tell the truth as he knows it."

Tom… He hadn't thought about that. Funny, he knew it, he knew he was more powerful than he'd ever been before the Ubik incident but he'd had so little reason to use that power. The time travel, that he suspected no one else could have managed, lived through, and remembered so clearly. He'd forgotten that he could even apply that power to situations like this.

He took Azrael's hand, cool and firm yet oddly comforting, and together the pair took the white steps up to the doorstep. Here, Tom noted, was the first hint of who lay inside waiting for them. The door was painted pitch black, matching the tar of the road, and its bronze knocker detailed the Black family crest along with their motto "Toujours Pur".

The Blacks had never exactly been subtle.

Azrael lay a hand on the door, not knocking, just touching the wood and the wards shimmered to life. For a moment they danced in the air, unravelling and reweaving themselves at Azrael's silent command, and then they faded back into the stone and wood of the townhouse.

Just as Azrael removed his hand from the door it glowed softly, as if a lightbulb had been lit just beneath its surface.

The pair of them waited in silence for a moment. Tom readied himself, emptying his mind in preparation to enter Regulus Black's and see what he needed to see.

The door opened to reveal a very young man, younger than Lily, who had only taken his first few steps outside of the world of Hogwarts. He was more bookish looking than either his father or his older brother, thin and slightly nervous looking, lacking all of the confidence Sirius had possessed in shades. His robes were too big and too ornate from him, passed down from generation to generation expecting a taller and broader man. His fingertips were stained with ink, his hair that length that was both too long and too short and perfectly askew, and his eyes surrounded by shadows.

Without a word Tom looked through him, deep into his mind as well as his soul. Memories ran through him, years and years spent in this town house, befriending the miserable house elf, the good years with Sirius, and then the miserable years after both his departure and later his death.

Then, there it was, the flashes that became more than flashes. His cousin, Narcissa, a few of the family galas and a few ideas and words tossed around that became more than just words. Secretive, exciting, meetings with family and friends, led in part by Bellatrix who fought to do what no one else was willing to. Guilt, anger, and betrayal over Sirius' senseless death at the hands of a filthy impoverished half-blood.

And finally, the task that had been presented to him and him alone, to do not only what he was capable of but what none of his friends or relatives was capable of doing.

Tom's wand was out before he could think.

"Tom!" Azrael shouted, pulling back his arm, pointing his wand away from Regulus and instead at the door.

Regulus stood frozen in place by magic, his expression trapped in the midst of transforming from confusion to terror.

"Don't do it Tom!" Azrael hissed as Tom tried to struggle out of his grip, "Remember we came to talk to him first."

"He knows exactly what he's doing," Tom said, "He has it all planned out to the very detail. He knows all the Alley's wards, all the escape points, all the auror patrols. He's had more than enough time to turn back already and he's chosen this!"

He'd chosen, whether he knew it or not, to face the lethal consequences of his own actions.

Azrael knocked Tom's wand out of his hand and forced him back down a few steps. By the time Tom summoned his wand back into his hand and returned to the landing both were breathing heavily and waiting to see what the other would do next.

Slowly, both turned to look at the frozen Regulus.

With a wave of his hand, Tom freed Regulus' face. He sucked in a desperate, wild, breath, barely keeping himself from hyperventilating as the rest of him stood as still as a statue.

Finally, after he'd collected enough of himself, he said, "Professor Riddle."

"Right," Tom drawled, "I imagine you've figured out why I'm here."

Regulus didn't nod, wasn't capable of the motion, but he didn't respond yes or no either. He didn't have to, his wide silver eyes said all he'd ever need to.

"What you need to figure out, Black, is whether or not I should keep you alive."

Regulus didn't seem to know how to respond to that, his lips fluttered, eyes darted this way and that in search of rescue. There wasn't any though, just Azrael, Tom, and Regulus' own family wards which had so easily been turned against him.

He looked as if he was seeing Tom Riddle for the first time in his life. Tom wondered what his father had told him, had he ever mentioned that once upon a time Professor Riddle had been something he'd been afraid of? Or did that remain his pleasant little secret to this day?

Finally, Regulus started, "I don't know what you're—"

"Don't try me, you bottom feeding parasite," Tom said, reaching out with his wand and pressing it against Regulus neck, "Just answer the question."

"They'll throw you in Azkaban," Regulus said, eyes straining as they tried to make out the wand pointed at his throat.

"An unfortunate consequence," Tom mused, "But one I'm prepared to face."

Regulus swallowed, his adam's apple bobbing visibly and cold sweat beginning to drip down his forehead, "I—I don't know what you want me to do—"

"Don't play dumb either," Tom chided, "We both know you're smarter than that."

Regulus let out a small desperate laugh and his lips curled into a deranged smile. Then, something hard and determined entered his eyes, and that smile became just a little gleeful, "It's too late, Riddle. I already gave them everything they need. More, if something happens to me, they'll do it as soon as possible. Kill me, torture me, mudblood and it will make no difference. You, and everyone like you, will always get what's yours."

He finished his last word by spitting in Tom's face. He missed, Tom wasn't standing nearly close enough, but he watched as the saliva dripped from his lips and down onto the front of his robes.

He didn't look too much like his father or his brother, not necessarily taking after Walburga, but hailing back to other members of the Black family. Still, for a moment, Tom could so easily see both Sirius and Orion Black in this willful and spitefully proud creature who was willing to martyr himself for the glory of genocide.

"Tom," Azrael's hand shot out again, "Tom just walk away. Remove his memories if you have to but just walk away and go back home."

"Didn't you once say obliviation is akin to a thousand deaths?" Tom asked, his voice sounding distant to his own ear.

His wand dug that much deeper into Regulus' quivering neck.

"You heard him, Tom, it's too late. There's nothing more we can do here—"

"Too late for today," Tom mused, "But what about tomorrow?"

What about the next attack, the bigger and better sights that Bellatrix and her ragtag crew set for themselves. After this they'd get a taste of real power, real change, they would never stop there. No, there'd be no stopping them until either all the muggleborns fled the country or died or else they were put down like the dogs they were.

Why should Tom have to wait for that nebulous next time when he was already standing here?

"You'll give him what he wants, Tom!" Azrael hissed, now looking desperate, "He wants to die for his cause right now. He wants so desperately to be able to believe in it and give himself to it. Are you going to give him what he wants?!"

"Sometimes, my practicality does outweigh my spite," Tom responded. He'd kill Regulus Black, even if the man would like nothing better, just to make sure Tom's enemies could not make use of him.

"Why did you bring me here, Tom, if not for this?"

Tom stopped.

That's right, there was a reason Tom had brought Azrael here. He'd seen where this path ended, because it wouldn't just be this Black, it'd be every Black and every Malfoy until there was nothing left of them.

He'd seen the dark path, it'd been so easy and tempting to take, and yet he'd spent so many years resisting it. Not just these past five years but longer, all the way back to his fifth year of Hogwarts, when he'd turned his back on Voldemort and all he could have been.

Tom didn't want to live in this world, but he didn't want to live in Voldemort's world either.

Tom slowly lowered his wand. He watched as Regulus let out his breath, looking as if he'd collapse on himself if he could. Azrael let out the same breath, going so far as to lean against the doorframe, as if he'd just won some great and terrible battle.

As for Tom, he felt as if a great cloud had just passed over him, only now drifting away and letting the light filter back through.

He felt… oddly light. Somehow, for some reason Tom couldn't begin to guess at, he felt everything would be alright.

He spared a glance at the sky, and for the moment, the sunlight and blue sky didn't bother him so much.

"Well," at the sound of his voice both Azrael and Regulus started, "Whatever we're doing, you can't stay here."

With that Tom grabbed onto the pair of them and ripped them through time and space, away from Black's ancestral townhouse, and back to the depths of Tom's contraband basement. The place where he stored books, antiques, movies, and now one unwilling house guest.

Author's Note: 50 chapters, my god, this feels like a milestone of some sort.

Thanks for reading and reviewing, reviews are much appreciated.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter