Hey guys! There's a Spanish translation of this fic that was recently published on AO3 (only Chapter 1 tho), so go check it out and give the translator your love :DD Their username is blu_dinero~
November 1943
History was destined to run its course.
On the night of October 31, 1943, a female Muggleborn Ravenclaw student died of excessive blood loss from the rupture of a large artery. From the perspective of the wound, it seemed to be a tear.
On the morning of November 1, the Ministry of Magic investigated it and found, hanging from the corner, sticky and tough white filaments. They also collected two black, short hairs from the floor; though they weren't so much as hair as they were thorns.
Even during a difficult time, the Slytherin, Tom Riddle, through excellent observation concluded that the filaments were cobwebs, and the short hairs were spider fluffs.
Upon learning of this information, Aurors immediately screened the blood sample for toxins and found small trace amounts of the venom, which corresponded with the given information.
In the afternoon of November 1, officials from magical law enforcement identified the killer as a spider and began investigating.
On the evening of November 1, Riddle reported that the third-year Gryffindor, Rubeus Hagrid, kept a juvenile spider classified as 'Dangerous' by the Forbidden Forest.
On November 4, the school board decided to expel the breeder Rubeus Hagrid from Hogwarts but, under Albus Dumbledore's bail, broke his wand and allowed him to stay in Hogwarts as a Groundskeeper.
As for Tom Riddle, he was granted a Special Contributions Award.
No matter how history was recorded, or how the past was presented to Harry, it couldn't be altered, tampered with, or saved.
After all, events had already been etched into the icy-black, marble monument of history - each stroke a clear definite mark with any chance of change made impossible. It stood, magnificent and solemn. Harry stood under the stature, looked up at it with difficulty, but once again, found himself weak and small.
After so many attempts, shouldn't he be numb by now? He was pale, and barely able to support himself. It would make sense for indifference to follow his predicament.
But the opposite was true.
He was in pain - a bone-searing pain. In addition to the consistent crushing agony weighing down his person like a cloak due to leaping through time, the constant stress, that was his young ward, had become overwhelming and suffocating.
Time and time again, his efforts have been proven futile in his attempt to wash the past of its blood and leave it in peace. It was taking more and more out of him to muster the courage to tell himself, ' next time, it will be better'. Was exercising his hope and endurance in vain if all he could do was watch his efforts go to waste?
It wasn't. It couldn't be.
Harry could never forget the ecstasy of altering history for the first time - changing Tom's birthplace. It had been his overwhelming hope that made him acquiescence to accompanying Tom for more than a decade, but no matter how steadfast his hope was or how deep he held his love, there would always come a day when Tom's efforts extinguished both.
Forever?
What an absurd notion.
Harry peered sideways at the boy being awarded the medal on the podium, at the impeccable smile on his face. The same face now seemed to appear strange and disconcerting.
For the first time, uncomfortable and intrusive thoughts plagued Harry.
Was it time to leave?
"Are you alright, Harry?" The old man sitting opposite from him blinked, his blue eyes like the distant sky. Their seemingly docile appearance lowered people's defences and charmed their person, unconsciously. Dumbledore had always been like this, seemed like this; a trustworthy, wise man. A mentor, a guide.
Dumbledore glanced at the resignation letter in Harry's hands, and said lightly, "I'm only the head-professor. If you want to resign, you'd have to speak to the Headmaster."
Only then did Harry react, and ran his fingers through his messy hair. "Sorry." He was just so used to the supreme mugwump being the Headmaster.
"If you don't mind my asking, after you quit, where would you go?" Dumbledore inquired, looking at him. His hair and beard were still auburn, Harry couldn't help but note.
"I'd probably… travel." He couldn't go back, Harry admitted in defeat. He still hadn't completed his mission of finding Tom's weaknesses, not to mention his physical condition wouldn't be able to withstand the recent and frequent temporal jumps. In other words, he was temporarily trapped in this era.
The old man made an inviting gesture. "Why not consider staying? The children here love you."
Harry couldn't laugh at all; the thin and young brunette stood by the door with a calm expression. "Because of Tom, Professor. I don't believe you haven't noticed."
The old man turned the candy over in his mouth, the hollow sweetness on his taste buds masking the creeping bitterness. Since Harry had intentionally, or unintentionally, implied that he was on guard around Tom, he began watching the child. He couldn't fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, but he vaguely noticed the ill-fitting details that tied him to the Myrtle spectacle. However, he didn't have any evidence, so for objective and purposes, he chose to be silent.
"What I'm surprised about is…" The old man paused, considering his words, "...How did you know?" He had thought Harry was not attentive enough to see through the ruse, and from his understanding of Tom, he would never risk exposing his deceitful side to Harry. Tom was ever guarded, always masked in his motivations and demeanour, and the person he wanted to deceive the most was Harry. But Harry seemed to already be aware of the script to the whole story. Although he was being led on a leash, ironically, he was also the one most aware of his collar.
Dumbledore didn't envy the young man what was probably a most painful experience - awake enough to catch the deception, yet pained enough to wish himself asleep.
"I know, Professor, just like the Horseman knows the trajectory of celestial bodies," the young, black-haired man replied. His face was similar to the wall behind him - terribly pale.
But the old man shook his head. "It's not the same, Harry. The trajectory of celestial bodies can be calculated, and holds a certain truth."
But Professor Dumbledore, what I know is solid history. How is it different from the truth? Harry pulled up the corners of his mouth, unable to voice it.
"Tom cares about you very much." The old man clasped his hands and placed it on the table, his eyes as deep and as secretive as the sea. "I think many people have mentioned it to you, but I must insist on saying it again."
"Not only have I seen it, but I think anyone familiar with Tom would agree, Harry. Tom's bottom line is you. If ever you were to leave, he'd have no one to keep him astray." There was no doubt that the only person the ill-natured Slytherin held in high esteem was probably the young man in front of him. Otherwise, he would never have kept Harry from the outside world, isolated, and able to access only carefully filtered information. This made the old man feel a little weary - how could the expression of love be expressed through control?
Fortunately, Harry had all the characteristics of a typical Gryffindor. The old man was relieved and looking at the young man in front of him, he turned over the remainder of a lump of candy in his mouth.
"Harry, you can fool yourself, but you cannot fool me," Dumbledore popped in another piece of candy, "there's no shame in being unable to stop worrying about him, but don't bother lying to yourself. Otherwise, you'd be in the Deputy Headmaster's office by now."
The old man winked at him, and his sly expression made Harry smile reluctantly. Though he was unable to laugh, he did feel more relaxed.
The child looked up at his mother, naive to the world, and asked concisely, "Mummy, if I wasn't your child, would you still love me?"
"Honey. Of course. I'll always love you."
"Then, if I made you sad, would you still love me?" The child was relentless.
"Of course. I'll always love you." The mother brushed the hair on the child's forehead. "So tell Mummy, was it you who broke that porcelain set?"
If I did something terrible, would you still love me?
It was already past curfew; there was no one in the halls, let alone the remote girls' bathroom. The sound of water dripping and a girl crying was especially clear that night and permeated the quiet and empty space.
The girl who passed not too long ago had already turned into a ghost.
Currently, her ghost seemed to be tired of seeing people, so the moment she heard footsteps she immediately disappeared through the walls. She'd already been questioned by Aurors for such a long time; she truly didn't know anything!
Harry stood in the bathroom filled with water and, with his half-wet shoes disregarded, walked to the washbasin. Without even needing to reach out, Harry knew what was engraved on the underside of the faucet.
"Open." Harry adjusted his stiff neck; his rough pronunciation wasn't as natural as when he was in second-year. Although he lost the ability to communicate with snakes, even Ron could enter the Chambers by imitating the sibilant sounds, let alone him.
Everything was familiar - the twisting and elaborate pipe-work, the gaping maw of the huge chamber, and that enormous monument of Slytherin's head.
He had visited once a few weeks ago, wanting to kill the Basilisk in advance to prevent the tragic events from taking place, but how could Fate allow that? Without Slytherin's blood-line or Parseltongue, he wouldn't be able to summon him out. Even if he did come out, then what? Without the help of Fawkes and the Gryffindor Sword, who would be the one to meet their end?
Harry took a deep breath, the humid air filling his nose, carrying the stale taste of the cold underground lair.
"Tom, come out."
"Very well."
Almost immediately, a pair of arms were wrapped around his waist; just like the day he came back from old Gunter's Shack, they were holding him in a deathly-tight grip. Harry wanted to yell, to ruthlessly strip Tom of his disguise, to vent his spite and frustration for the girl who died, but the anger and grief that had long fermented in his mind and gathered in his throat ultimately dissolved when he felt his child's touch. The emotions left was nothing but an overwhelming sense of helplessness and futility.
There was no use; history would still move forward the way that it did; like this. Any attempt at change was just him being stubborn.
He swallowed down the knotted feelings of frustration gathered in a lump at his throat. With his voice sounding like sandpaper, he murmured something Tom couldn't quite understand.
"Do you still go by Tom Marvolo Riddle?"
Or have you become 'Lord Voldemort'?
