Harry Potter fulfilled his destiny, and the wizarding world is at peace. But he isn't. Hermione thinks he's haunted by the war. Ron has no idea. Ginny can't understand. McGonagall thinks time heals all wounds, and a straight lace lifestyle is all Harry needs to abide by now. But Harry knows, he's not haunted by the war. He misses it. He feels lacking.

So in search of true fulfillment, he turned to other means. After a year of shirking from society, he finds a ritual cloaked in a barely explored branch of magic that he feels an intristic pull to. Welcome to 1971, in an alternate universe where Harry Potter doesn't exist. Hadrian Riddle however, does. Perhaps a bit of a hastily concocted alias, but Harry Potter was willingly to take it, if he could fully embrace that warm feeling of being alive again.

Chapter 3

The Boy in the Diary

In the aftermath of the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry was plagued with a massive migraine. It was of truly epic proportions, and yet he couldn't be happier because it couldn't be Voldemort.

Voldemort was gone.

The fight was over.

"Harry?" It was Hermione, gently gripping his shoulder. "You should rest a bit, you look," she giggled a little, just a bit hysterically, "awful. It's getting late. Don't stay out here."

When he slept that night his dreams were blindingly white,

King's Cross,

it was flushed down a toilet,

understanding,

friends,

Crucio-

"Back again, Harry?" And he spun around, but no one was there.

No one at all.

One Year Later.

It was burning, from the outside in and the inside out, the heat so intense it felt almost frigid, and then something snapped into place, and Harry could suck in one breath but he couldn't get enough and he grasped at the rough cobblestone below his hands with desperation (but there are no cobblestones in the floor of the ritual room in Grimmauld Place). Harry believed he now would be utterly consumed- to never see the light of day again- when a sudden rush of being hit into him... there being no other way to describe it.

A parade of memories with emotions and names and places and stray thoughts (Mary-Lisa and her thrice damned pigtails! She's a right pig, alright). The burning fire was gone quick as it came, and Harry came to... on his side in a cobblestone street with four little boys hovering over him.

His mind supplied: Jones, Kevin, Rickford, and Will.

"Think we done and got the freak good," Will proudly puffed his chest. Harry became aware of sharp pains in various places and also the fact the four little boys were far larger than he.

"Scat! You brats are fed in five minutes! A minute late and you won't get a damn drop!" Suddenly the gang was gone and replaced with a tall and imposing woman. Formidable and familiar. He'd seen her often, in memory only, scouring for answers. Harry couldn't help but whisper weakly,

"Riddle." Mrs. Cole scoffed and toed him with her boot. She wanted him to get up, but also didn't seem to mind that he might've just been beat up.

"Congratulations, you managed to get your own name right. Maybe that shows you're learning, and one day you'll stop causing so much damn trouble. Don't expect a supper after your behaviour. Whatever you did to those boys, you will apologise after they eat. Understood, boy?" Harry realised this woman, this real and alive Mrs. Cole, wanted a reply.

"Yeah," he said, his voice wispy and weak.

"Yes, ma'am," she corrected.

Harry groaned and let the darkness in the corners of his vision swallow him up.

A week after his arrival at Wool's Orphanage and he still hadn't adjusted to the level of subservience. He had unlearned, he supposed, all the wonderful teachings of the Dursleys after the war.

His name was Hadrian Riddle. That was either an odd coincidence... or something more. At the moment, it was one of the last things he cared about. But he couldn't help but feel that was a result of his first word being that bastard's name. There was a settling of magic on his skin when he whispered the Devil's true name, and this new world became clearer around the edges.

The living was not exactly great, but he was still a wizard and he felt a wholeness he hadn't for a long year. It was like the beginnings of bandaging an open wound. You start with a disinfectant.

It was two weeks into his luxury stay in the orphanage, and note sarcasm, that a letter came with another imposing yet familiar face. This one, however, was friendly. So Harry sat on his dingy bed in his dingy clothes across from grey eyes peering through round glasses, and listened to a young Minerva McGonagall explain magic and Hogwarts. She asked him at the end, lacking her usual state of sternness if he had done any magic before. She asked with comradry, and Harry just looked at her and undid her tight bun to let her black hair escape with a smile. She gasped so slightly and one hand absentmindedly went up to fix it.

But she left it down and sat back down across from Harry before leaving.

"You have quite the gift," she told him. "Magic has given you much. Use it well." And then as if she couldn't bare to be so obviously stricken she added, rather misplaced, "And always be punctual, Mr. Riddle!"

She returned again in a couple of days to take him to Diagon Alley, and Harry found himself looking forward to it. When she arrived he already knew something was different. She was distant and didn't look him in the eye. There was just a general distaste, and Harry found himself alone in the world again.

A few weeks later she brought him to the train station, and they did not speak at all this time, but Harry had found himself slightly embittered already by last time, so he was alright with it. They were rather early, so he quickly found an empty compartment and swung himself up into the space above the seats for luggage. He found himself craving the dark recently. It was comforting. With minutes he was asleep, the lack of food, hydration, rest, and care took its toll on the small boy.

You can imagine the fright he had to see a young version of his father waking him.

When James returned with the chocolate frogs, Harry was mentally prepared. He thought he did well winging it, but he wants to get off on the right foot with his own father, the man he never had the chance to know. Now they can grow up alongside each other as friends-

or not.

James tossed him the package and Harry caught it on just reflex.

"Did it scare you much?" James started at Harry's voice and he answered little shiftily.

"Nah, I wouldn't say that."

"Shame," Harry sighed wistfully. "It is a waste of a lovely prank."

"You like pranks?" James tilted his head down mischievously and waggled his eyebrows. Any strange feelings about anything were lost in childish pleasures and comradry.

"Love em," Harry grinned shark-like.

And this odd meet up was the start of a beautiful friendship.

Hours later...

Harry listened to James go over the finer points of the Bulgarian Quidditch team's defense against London with a deep, contented feeling. He had never in life- he was sure- felt this complete. And wasn't that odd, his missing pieces being summoned back by sitting by his would-be father in what should be the 1970s in an alternate reality.

Just another day in the life of Harry Potter.

Scratch that, Hadrian Riddle, he thought to himself.

"Who's your team, eh?" James prodded, and then began to size up Harry up, as if he could sense his taste in Quidditch teams through that.

"I'm loyal to London through and through," Harry exclaimed, throwing his hands up in defence dramatically. "But I won't lie, I've rooted for Puddlemere United a few times more than healthy, but never against the home!"

"I might have a slight fondness for the Cannons," James admitted, albeit reluctantly.

(Ron, Harry's mind whispered- but he ignored it)

The boy acroos from him perked up with no trigger, and squirmed excitedly. Harry quickly found out why.

"What House do you think you'll land in?" James elaborates unnecessarily. "At Hogwarts?"

Harry felt his stomach get heavy and ill. He was never one for prejudice, but it did not sit right with him to carry the Riddle name and the Slytherin house upon him. Returning to an old habit, he ran his fingers through his hair with ease. He felt the coincidence end there, he didn't know why. But Harry had such a sudden itch in his head, like he had forgotten something large.

Riddle.

What if he is real? What if he's here? What if we're related?

Oh my god, what if I am him?

Using a muggle term instead of throwing a Merlin in there- that was purely from shock of his own circling thoughts. Vernon had tried to put the fear of God in him as a younger boy, but it never stuck. Thank Merlin.

Remembering the James Potter sitting across from him, Harry put a thoughtful face on.

"Gryffindor sounds great," James smiled and prattled a bit on his family always being in Gryffindor and if he noticed the stilted way Harry had said it, it didn't show.

Falling into another nervous habit, Harry reached up to push his glasses further up his nose- only to discover they weren't there.

How is it, Harry thought with exasperation, that I don't notice these things. Then he realized, honestly, for the first time- he had no idea how he looked right now.

Oh well, he decided, I'll check in my dormitory bathroom.

It has to be recognised that the orphanage was such a shithole that the two bathrooms in the entire place, shared by 43 children, couldn't manage a mirror between them. But of course Mrs. Cole can afford her rich diet of the finest whiskeys on an every morning basis. There was a semi decent reflection in the tiles in the shower, just enough that you could see you were a person...

"Firs' years! Firs' years this way!" The gruff, booming voice of Rubeus Hagrid resounded over the bustling mess of students pouring from train compartments. Friends were shouting over the din, and luggage was being tripped over more times than Harry had ever thought possible- all in all, it was nearly impossible for he and James to wrestle their way around. About halfway to Hagrid's swinging lantern, James made the mistake of talking to an upperclassman.

"Excuse me," he asked (politely, thank Merlin for the little mercies), "could you move your luggage aside?" The student that James had tentatively tapped on the shoulder turned slowly, and Harry nearly face-palmed when he saw the Slytherin ensemble on the boy's robes. James already had an issue with the snake house, with any luck he would just keep his mouth shut. He looked to be a year or two above them, but that wasn't what Harry focused on. It was the shoulder-length, blonde-white hair and stormy grey eyes that had him almost ready to whip his wand out.

He was staring at the face of the notorious Death Eater, Voldemort's right-hand man, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. But more important then flimsy titles, is that this man was a right damned arse, and had hurt people Harry cared about.

This was the person that killed Bill Weasley.

Granted, Harry hadn't known Bill that well, but he had been a great asset in the war with his extensive knowledge coupled with his dueling skills, and he was a just good guy all around. No, Harry hadn't known him well- but knew he didn't deserve to die the way he did.

(Strung up as an example in the trees, Hermione would not stop crying but Ron didn't make a sound didn't seem to blink)

"You," the future Death Eater stressed the word,"are excused." Then he turned around to his gangle of friends, dismissing us. James looked like all he had heard of 'evil, slimy Slytherins' had just been confirmed.

And Harry was looking very pissed. He jabbed Malfoy in the back with his index finger (nothing like the tentative tap from James earlier), and spoke in a deadly tone- that honestly must've sounded a bit funny coming from an eleven year old, a wee little firstie.

"But you," Harry stressed the word 'you' mockingly in imitation of Lucius, "aren't." The Slytherin let a shocked expression fleet over his face before it was replaced by calm indifference. He clearly wasn't used to being disobeyed. He looked disgusted. "Move your bags, or lose them. It's very simple, even those goons should be able to grasp the concept." Harry chucked a thumb in the direction of Crabbe and Goyle with a sour twist of his lips. Another boy, older than Malfoy, maybe a sixth or seventh year, stepped towards them.

"Well, what exactly are a pair of newbies going to do? Go on, I want to hear this one."

"You don't have to hear it," Harry said softly and maliciously. A part of him said this was a very bad idea, but something about mini Death-Eaters-in-training really struck a chord in Harry.

They didn't know what he could do.

he felt something he was breathing-

Plus, he had his own bone to pick with at least half of these Slytherins. And their brats of children. So, with a deceiving smile that the real Riddle would've been proud of, Harry's inner recklessness took over and the towering collection of Slytherin luggage promptly disappeared.

Vanished.

Into thin air.

Harry (Hadrian- He really needed start thinking of himself as Hadrian) nearly smiled at the dumbfounded looks of horror on the majority of the teens' faces.

He really couldn't be sorted into Slytherin- he'd be murdered in a week, tops, for this little stunt. Wistfully, Harry thought of his first Sorting. Slytherin was, in theory, just a house. But the people who try to promote "Slytherin" ideals, those that represented it, were bigots, supremacists, and all folk of cruel manner. He wasn't so silly to think the wars were about magic light or dark, the magical core proclivity was used as a formal excuse for genocide behavior.

Before they could do anything to him or James, Harry grabbing the formerly mentioned boy's arm and weaved through the crowd- but not before catching the calculating state of the older boy that had scoffed at them.

Well, Harry thought, I told him. Just in a rather round about way.

But, no matter what, Harry couldn't get the sight of those piercing, judging eyes out of his mind. It reminded him of second year when his Parsemouth abilities were discovered.

It reminded him of Snape's gaze boring into him with slight apprehension, fear, and calculation.

Evaluation.

"This way," he muttered to James, who had quite nearly hurtled into a Prefect. Harry was overjoyed it wasn't a Slytherin, though. He and James and Harry's wild behaviour had had enough run ins with the Slytherin house today.

He realized, now that his inner chaos inferno had quieted back down, he had just possibly created an enemy out of an entire house.

What a great start to a great year, Harry thought sarcastically.

With that, he, James, and the rest of their year mates followed the swinging beam of light that was Hagrid's lantern- down the dark path of pine needles and dirt to the awaiting boats.

"This can't be safe." Everyone rolled their eyes at the boy's antics. "What if someone falls out and drowns? That could make Hogwarts liable, you know."

"If you don't shove it, I will shove you. Talking anymore could make you liable, you know." Harry stared out of the corner of his eye at the one who had not-so-subtly threatened the portly Peter Pettigrew.

It had been disturbing to meet his father, but he had never knew James-had nothing to compare to. However, when a voice called to him,

"Oi! Mind if I board with you?", and he was looking into the face of Sirius Black all of a sudden- Harry was at a loss for words.

His godfather, his only family, whom he had watched fall through the Veil still smiling, was crouching next to him.

And eleven.

And wanted to board his boat with him. Harry, of course, let him.

It seemed since coming here that Harry was often finding himself overwhelmed with every emotion. Not shocking considering his lack of interaction the year before.

Their boat left earlier than the others, but that was James' fault. He was the one who pushed off dock while Hagrid shouted after them- "You were to go after me! Yer all ahead!" James looked bashful but somewhat pleased, too. His playful side was out to play, the future founder of the Marauders. Whom may not exist actually, in this time. All that future and comradry may never come to be, not here.

Harry choked down a sob he didn't know was there.

The emotions were- much-

I'm fine, he reassured himself, you knew there was a very strong chance of seeing him again- then it sunk into Harry.

Remus would be here.

Lily and- oh dear lord- Snape. The dour Potions Master, would he still become a Potions Master?, would be here, and Harry was the only one who knew about his home problems. Should he do something? This man bled out on a dock for him, well the woman he loved but altogether it was relative.

"Hadrian?" He had spaced out again, and James looked slightly aggravated. This was happening to him too often. He needed to stop dwelling and just live his new life. For himself and only himself, for once.

And wasn't that a nice thought?

"I'm telling you guys-" Pettigrew was talking again, but he never got to finish. Sirius had stood up, clearly intent on getting his point across, and swayed back and forth as though trying to make the boat just shake a little. He was trying to scare Peter, while also proving that there was no chance of anyone falling and drowning.

Too bad it didn't work out that way.

With a whimper of fear, Peter lunged for the edge of Sirius' robe, as if to pull him down. Instead, Sirius leapt away and promptly landed on Harry who went flailing backward, with Sirius in tow.

The boat lifted with their momentous falling, and James and Peter found themselves being thrusted forward as the boat quickly flipped. James, Sirius, and Harry were a tangle of limbs and appendages- flopping in the dark, glittering Great Lake.

James sputtered violently- spitting a mouthful of water at Sirius who immediately dunked his head under the water to avoid the spit and sadly took a still-attached Harry with him. When up again Sirius glared at James, though admittedly half-heartedly as it was partnered with a wild grin, and turned to Hadrian.

"Sorry," he said with an easy shrug. Harry grinned back.

"You can say that after you untangle your robes from me. I can barely move, and i don't know how long we can stay floating." Sirius went a dark, flushed red that Harry had never seen on him before.

"Sorry," he repeated, muttering this time while fumbling with the hem of his soaked uniform and Harry's soggy ones. In frustration, Sirius just ended up pulling down off them entirely.

Harry wanted to laugh, but felt he shouldn't. He wasn't sure why. Peter broke the semi-awkward silence.

"See," he whined. "Now we have to swim to shore." James rolled his eyes.

"Don't be stupid, we'll flag down the next passing boat."

Convienently, it was Hagrid, who shook his head and muttered under his breath about 'dangerous ideas' and the 'next generation'. All the same though, he pulled them up and out of the bone-chilling waters. When they sat in Hagrid's large boat, shivering, he apologized.

"Yer going to 'ave to wait to dry off. I'a, well, ain't allowed to be doing magic, strictly speaking. Yer going to 'ave to ask Professor McGonagall to spell yer robes clean." James let a look of horror shadow his face.

"My da's talked about her! She's super strict, and has no leaning for 'Nasty, little, buggering troublemakers like you'. At least that's what he always tells me." Sirius stared at James, interested. But for a different reason then Harry thought.

"Don't get along with your folks?" He asked, looking interested.

When James eyed Sirius strangely and shook his head no, Harry decided it was time to sacrifice some dignity. He knew why Sirius asked after all.

"Wish I had parents to not get along with," he said morosely. Sirus whirled on him, appearing just a bit guilty.

Probably feeling bad that he had parents and he hated them, and Harry didn't have anyone. Which Harry found slightly ridiculous, as he'd met the shrieking portrait of Walburga.

How could someone be grateful for such abuse?

"I stay at an orphanage in London, the kids there are horrible. Don't even get me started on the the matron, Ms. Cole, one time she-" Harry stopped abruptedly, he had almost spoke too much. He wanted Sirius to feel better, to know he wasn't alone, not spill out his embarrassing and painful childhood and therefore alienate himself. No stories.

Which, wasn't really even his. Though honestly his real childhood was no better.

Ugh, the Dursleys.

The cupboard.

"So James, what's your life like, huh? Any funnier stories? That was kinda, um, sad, Hadrian." Pettigrew and his ignorance to any underlying delicacies, saved Harry and Sirius too from uncomfortable scrutiny. James launched into a story about the time he set the Manor on fire, and Harry felt glad he had so effectively changed the subject.

The orphanage and what he had to live like, was embarrassing. There were much nicer care homes in London, Harry was sure, but of course he lived in the one most ill suited for its purpose.

So they stood at the very end of the line of first years, waiting to enter the Great Hall for the Sorting. James' fear of the infamous McGonagall had him stoutly refusing to ask for a drying charm. James and Sirius tried ever mild drying-related charm but the results were mediocre. They didn't look like drowned rats anymore, but their clothes were still far too damp and they were chilled to the bone.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, this is absolutely-" Harry said, at the end of his patience with the whole situation. "Let me throw on some warming charms. We won't dry off, but we wouldn't die of hypothermia or look stupid shivering like leaves in the Hall."

"Yes," Sirius practically moaned in relief, "please. I don't know how, that's why I didn't do it." With a wave of Harry's wand, the odd group was sighing in happiness. "Miss built in heating charms." At Harry's questioning look, Sirius elaborated. "Manor wards, y'know."

Right then, the huge entrance to the Great Hall swung open with a deafening creak.

Harry eyed the enchanted starry ceiling, and the long tables with their extensive silverwares. He took in the High Table and the twinkling face of an alive Albus Dumbleore, who, for once, wasn't in the seat of the Headmaster. It was different, but the same.

Harry was home.

Now, he only had to convince an old, stubborn Hat that he belonged elsewhere then Slytherin. Oh, joy. Harry looked wistfully at the man that- in a different life- could've been his father.

-true greatness and your path to greatness it would lead you to greatness greater than those before-

Thing is, even with the awkward connection to Riddle he had in this place looming on the horizon, Harry still felt that strange feeling- that feeling of belonging. The one he had never really had at all, the one he hadn't realized he was missing until he had it. It was odd, that this felt so right.

But Harry was okay with that. And maybe a little bit...

Harry was okay.