Previously:

Harry convinces Tom to leave his time period and travel to the future. They arrive at an isolated house on the countryside. Harry and Kingsley have a brief conversation while Tom eavesdrops. Later, Harry shows Tom the wards boundary and explains how the wards work. Tom is enraged to discover that he and Harry are trapped here until the timeline rights itself. They duel, which results in Priori Incantatem. Following this, Tom calls for a truce and resolves to find a way to escape.

day one

When they return to the house, Tom heads straight for his room, shutting and locking the door behind him. The room is mostly empty, even with Tom's belongings scattered about. Waxed wooden floor and pale grey walls, a twin size bed with two large pillows and navy sheets. Better than his room at the orphanage, though it is still a prison cell.

The rest of the night is mostly silent. Occasionally Tom hears Potter puttering about in the hallway or near the stairs, but Potter never tries to talk or open the door.

Tom ignores the hunger pangs in his stomach and waits.

The hours pass, and eventually Potter comes upstairs for bed. Tom hears the sound of a door clicking and a lock turning. He stands, wand in hand, and exits his room.

With no sunlight, the hallway is pitch black. Tom lights his wand with a muttered "Lumos," and continues to creep softly towards the stairs. He doesn't remember if they creak or not. But the house is in good condition, and the paint on the outside looked clean and fresh, so Tom supposes they would have fixed up the stairs as well.

Still, Tom hesitates before he makes the first step. Steps down. Nothing. Just the soft touch of his foot upon the floor. Then another, then another, each step as careful as the last, until he reaches the final stair and lands, silently, on the ground.

The first thing he notes is the house is less friendly now that night has fallen. The sparse furnishings imply emptiness rather than newness, and the lack of decor gives the air an alien and distant feeling.

Tom walks towards the kitchen, where he hopes there will be accessible food. The kitchen is quaint, the sort of space that Tom would expect from a happy family of four. There's a refrigerator there, which Tom opens up. A good deal of food is laid about inside, but what stands out is a plate with a clear, plastic cover on top of it. Stuck to the cover is a note that reads 'Tom'.

Tom pulls the plate out and lifts the cover. It's a sandwich.

Stepping back from the fridge, Tom lets the door close of its own volition as he moves to the nearest section of kitchen counter, setting the plate and its cover down.

Then he levels his wand and begins to cast. Spell after spell, all the ones he's able to cast, and then a few more that he knows of but has never had reason to try. Nothing seems out of place. Tom isn't sure if he finds this surprising or not.

He could return to the fridge or the cabinets and prepare something himself. But Potter, evidently, had made this especially for him, despite the fact that they'd fought only hours earlier.

Kindness. Weakness. Tom scoffs down at the sandwich—plain white bread covering slices of lettuce, tomato, and ham—and wonders if Potter really thinks this will win any favours.

Still, food is food, and it's certainly better than whatever he would have gotten at Wool's. Tom picks up half of the sandwich and takes a large bite. Edible, fairly tasty. He leaves the remainder on the plate and wanders away, sandwich half in hand.

The kitchen extends to a nice, domed dining area with large sheets of glass that make up the walls and smaller panels of lightly-stained glass that form ceiling. It probably looks beautiful during the day, when the sunlight can stream through the soft, warm-toned colours, bathing the wooden table and chairs in hues of gold.

Tom passes by the dining room and over to the sliding door that leads to the back porch.

With his free hand, Tom pulls out his wand and aims it at the door. The door slides open, silent and without creaks. Tom steps out, careful to keep his footsteps light.

The backyard is less of a yard and more of a conglomeration of various things. There is a large plot for the garden, which consists of an assortment of plants and a wide trellis for the greenery to cling to. Little picket sticks in the ground have labels and crude drawings attached, likely of the vegetables the plots represent. An empty bird coop with a metal enclosure sits off to the side.

If they are to stay here they will have to provide for themselves, he realizes. The food stored in the house, however much of it, will not last forever. Out in the forest, there might even be a well.

Tom turns his head to gaze up at the sky. Inky black and full of stars, much like the skies around Hogwarts. He nibbles at his sandwich, now contemplative as he eyes the lights in the distance. Eventually, the food is gone, and he is left with only his thoughts to occupy him.

If he is to stay here, he will never accomplish all that he wants to. When he leaves, he will be weak, dependent. Attached to Potter in a way that he doesn't wish to be.

Here now, under the endless sky and surrounded by what is essentially a roaming, idyllic countryside, it occurs to Tom just what he has left behind in the 40s. His connections, his status, his education. What will he learn here, trapped in this place like an animal with only Potter for company? Growing idle, growing stagnant. His talents and intellect laid to waste.

Tom's hand, clenched around his yew wand, is painfully white-knuckled in its grip. The helplessness angers him. The unknown strangles his chest, wrapping it in fear and disgust. Disgust at the fear, anger at the situation he's now placed himself in.

Potter had said that if Tom didn't cooperate, he would be made to. Forced to. For his own good, no doubt. So Potter must have known, even then, about the connection between their wands. The strange effect that had prevented them from dueling each other properly. Potter had said Tom was the brightest mind of his age, the best student at Hogwarts. That people knew this, even fifty years in the future. So Potter would expect Tom to be powerful, knowledgeable, dangerous to duel. But the Priori Incantatem was an edge, a leg up, a dirty trick that had allowed Potter to push them to a stalemate.

Tom rubs at his tired eyes, attempting to push his exhaustion down. He ought to sleep soon. He'll need his rest to face Potter in the morning. But before sleep, there is another half of a sandwich waiting for him in the kitchen inside.

So Tom walks back in, shutting the door softly behind him, and tries not to think of the things tomorrow will bring.

When Tom does wake, it's well past ten in the morning. He pushes himself to his feet, a low rumble in the back of his throat that might be a yawn. Potter hasn't come to bother him yet. Perhaps he had seen that Tom had eaten his sandwich offering and decided that enough progress in the name of friendliness had been made.

After going through the motions of a morning routine, Tom dresses and makes his way down the stairs. The strong scent of eggs and bacon waft down the hallway. Potter is at work in the kitchen, plain white apron draped over his body while he moves about.

"Good morning," Potter says. "I heard you get up. Thought I'd start us on a late brunch."

Tom doesn't say anything at first. He's not fully awake, and part of him still wonders if this is all a strange dream. The entire kitchen is warm and smells wonderful—too good to be true.

After a beat, Tom decides a response is likely necessary. "Thanks," he says. Then he adds, "Do you need any help?"

"I'm fine, thanks," Potter says, tone pleasant, his eyes fixed on the sizzling pan he's minding. "Why don't you have a seat?"

Tom remains in place, stiff and suspicious. But Potter doesn't address him further, or even glance his way, so Tom moves to the kitchen counter opposite the stove. This part of the counter sticks out, separating the kitchen from the eating area, allowing Tom to brace his forearms on the surface and watch Potter cook.

"Chairs don't bite," Potter adds, still not looking up.

Tom scoffs, stays where he is.

Eventually, Potter serves up two plates of breakfast foods. "There are oranges in the fridge if you want them," Potter says, sliding a plate across the counter. Then he pulls a drawer open and hands Tom a fork.

Tom takes both things in hand and moves to the table, seating himself. Potter sits opposite and starts to eat, his fringe of hair hanging in front of his eyes whenever his head dips down. Tom spears a section of scrambled eggs, tries it, and wonders where Potter learned to cook.

"I saw the garden and the chicken coop in the backyard," Tom says.

Potter bobs his head, swallowing. "Yeah. We have a lot stored up in the cellar that's been magically preserved, but we'll have to put some work in to make it last. The chickens are down there too, all frozen up. We can go grab them after breakfast."

Tom pokes at a piece of bacon to avoid answering, but Potter doesn't press further or call him out on being horrible company. They scrape their plates clean, and Tom stands, snatching the plates and utensils up and bringing them over to the sink.

It is only then that he realizes he doesn't know any household spells, and that even with his wand available, he'll have to do the dishes by hand.

Glancing up, Tom eyes the assortment along the sink ledge. Dish soap, sponge, scrubber. The idea of doing things the Muggle way, especially now that he doesn't even have to, irritates him. He is better than this, than having to dirty his hands in the water and scrub the plates like a magicless Squib.

A throat clears behind him. Tom doesn't jump, he doesn't, but he does whirl around to stare at Potter. "I just use Scourgify," Potter says. "But that tends to leave a lot of soapy residue, so they'll need to be rinsed well afterwards."

Tom holds his position for longer than is strictly necessary, then sets the plates and utensils down into the sink, once more placing his back to Potter though all his instincts are telling him not to do so. He can sense Potter's presence as the other boy hovers just a few paces away.

Ignoring Potter for now, Tom retrieves his yew wand and casts the spell. The dishes fill with soapy bubbles, frothy and white. Then he turns the tap, letting the water flow through and gush down, revealing clean plates beneath the bubbles.

Domestics, he thinks to himself, distaste heavy in his mind. He'll win over Potter's trust for now, maintain their tentative truce, and then… and then?

Tom finishes the dishes and sets them on the rack. When he turns around, he sees Potter has reseated himself at the table, book laid out.

"Towels are in the cupboard underneath."

Seething now, Tom opens the cupboard and retrieves the first towel he sees. He wipes the dishes roughly, quickly, then sets them and the utensils in a neat pile next to the sink.

Potter walks back over, still keeping that careful distance between them. He takes the plates and forks and stows them away. "Let me show you the cellar," Potter says when he's finished.

"Charming."

Tom follows Potter back out into the main hall and to another door. This door is not locked; Potter twists the knob and the door swings out.

Potter glances over his shoulder, a split second of hesitation. Maybe he's worried that Tom will push him down the stairs. Well, Tom isn't about to volunteer to go first. He raises a brow, gesturing.

Potter descends, and Tom trails behind.

A light switch is flipped, illuminating the way down. The stairs are clean, much like the rest of the house, and there are strips installed on each step for gripping purposes.

The cellar at the bottom is full of boxes. Stacks and stacks of them, all labelled with various types of foods. And then, of course, large cages full of immobile chickens and two large roosters.

Potter walks over and lifts one of the cages up. The creatures inside slide around, bumping against the metal. He brings the cage over to Tom, presenting it.

"We have to bring them outside," Potter says, when Tom makes no move to retrieve them.

Reluctantly, Tom uses his yew wand to levitate the cage out of Potter's hands. "Anything else?" he asks.

"Nope. Just this for now." Potter hefts a second cage up. One of the chickens inside of it falls over.

Tom stares, hesitates. "Why don't you just use your wand?"

"Huh? Oh. I don't know. I'm used to just carrying everything, I guess." Potter sets the cage down and retrieves his wand from his back pocket. "Thanks for reminding me, Tom."

"I just didn't want to be responsible if you fell down the stairs and died," Tom says, then turns away, determined not to let Potter think that he actually cares, or that he's afraid to turn his back.

Getting the birds unfrozen and settled into their new home takes up most of the afternoon. By the end of it, even with the use of magic, Tom's got sweat beaded all over his forehead and dampness under his arms. Potter isn't faring much better, from the looks of it.

"How old are you?" Tom asks him.

"I'm sixteen in July," Potter answers, wiping the back of his hand over his forehead, dislodging the fringe and revealing the scar hidden underneath for a brief second.

"And you went to Hogwarts?"

Potter smiles at that. "Yeah. I'm a Gryffindor."

Unsurprising. Potter has all the makings of a typical Gryffindor. Tom rolls his shoulders to try and work out the stiffness in his muscles. After they had unfrozen the birds, a number of them had started running about, and it had taken a while to round them up and force them into the coop.

Tom starts to head back towards the house. He can hear the footfalls behind him that indicate Potter is following him.

"Did you want to do something else now?" Potter asks.

"No." Tom pushes through the door, sees Potter out of the corner of his eye as Potter catches the door before it can swing shut.

He should be trying harder to win Potter over, to charm Potter into offering more information and doing things for him. But Potter is extremely irritating. He is too kind, too gentle. A Hufflepuff-Gryffindor hybrid of some kind. Tom can't convince himself to stoop to the level of friendliness that Potter puts forth. All Tom can manage is an aloof prickliness, a defensive reaction meant to fend off the pity-induced overtures.

"I can show you where the well is."

Ah, yes, a well. "I'm fine, thank you."

Tom stomps into the living area, unsure what he's looking for. The bookshelf, he notes, is now full of books. School books and Muggle novels. Tom wonders how long it will take for him to read them all, how long before he grows tired of them, what boredom will feel like when he only has Potter to distract him.

Potter pulls a book from the shelf. "Fourth-year Charms," Potter says.

"I know that."

"You read ahead, right? We've got all the books up to seventh year, and then some other ones for afterwards."

"Decent of you."

"One of my best friends is Muggleborn," Potter continues. "She's the best in our year. My year. She reads a lot, and I asked her to help me pick out some books for you. Ones that you might like."

Tom ignores him.

"They're all new. Books that weren't published in your time."

Tom opens his mouth to retort, likely with a scathing comment about bribery, but when he whirls around, Potter is already in the middle of leaving the room.

A few minutes pass. Potter doesn't return. So Tom moves to the bookshelf to glance over the titles. Once he's looked them over, he pulls a few at random from the shelf, tucking them under his arm. The gap in the shelf is noticeable, unfortunately.

For a moment, Tom is tempted to Transfigure a few fake facsimiles to fill the holes, but to be caught doing such a thing would leave a sour taste in his mouth, so he doesn't.

He takes the books up to his room, the room that is supposed to be his though it doesn't feel like it, and starts to read.

Potter knocks on the door to invite him to dinner. Tom sets aside the book he'd been reading, turning his attention to the boy on the other side of the wall.

"Not hungry."

"It'd be nice for some company," Potter says to the door.

"Go eat outside, then. That one hen was quite enamoured with you."

Potter snorts. "Funny. Come on, it'll get cold if you stay here. I made Shepherd's pie."

Tom doesn't want to. But he should. With some effort, he swings his legs off his bed and stands up. A few short steps, and then he unlocks the door to reveal Potter's startled expression—like a spooked animal. "Don't expect me to linger."

Potter smiles. "I won't."

Dinner is quiet. Potter eats slowly, like he's savouring the taste of the food. Which, admittedly, tastes very excellent.

"Did your parents teach you to cook?" Tom asks, just for the sake of making conversation.

Potter stills. He chews, swallows. "No," he says. "My aunt taught me."

"Interesting." Tom drops his gaze, goes back to eating, but watches Potter in the peripheral of his vision. "Do you miss them? Your family."

"Yes." Potter's voice has an odd inflection to it. "I do miss them."

Tom imagines a family unit. Two parents, one son. The father probably looks like Potter, he muses. In the way that Mrs. Cole had told Tom what his mother had said—that his handsome appearance was inherited from his father, not his mother. And then the mother… beautiful, likely. Potter is a pureblood surname, a wealthy one, and powerful, wealthy families didn't marry ugly people.

Then, long after Tom had thought the conversation dead, Potter speaks again.

"They're dead. My parents. They died when I was a baby."

Tom looks up, then regrets doing so. Potter's brows are slanted, his lips pursed in a frown. He's pushed back from his chair, appetite seemingly lost, and his green eyes, once vibrant, are now dimmer.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Tom says. Though the words do not hold much meaning to him, they might provide some comfort to Potter, who is softer and weaker and therefore more apt to being overly emotional.

Potter makes a strange sound, a noise caught between a snort and a sob. "Thanks, Tom."

The silence stretches again, and then Potter stands. "I think. I think I'm done, for tonight. I'll wash my own dishes, but it would be nice if you could dry them and put them away."

"I can do that."

"Thanks," Potter repeats, head turned away, half-eaten plate in his hands. "Good night."

Once Potter is gone, Tom glances at the wall, where a small clock is nailed up, ticking away. It's barely seven o'clock. Too early to go to sleep. If he had known the topic of family would upset Potter so much, he would have gone out of his way to avoid it. So much for dinner together.

Tom scrapes his own plate clean, unwilling to see any of the food wasted. Then he waits until Potter's left for upstairs before he heads to the kitchen.

After making quick work of the washing up, Tom circles back to the living room, to the shelf of books. This time he examines the titles with great care. No magical history books. None at all, only Muggle ones.

Tom frowns, straightening. He'll have to ask after the absence of such books tomorrow, when Potter is in a better mood.

Then, abruptly, there is a knock at the door.

Wand in hand, Tom stomps into the entrance hall just as he hears Potter call out "Just a minute!"

Tom grasps the knob, wand aimed and ready to cast, and wrenches the door open. A young woman with shocking pink hair stares at him, unflinching.

"Riddle." She places a hand on his outstretched wand and angles it down. "Is Harry here?"

Tom contorts his face back into neutrality. "You're not Kingsley. Who are you? Another member of the Order of the Phoenix?"

The woman doesn't say anything at first. Then her hair shifts from its bright pink to a dark, inky black. "Where's Harry?" she repeats.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Harry clambers noisily down the stairs, depression from earlier now forgotten as he comes to a halt by the door.

"I thought we weren't to have visitors?" Tom demands, turning to face Harry instead. "That Kingsley was the last one after the wards were completed."

"Kingsley's just too busy to be stopping by all the time," Potter says quickly. "But other people can still come through until all the changes are complete. It just depends on a lot of different things."

"Kingsley," the woman says, interrupting, drawing the attention back to herself. Her brow, previously smoothed into an aloof expression, is now creased with confusion. "Who's Kingsley?"

Potter's mouth drops open, gaping like a fish. "Kingsley," Potter repeats, dubious. "Kingsley Shacklebolt."

The woman hesitates, lips pursed. "Sounds vaguely familiar."

The changes, Tom realizes. They've already started.

Potter must have come to the same conclusion, because his gaze meets Tom's, and there's a certain conviction in those viridian eyes.

"Never mind," Potter says, drawing out the pause between the words. "Did you come here for something in particular?"

"The last of the spells are being performed today," the woman says. "So I'm here to see if there's anything else you need before you're sealed off for good."

"But—" Potter starts, then stops, then swallows, his eyes darting over to Tom again—what for? Then Potter says, "But the… the others... they'll still be able to come through?"

The woman doesn't miss the shift in body language. Her next words are slow. "They ought to be able to, Harry. But only if there's an emergency, and you can't be counting on them."

"I know," Potter says, now a bit breathless. "I won't unless it's an emergency."

"There are things I'd like," Tom interjects. "If you're taking a list."

"Sure." Tom gets the impression the woman is only humouring him, but with Harry here as well, she can't deny Tom's request for things of his own.

"I have parchment upstairs," Tom says, brisk. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

And then he turns away, only sparing a sharp glance over his shoulder at the pair still waiting by the door. No doubt they will talk about him while he's not around, but if he's quick enough and quiet enough, he might be able to catch a good deal of the conversation with them none the wiser.

A/N:

i think my main problem with writing is that i know how the story starts, and how the story ends, only the path to get there is very much flexible and subject to whims of fancy. this chapter took a very interesting turn as a result.

i would like to emphasize that this story is a canon-divergence, and that's not just because of the time-travel, fix-it aspect. the way harry treats tom has reasons behind it which will be explained eventually. for now, bask in the softness that is harry being a nice person and a good boy.

thanks for reading, hope you all enjoyed the chapter. reviews are appreciated.