Edited: 01.05.2021
The soul would say,
Yes, I am your pain, but I'm also your peace and your power.
Know always, that I am aware and able.
— Unknown
Harry spent the following days keeping to herself and fulfilling orders. It was a familiar routine that came to her with such ease that she almost hated herself for it.
Mince the onions, mince the garlic, mince the carrots. Her thoughts mocked her relentlessly, any time she was assigned a new task.
Pull the weeds, water the plants, scrub the floor. Petunia's shrill voice chanted, as she did, what she was told. To her ever-growing frustration, she realized that this helped her shut her thoughts down and clear her mind like nothing else ever had.
In her first, and now probably last, Occlumency session with Snape, he'd only taught her the theory of everything, without hinting at how it was applicable. She had no idea how one cleared their mind when she left his office that day. But she felt like she found a way to do just that, now. It was not her happy place, not even a neutral one. No, she cleared her mind with repression and repetition.
If she needed to shut down, she could just think of this moment, in the hall, where she scrubbed the hardwood floor, following orders. She wasn't in control. Not doing anything other than listening, implementing and repeating. It was a feedback loop that she could probably call meditative, if meditation was supposed to make you feel like shit.
Merlin, when she finally got her own place, it would always be a little messy. A little out of control. A little overgrown. A little cluttered. A little too much and yet just enough. And she would clean it exclusively with magic. She wouldn't even buy conventional cleaning supplies, she thought viciously as she stared at the freshly scrubbed hardwood floor.
'You missed a spot,' Billy called from somewhere behind her. When she turned to look back at him, he grinned meanly at her while pointing at a random spot, and Harry tried her hardest not to roll her eyes.
'I'll have to go look for it later, then,' she said, trying to keep her voice neutral, as Billy's eyes narrowed a bit. They both knew she wouldn't. The thing was, that Harry tried to be civil to everyone, she really did, even if this kid deserved a fist to the nose. But she wouldn't give in to it, not when she'd ignored everything else up until now, too. She even managed to shut down questions regarding her family situation, with an 'I don't know.', that was so cold, distant and detached, that no one had bothered to ask her about her past since.
Billy was a bit of a personal challenge for her because he reminded her greatly of a simpler, crueler version of Dudley. And if she'd learned anything over the years, it was how to spot the Dudleys and Vernons of the world. The people that were just looking for the slightest sliver of an opportunity. That just needed a reason to fight, to scream, to shove, to chase, to punish.
Billy still seemed to be waiting for her to give into his provocation, but Harry knew better than that. It was a pity, that that knowledge just meant that she was aware that he'd crack sooner or later, even if she somehow managed not to take the bait. That was just what guys like that did. For now, she would do her best to ignore his sense of entitlement, keep her answers short and clipped, and take care to at least have one person in the room with them at all times. She didn't do this because she was afraid. No, she still had her wand and she'd damn well use it if she had to. But Harry knew that if they caught her fighting, she'd lose her outdoor privileges and that was just something that she wouldn't risk.
In fact, she planned go out again today to explore the second street north from the orphanage this time. The one with the bakery. Diagon Alley had to be around there somewhere. They were still in London after all. Granted, it was the London of the year 1942, but she couldn't imagine that Diagon Alley changed locations depending on the time it was in.
She groaned. Actually, now that she thought of that, it seemed like a very magical thing to do.
Damnit.
X
After she spent almost her entire second week in the past searching, she finally managed to find Kings Cross and from there, Diagon Alley wasn't too far off. As soon as she hit the curb, she transfigured a simple black overcoat for herself. It would work well enough to hide her uniform.
She remembered Hermione's stern warning as if she still stood next to her, to rant, to talk, to share her ever-growing knowledge and maybe even to annoy her a little.
'It doesn't have to be complicated to be effective. Just figure out what's the most efficient tool you're going to need and hide behind it. Too many transfigurations, attract more attention than someone who doesn't fit in quite right. Because let's be honest, no one in the magical world ever really looks like they fit in like they're supposed to.' She grinned toothily at Harry, who just bit down at her quill and looked over her essay.
'So, is that a no to transfiguring myself some boots?' She'd asked, somewhat forlorn, as she stared at her transfiguration essay, in which dragon leather boots with elaborate patterns were playing a significant role.
'It's over the top, it's unnecessary, it takes too long to transfigure. and most importantly, it's too recognizable. You don't want anyone thinking twice about what you're wearing, when you're in hiding and actually have to use transfiguration for something practical.'
Now, that she was existing in a time that she had no business being in, she understood why. The last thing she wanted was to attract attention. And wasn't that ironic? Attention had been everything she yearned for until she'd actually gotten it and realized what it felt like to be seen, and yet still not recognized for who she was.
She had finally found her place in her own time, she didn't want to mess it up, couldn't afford to lose it, not if she wanted to hold on to the people, she'd spent the better part of her life searching for. She squared her shoulders, breathed deeply, and walked with a lot more confidence than she actually had towards Flourish & Blotts.
Harry knew that she couldn't spend the day between the tall stacks of books, reading away, without earning herself the scorn and undivided attention of the staff, but what she could do was browse. She'd seen others do it often enough to know that browsers rarely got in trouble. So, she started looking through the indexes of books that seemed useful. Her time was spent with her eyes running over seldom used magically enhanced natural resources, while simultaneously trying to get a read on their uses.
An hour into the endeavor, it seemed more than a little impossible. Almost every magical potion ingredient and every magical plant, that ever had the misfortune of having been discovered by a witch or a wizard, technically fell under that category. Additionally, to that a multitude of those were made from a material that was hard enough to be ground up into something resembling fine sand. And that's ignoring the idea that someone might have transfigured something entirely different to look and behave like sand when it was really flubberworm saliva or something.
After she weeded through half of their herbology section, with little to no success, she felt like someone was watching her and since she didn't want to reach the point where a staff member came over to talk to her, to begin with, she turned to leave.
On her way out the door, she stumbled, and almost crashed into a student, trunk in one hand, back turned to her, looking through the pile of used books. She narrowly managed to dodge running into him, missed a step, and reached out before she could think twice about it. He was tall, much taller than her, but that wasn't a huge accomplishment in any time. One hand firmly placed on the guy's upper arm, Harry finally steadied herself, before she looked up to see a very disapproving glare on an all too familiar face.
She immediately tried to school her features, but she must have shown some kind of emotion because the young man in front of her stared at her curiously when she pushed away from him, as if she'd been burned.
He reached out to hold on to her. She was sure he was about to ask her why she reacted to him like that when she obviously didn't know him. But before his hand could reach her, she ducked under his arm, sidestepped his trunk and hurried out of the store.
That had been him, she thought shakily. In the flesh. The disapproving eyebrows and the artfully tousled hair were just as infuriating as she remembered. Villains didn't deserve to have nice, easily manageable hair.
The eyes were different. Not glowing red, for one, but they also didn't look as lost and deranged, as of yet.
She touched her scar carefully. It hadn't hurt. It had barely even throbbed since she'd come to this time.
Her breathing came faster and faster, when she remembered how her scar used to hurt, back in first year.
How Hermione and her, had read up on what it meant to be a Parselmouth. Whose lineage she was supposed to share and how stumped they'd been when they couldn't find a direct connection.
The pressure-like hurt against her scar had become a steady companion from the moment the creature, that was so very entwined with everything she was, left that steaming cauldron. He'd laughed and taunted her, pressed his hand against her scar and made it hurt. She tried not to let herself think about why Pettigrew had drawn upon her blood to revive him.
There'd also been something decidedly strange about the dreams that haunted her through her fourth year. Never mind, the beginning of her fifth. The reoccurring dream about the door had gotten so bad that she'd been ordered to take Occlumency classes with Snape, after Hermione had ratted her out to McGonagall. It was in times like this that she'd have preferred Ron as a roommate. Not that he wouldn't notice, no, the guy was just as perceptive, but he tended to be much more respectful about personal boundaries than Hermione. Probably a necessity with six siblings.
But if that potion had healed her scar and cut that connection, there would be no reason for her to be send this far back in time?
Unless…
Unless it hadn't tried to heal her.
When she got close to hyperventilating, she stopped and leaned against one of the empty entryways to try and reign in her emotions.
He looked a bit younger than he had in the chamber, but that could also be because she'd been so much smaller, when she'd seen him then, lording over her.
He was still tall, now and as handsome as he'd been, back then. Not that that mattered, not that that ever had mattered, because all of what he was, and what he had the potential to become, was overshadowed by what he would become.
Feeling the coolness of the old stones behind her seep through her clothes, she realized that if she wanted to go back, it wasn't just what he had become, it was what he needed to become.
Based on the time frame Myrtle would die sometime this year and she couldn't stop it.
For the first time ever, she had something to lose that she knew she wouldn't risk. Her breathing had calmed down a little, with the acknowledgment of pain. She would have laughed if she had been capable of it.
Harry the girl who lived, the savior of the wizarding world, would let a young girl die, and an evil megalomaniac racist reign supreme just so she could keep her ragtag group of friends.
He'd told her back in that thrice-damned chamber, Voldemort is my past, present, and future and she'd been so envious of that, at the time.
She wished, she could have made that kind of choice for herself, as well.
She longed for the ability of telling herself and the world, that expected so much of her, Harry Potter is my past, present, and future.
But she never had that choice, at least not before today. It's always been him, ever since the day Tom Riddle decided he needed to kill a one-year-old and wasn't that fucking ironic? Because now, at fifteen, lost in time, choosing herself meant choosing him, too.
His influence over her life, the death sentence, the hurt, the loss, and the only reason she could even consider doing that was the love she experienced through all her hardships, the friends she met along the way. The family of choice that had slowly but surely formed and claimed her heart.
It was the only love she'd ever known, and no matter how much she'd like to deny it she was ridiculously possessive over Ron's kindness, his family's easy acceptance of her, Hermione's eagerness to include her in absolutely everything, Hagrid's warmth, and even McGonagall's watchfulness. She knew that that wasn't much, but it was all she'd ever known.
And for the first time in her fucking life, she knew she wouldn't give herself up for the idea of changing something bigger, because there were no guarantees.
If she managed to kill baby Voldemort, maybe that meant another version of her, in another world, would get to experience what it was like to grow up with parents.
But what about her? Would she be stuck? Would she fade out of existence? Would she be forgotten?
There was no light and no dark here. Everything that was supposed to happen had already happened and not one of the people who'd be so righteously expecting her to make the necessary sacrifice, had stepped up to the plate and taken action when there still had been a chance, even Dumbledore hadn't been proactive about stopping him early on. She was done feeling responsible.
With the realization that she wouldn't try to change him, or reach out to him, or try to push him into being something he wasn't capable of being, came freedom and doom.
What if she'd already changed something? What if she'd just been the conduit for the potion? Had it healed something in him?
She pressed her overheated face back against the elaborately decorated entryway, closed her eyes, and concentrated on the firmness and the coolness of the stone. She tried to let that feeling wash over her. She had to remember that she didn't know the answer to any of these questions.
Sure, she had theories about it, but she'd been wrong before. Thinking back to some of her questionable choices always ended up with her smiling about her first few years at Hogwarts. She heaved another deep sigh and swore to herself that she'd do anything in her power to get back faster.
Gathering her bearings, she squared her shoulders and started to walk back to the orphanage.
X
It's been questioned numerous times, Harry's intelligence, that is. But to be completely honest she'd never felt dumb, not even a little bit.
In fact, she felt rather accomplished most of the time, especially with the way, life kept throwing new challenges in her path. Over the years it had all somehow boiled down to this: If she still somehow, someway managed to do what she needed to do, she felt proud because she was winning against all odds. After all, who could expect good grades and a stellar work ethic from Harry when she was being traumatized year after year?
It was no excuse; she should have made the connection.
Should have realized that where she was headed wasn't the safe space, she wanted it to be, but she didn't.
It had been two weeks since Mary last spoke about Tom. Granted, they had packed their stuff and moved out of the room yesterday, because Mrs. Cole insisted it would be best to air the room out before he came back.
Harry sighed just thinking about that miserable day. She'd truly thought of the attic as a thing of nightmares, which was why she was beyond relieved when Mrs. Cole told her she could sleep in the nursery, as long as she did the night shift with them. Mrs. Cole probably only allowed this, because one of the younger girls had been adopted, which freed up a place for Mary to sleep in and she didn't have it in her to send Harry to sleep up there alone. So, babysitting it was.
It wasn't like that was new for her. More like another one of those things Harry had an automated response to. How to care for toddlers came with all the babysitting she did over the summer. The money from that was something she could keep for herself and use as she liked, which mostly translated into extra food and clothes that actually fit her, if she was being honest.
It had always been less of a chore and more of an escape. Petunia had even gone so far, as to encourage her to do it after she'd first been asked by the neighbors to look after their toddler when she was twelve. Her aunt had done it because it kept her away from the house and out of Dudley's reach. The boy was a menace and even if she won the game of Harry hunting most of the time, it still looked quite bad if she didn't. And that was the last thing Petunia wanted: to look bad.
All in all, it really could have been worse. Helping out gave Mrs. Cole ample opportunity to rest at night, which made her nagging more bearable. Not that she'd ever nagged her, no Harry was shaping up to be one of her favorites.
The old hag was quite selective that way. She had a few kids, she'd decided were bad and treated them accordingly, while she praised and actually cared about the others. It wasn't anything new for Harry, but it was still disgusting to witness, from any perspective.
Harry, who'd grown up in the cupboard under the stairs, in a house with four bedrooms, two for Dudley, one for guests and of course the Dursley's master, had taken a little too long to realize how fucking wrong all of this was. How messed up it was to suggest that some kids were forced to sleep in the attic, just so that one boy could keep his bedroom to himself.
She hated it when that happened. When she took too long to realize that she was being mistreated in a very obvious way. In a way that no one who had a good upbringing and actually knew their worth ever would. Ron had been good at reminding her of it, whenever he noticed her slip up. The fact that it still happened to her, made her feel frustrated with herself, every time she recognized it.
All in all, she felt more than a little dejected and resigned with herself, when she walked in through the entrance hall and saw Tom Riddle struggling to pull his trunk up the flight of stairs. His white dress shirt sleeves were folded up over muscular forearms, his hair hung low in his eyes and he grunted with the effort it took him to hurl the chest up a few steps at a time. He was sweating and he stared at the trunk as if he debated setting it on fire. He probably could do it, too.
There weren't a lot of people around, but she had a feeling that even if there were, they wouldn't have helped him.
'You!' he said, as his eyes fixated on her, perched on top of the last steps, breathing hard, clutching his trunk. Harry watched him for a moment, in a way this really helped her put things into perspective. He was a sweating, struggling, and disgruntled teen and not Voldemort.
'You're the daft bint that almost ran me over.'
She realized that the fact that no one was helping him, was probably his own fault. Harry debated if she should answer him. It wasn't like he was going to abandon his suitca—
The trunk crashed down to the bottom of the stairs. He had let go of it, mid-step and came down to her.
Well, fuck.
'Hello to you, too,' she said, willing herself to sound as calm as possible, holding her ground, as Riddle stalked towards her with narrowed eyes.
'You were at Diagon,' he sounded almost accusing, towering over her, expression hard and focused.
'I know,' she shrugged, as if admitting that she was a witch wasn't a big deal.
His eyes narrowed even further. 'What do you think you're doing here?'
Harry frowned up at him. 'Why is anyone in an orphanage?'
She tried to keep the bite out of her answer, but it came out sharper than she intended it to, since technically he was the one who put her there, in the first place.
His left eyebrow ticked up as he took her appearance in. She was wearing the uniform without the sweater and had transfigured her black coat back to the handkerchief she was keeping in her shirt pocket.
'Has no one ever told you that it's rude to answer a question with a question?' Riddle asked, mockingly, as he smirked at her obvious annoyance with him.
Harry rolled her eyes and tried to sidestep him when his hand reached out and he grabbed her forearm firmly.
She flinched in response, bracing herself for the searing hot pain in her scar that didn't come, again.
Calculating eyes took in her reaction.
'What—' he started to ask, when Mrs. Cole's sharp voice disrupted him.
'Harry!' Mrs. Cole called from the doorway; eyes fixated on the part of her arm Riddle still had a grip on.
'Please go to the kitchen! Mary needs your help carrying the water jug,' she said, very calmly, even though her tone sounded anything but.
Riddle immediately let go of her arm, but he kept watching her for a moment longer, as if to convey that their discussion wasn't over, before his eyes turned hard and he focused them on Mrs. Cole, instead.
'Hello, Mrs. Cole,' he said smoothly.
Mrs. Cole stared at Tom as if he was the vilest thing, she'd ever laid her eyes on. 'Hello, Tom,' she said, in a tone colder and more distant than Harry had ever heard from her before.
Sadly, the rest of their conversation was drowned out by the noise in the kitchen, where Mary really did end up needing her help carrying the jug of water.
She reminded him of fire, or her hair did, anyway. The red wavy strands were long and in a state of blatant disarray.
The girl looked different. Her hair was redder than the usual orange he'd seen on redheads. The freckles were darker, smattered across her entire face instead of just dusting her nose; even her eyes were dark instead of the light he'd expect from her complexion.
The way she held herself led Tom to believe that she was at least a half-blood. She had that innate pride and confidence that came with ease to the privileged and was almost impossible to imitate.
The redhead was too dark to be a Weasley and too pretty to be a Selwyn. He'd seen the youngest Selwyn: he had freckles that were similar to hers, but his eyes were piercing blue and round where hers were brown, and almond shaped.
He'd noticed her ever since he entered the shop. It was rare to meet magic users their age that weren't attending Hogwarts, and he would have remembered seeing her there. It typically meant they were either homeschooled or attending a different wizarding school.
Homeschool generally meant strict pureblood parents, especially for girls, but he wasn't too sure that was the case here.
As the girl browsed, she constantly looked around as if she didn't want to be noticed. And she didn't seem to care too much about her appearance, not if the way she wore her hair, or the lack of make-up was any indication.
She was looking for something, and she seemed to get more and more agitated the longer she looked. Not the best time to try and talk to her and figure out more. Maybe not a good idea at all. Her robes were clearly not of the best quality, and poor purebloods were pretty fucking rare and usually disgraced.
When she tensed, he quickly turned towards the books he'd come there for, not wanting to get caught watching her.
He focused on the sales bin, looking intently at the covers. There were a few books in there that he saw some upperclassmen read. Summer would be hard as is, but he didn't even want to think about what it would be like without the distraction of at least one book or two.
His thoughts were interrupted when someone abruptly grabbed his arm. Turning around to see who'd dare to grab him like that, he saw the girl again.
But her eyes didn't look resigned, this time. No, she looked like she'd seen a ghost, pale and shocked and scared all at once, before she reigned her emotions in and stared at him with forced calm. Definitely a pureblood then, he thought. No one else needed to be able to be that repressed.
Before Tom could confront her about anything at all, the weird girl made a run for it, she didn't hurry along or placate him or even apologize. No, she fucking turned tail and ran.
He shook his head as he turned back to the bin. Potions with Purpose only cost fifteen Knuts. It would have to do.
X
Tom knew that he wasn't going to get as much as a 'Hello' from Mrs. Cole when he came back to the orphanage. He was proud that they weren't pretending to be civil anymore.
He'd made a terrible situation livable. If having his own room and generally being excluded from most social settings meant he had to hurl his hundred-pound trunk up two flights of stairs on his own, then so be it.
He'd felt her eyes on him before he heard the faint footsteps in the entryway. The girl looked dejected, as if she wasn't even a little surprised that she'd see him again, in this place, no less. She almost looked as if she should have expected it and that bothered him far too much to let it go.
She didn't back away from him this time when he stalked towards her, even though she seemed so quick to get away from him at the bookstore. It pleased him greatly that she had to crane her neck to see him.
'You were at Diagon.'
'I know,' she shrugged, as if admitting that she was a witch wasn't a big deal.
His eyes narrowed even further. 'What do you think you're doing here?'
Harry frowned up at him. 'Why is anyone in an orphanage?'
She was a witch. That alone should have saved her from ending up in Wools. When she turned to leave, he couldn't just let her go. There were too many things about her that didn't add up and of course, that was when Mrs. Cole came in and saw them.
The girl didn't think twice about going to help Mary, and he could already see that she was turning into one of Mrs. Cole's favorites. She'd always liked the obedient ones.
'Tom, you know you aren't supposed to touch the others.' Mrs. Cole said in her no-nonsense tone. He understood the implications, by now. She never outright threatened to leave him behind, when the time came to evacuate, but he had a feeling that given half a chance, she'd do it.
'That's why you have your own room,' she repeated sternly.
He knew that. The no-touching rule had been established after he killed Billy's dumb rabbit, not that they had any proof that it was him. Not that he'd done it because he liked the idea of killing the rabbit. Honestly, he couldn't have cared less about doing that. He just needed to send a message to Billy, one that would stick.
One of the reasons why he'd been forced to go that far in the first place had been Mrs. Cole's blatant disregard of the situation. Billy always tried to be manipulative and cruel, but he was bad at it, too crude to really fool anyone.
Looking back, he couldn't remember what had been worse for him: the other boy's pathetic attempts of getting him in trouble or that he kept succeeding with them. It had become obvious that adults didn't need finesse or cleverness to believe Tom to be evil. They just needed someone to point the fucking finger.
Tom sighed, well aware that he wouldn't be able to show Mrs. Cole how inferior she and everything she believed in was. How disturbed she must have been to propose this deal to a seven-year-old.
He had understood back then what he knew to be true, still. She thought him to be dangerous, diseased and freakish.
Well, he hadn't been dangerous then, but he certainly was now.
When he was younger, the other orphans had picked up on their weird deal and even a few of the older kids had started crying when they'd touched him, even if it just happened while they were dispensing the food. It had been an important lesson. Being feared meant being safe. Power equaled the absence of pain, at least at the hands of others.
'It won't happen again,' he finally said after they stared at each other for long enough.
She nodded. 'See, that it doesn't.'
He shook his head as he made his way back to the stairs and started the abysmal task of returning his trunk to his room, again.