X.
It is eighty years later when Harry Potter finally closes his eyes for the last time.
He is surrounded by the shining faces of his loved ones; Ron and Hermione are there, holding tightly to each other. Ginny, pressing gentle lips to his hand. Neville and Luna, acting as stability for everyone else. Even Draco Malfoy, pretending not to feel upset in the slightest, though even through blurry vision, Harry can still see his red-rimmed eyes.
His children, at the foot of the bed.
James has on a brave face; Lily, too, though hers has more cracks in it. Albus is the only one not attempting to disguise his sadness.
Even after living a long, full life, longer than most Muggles hope to live, Harry will still die younger than most wizards.
But, even so, Harry Potter has surely lived more than most, too. He has watched lives pass before his eyes, met his own end, ready, more than once, and now, he will do so again, for the final time.
As he closes his eyes, he feels a tear trace its way down his cheek, hears the quiet sob of his wife. And still, despite his sorrow at leaving them, at losing them, he lets himself fall back into that sweet, peaceful embrace––like strong arms, wrapped tight around his waist––and he feels himself fill with love, with hope for the beyond.
Because as much as he loves his family, loves the life he has built for himself after that fateful battle––maybe, maybe, as he takes his final rest, will the burning stop.
Harry Potter dies, and he is right to hope, for it is like a balm upon his heart, even as he leaves many broken in his wake.
Voldemort––Tom, he has slowly come to call himself, the name he was first given and has slowly come to terms with, over this long wait––is still at King's Cross.
It is still red, and he is still seated on that bench.
And then, all of a sudden, crimson bleeds to white, blinding in its brilliance.
Tom blinks, gasping. The white blinds him, and in the same breath––purifies him. Bathes him in a divine, cleansing light.
Like the touch of an angel, the glow, with the gentlest of hands, seems to finally, finally seal the cracks in his chest. Gifts him a second chance, a complete soul.
"Don't waste it," something whispers, something otherworldly, "I have given it to you, so that you may give it to him. Don't waste it."
He nods without thinking, a gratitude beyond words filling him. Yes, yes, he will not waste it. He will not take it for granted.
He thinks he knows exactly who he is meant to give it to, and he has no trepidation at the thought.
When his vision finally comes back to him, he looks around, and sees, sitting on the bench next to him––
Harry Potter.
Tom feels the tug of a smile when Harry's eyes meet his.
I was right, he thinks, so long ago.
He was waiting for a someone, not a something.
When Harry Potter next opens his eyes, he is dead, but he has never felt more alive.
His chest, once stinging, scratching with every breath, has settled. Has healed over.
He is in that same place he had been so many years ago. But, this time, instead of Dumbledore, or a malnourished, misshapen fragment of Voldemort, next to him sits Tom Riddle.
Harry studies him. Studies his aristocratic features: his straight nose, full lips, high cheekbones. Dark hair, intense eyes. Watches as a smile slips onto the man's face.
"Hello," Tom Riddle says, voice deep and warm.
"Hello," Harry says, after a beat, before a thought strikes him. If Voldemort's physical form has changed––
He looks down at himself, and sees young hands; feels his face, and his hands meet smooth skin. His eyes, though, are surely the same––even when he was on his deathbed, he was told they were as bright as ever.
"How old am I?" he blurts, suddenly, running his hands through his now thick, now black hair.
Tom Riddle surveys him, before taking a lock of Harry's hair in his hands, rubbing it between his fingers. "You look no different than you did the last time I saw you."
Harry's breath catches in his throat. "I'm… I'm seventeen again?"
Tom's brow furrows. "Again?" he asks, his hand falling from its place in Harry's hair to the bench, scant inches from Harry's fingertips.
Harry tries and fails to ignore the heat of him.
"I––I'm ninety-seven," he stutters out, feeling his face warm as he looks deep into those eyes, those eyes that pierce back. He feels a hint of nervousness––surely he shouldn't bring up his old age, older than this man when he passed, when this man before him had hoped never to die?
Tom smiles, the last thing Harry would've expected from him. "Well, you certainly beat me, didn't you?"
Harry snorts, then covers his mouth, embarrassed at his own nerve. Tom shakes his head, grinning. So much freer than any version of Voldemort Harry has seen.
"It's fine, Harry. It's––it's all fine, now."
Tom leans in, his eyes so, so warm, so soft. So affectionate. "I have waited for you."
For reasons Harry can't explain, he doesn't pull away. It is like a magnetic force pulls them together, strung tight behind the blazing of their eyes. "You have?" he asks, as if from behind glass, echoey and distant.
Tom nods, and Harry follows the motion, hypnotized. "All these years."
He doesn't know why, but the thought brings tears to his eyes. Unthinkingly, he croaks, "All this time?"
And Tom, as if in on the joke but not finding humor in it, whispers, "Always."
A tear falls, and Harry grins, wet and bright.
Harry has never been afraid of death. And now––now, he welcomes it, he embraces it with open arms, because he has finally found someone else's arms to turn into.
Tom stares deep into green, green eyes, watches as they fill with tears, as hope and peace and love are broadcasted from one mind, so open, to his.
He can't bear to look away, but somehow, he knows it's time. It's finally time.
Tom stands, reaching out a hand. Harry Potter looks at it, and then to his face. Searching, wondering, and Tom feels so full with it all. Something warm and carefree ignites in his chest, a welcome change to that incessant burning he had endured. This flame––it is different. It is kind, it is happy. It brings no pain.
"Come with me," he says, honest for the first time in so many years.
And the boy, without a hint of fear, takes his hand, letting Tom pull him to his feet. "Anywhere."
Tom laughs, loud and happy, giddy. "Anywhere," he agrees, and then he spins the boy.
Harry's shout of surprise quickly turns into a full laugh, just as bright, just as sparkling, and Tom knows there is no happiness like this.
With two hands, he pulls the boy, still laughing, to the train. It had pulled in moments ago, but neither had cared, too consumed in each other, in this reunion years in the making.
They stand before the door, hands intertwined. Tom looks down at Harry, and the boy looks up at him, grinning so wide his face surely must hurt.
Tom puts a hand to his cheek, and the boy looks at him with unguarded surprise. But even despite their history, which seems so distant, or the life he had surely left behind––he doesn't stop this pull. He welcomes it, leans into it.
Leans into Tom, and Tom leans back.
Their lips meet in a sigh of bliss, and Tom feels as if the world has righted itself.
Their history is a long, dark one, tangled over timelines and twisted over universes.
But this, this––this transcends all timelines, all universes, all fates and destinies and magic.
This is the stuff of fairytales, and Tom will grab it with two hands.
They board the train together.
Time is a path not often straight, a road not often walked in one line.
There are branches to it, crossroads at every moment, every choice, offering chances at infinite futures.
Time is not a singular ribbon to walk, and so when they had seen these two souls, both blinding in their brightness, in their potential––when they had witnessed all the ways this one destiny could be turned, all these choices that could be changed, they had brought life to these futures, these stories not chosen.
They had blossomed life into these alternate loves.
Time travel, kidnapping, forgiveness, chance––no matter the method, Time had brought them together, damn the endings, if only for every version of these two souls and all their experience to come to their minds in the end, when that first path had finally come to a halt.
Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, with all the memories Time itself had given them, had boarded the train together.
And even now, Time listens to the laughter they leave in their wake, just as they had listened to that first plea for peace, so, so long ago.
And Time, ever fickle, ever unmerciful, and yet always the romantic… had granted.
A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! I hope everyone has enjoyed Timid Timelines!