Previously:

Tom learns that Harry speaks Parseltongue. Over the course of the week, he grows restless and bored. He and Harry get into another argument, only this time they end up talking it out. Tom realizes that he's better off with Harry as an ally rather than a foe, and adjusts his plans accordingly.

month one

Harry sets up a large paper calendar in the sitting room. He pins it above the fireplace and crosses off the days one by one, drawing large red Xs over each blank, white square.

Tom flips through the months when Harry isn't around, spots the hand-drawn present on December 31st and the label underneath that says 'Tom's Birthday' in Harry's messy writing.

Tom helps out in the garden. He watches Harry work without gloves, sees the dirt accumulate under the nails and in the nail beds and in the slight wrinkles and folds of the skin. Harry says he likes the earthy feeling, says it grounds him. Tom doesn't quite agree with the sentiment of it, but he does add it to Harry's endless list of odd quirks.

In his free time, Tom flips through one of the healer's books on the bookshelf in the sitting room, reads up on the spells for repairing common cuts and scrapes, sucks in the information into the whirlpool of his mind.

Harry cooks, Tom cleans, and they take all their meals together.

Hyperion chases the chickens in their backyard while Harry laughs. The sound is pure happiness, untainted by anxiety or self-consciousness.

Tom teaches Hyperion to recognize English words—not that the snake needs to, because Harry speaks the language, the dead language of serpents that Tom had held close to his chest for so, so long.

Harry doesn't speak Parseltongue often. The only time he does speak it is when Hyperion addresses him directly. Tom tries to do the same, but Harry always answers him in English.

It's frustrating, but Tom can be patient. He can continue to ask, to engage, and eventually Harry's avoidance will be an oddity, a discomfort, and Harry will have no choice but to respond in kind.

The woman with the ever-changing hair—Metamorphagus, Tom learns—returns two more times over the course of the month. She brings more letters for Harry along with other things for the both of them. More clothes, warmer ones for the upcoming winter months. Extra firewood in case their magic fails them.

Tom doesn't think they actually need all these things. They're an excuse for bringing the letters, perhaps.

But as a result of her visits, Tom becomes privy to all the items in the house.

The potions cabinet full of remedies for various common ailments. The pile of board games tucked away on the highest shelf in the downstairs closet. The additional linens and towels and blankets that are rolled up and packed into boxes in the attic. Bars of soap and tubes of toothpaste. More things than Tom has ever had access to, let alone owned for himself.

Tom enjoys the luxury of his own room and a bathroom that he only has to share with one other person, but he doesn't stop thinking about the cost of it all, especially when he looks out the window in the early morning and sees the faint shimmer of wards in the distance.

As time passes, as he and Harry grow used to each other, Tom feels secure enough to pry for information.

"Who is Kingsley?" Tom asks.

They're sat out on the porch, and the sun is setting behind the distant fields, golden warm glow blending up into the darkening sky. Tom had been reading, but now the book in his lap is shut. Harry has Hyperion curled on his lap, blanket draped over the tiny snake's coiled form.

"He's an Auror," Harry says. "Was an Auror, I guess."

"Did you ever figure out why he disappeared?" Was it because of Tom's absence that the man no longer existed?

"No," Harry says. The sunset is reflected on the lenses of his glasses. "But I'm hoping he'll be back once all this is through."

Tom wedges his book between his thigh and the armrest of his chair, then pulls his legs up, feet on the seat, so he can wrap a loose arm around his knees. "Isn't it strange? That people can wink in and out of existence like that."

"Yeah." Harry shuffles in place. Hyperion wakes up, then drops to the ground, heading for the house, tail disappearing around the open door frame.

"Just think," Tom continues, musing. "That could be happening right now. People made and unmade, all because of me. Because you brought me here."

Harry says nothing. His mouth is a thin line, his eyes distant. The glare of the sunset is fading away.

"It's powerful," Tom says. "What time can do. I'd always thought that death was the most powerful, the most unstoppable. But time is part of that, isn't it? Time leads to death."

"Yeah," Harry says again, and then he releases a breath. Low and shuddering, a soft pass of fog into the cooling atmosphere. "Time is a dangerous thing."

Tom releases his knees, pivots to face Harry instead. "Why don't you tell me more about what Hogwarts is like now? Are the classes all the same? And what of the teachers?"

Harry blinks, glancing back over. His shoulders relax, minutely, and some warmth returns to his eyes. "Okay," says Harry. "I can do that."

So Tom listens. Harry expounds upon his Hogwarts years, on the disastrous Defense teachers he's had, on the favouritism of the House Cup and the blatant rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Tom notes that Harry doesn't use any names when he speaks, that he takes care to tell one story at a time. Tom does learn that the Headmaster of the school is none other than Albus Dumbledore.

Tom can't help but ask. "And is he a good Headmaster?"

"He is," Harry says, eager. "He's the very best. He's your teacher, isn't he? He used to teach Transfiguration."

"Yes," Tom says, curt. "He was Head of House for Gryffindor as well."

Harry hums in response, rocking back in his chair. "But you had Professor Slughorn as your Head of House, right?"

"I did." Tom pulls his gaze away. Harry knows these things because they happened in the past, but Tom can't help but feel exposed, his layers peeled back, his life on display like a moth pinned to a board.

"What was he like? Professor Slughorn."

Tom shrugs. "A good professor. He favours the well-connected, the talented, the intelligent." Students with lineage and connections, but also students like Tom, who show promise. As if showing promise, showing real talent, is anywhere on par with having a famous relative.

Tom hates it all. He hates the extravagant suppers and the backhanded compliments that disparage his lack of a surname. But he swallows his pride behind a beatific smile, because Slughorn is useful, and Tom collects the things that have uses.

Harry has use, too. Tom just needs to figure out what form that use will take.

Slughorn might be content with his trophy cabinet of gifts and photographs, but Tom wants more than that, and he isn't afraid to reach for it.

"Doesn't sound too bad." Harry's hand runs along the edge of the blanket that still rests in his lap. "Did you like the class, at least?"

"Potions is methodical," Tom says. "Following instructions. They don't let us experiment, so there isn't much to do other than memorizing ingredients and their properties. Teaching the class requires a mountain of patience and a tolerance for idiots. Professor Slughorn does well enough with that, but really that class could be taught by anyone."

"Even Binns?"

Tom scoffs, mouth quirking. "Even Binns, I suppose."

"Must be nice to know some things never change," Harry quips, seeming pleased with Tom's response.

"Of all the things that ought to remain the same at Hogwarts," Tom drawls, "Binns should not be one of them. Waste of an entire class, for most students."

"But not for you?"

"I use my time wisely." Tom sniffs, straightening. "I use the period to work on other assignments."

"That's smart." Harry adjusts his seated position, tucking his ankle more securely under his leg. "So what's your favourite class? I told you that mine's Defense."

"I like Defense," Tom agrees. "And Transfiguration." Creating something from nothing, or something from something else. Using magic to craft without limitations. Even if Dumbledore is the one teaching the class, Tom finds the subject enjoyable.

"You're good at dueling," Harry says. The compliment sounds honest, not at all like a concession.

Tom taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair. "You as well," he concedes.

"We could run practice duels sometime," Harry says eagerly. "You and me."

"Have you forgotten about our wands?" Tom asks. "It won't work."

"Oh." Harry slumps back. "That's right. Maybe I can ask Tonk—I can ask for a spare wand."

That gets Tom's attention. He scrutinizes Harry's face, the way those green eyes have dropped away. "What is her name, anyways? The woman with the changing hair. You never introduced her."

"She's a junior Auror at the Ministry," Harry says. "One of the youngest ones, I think."

Harry is avoiding the question. Will pushing the subject produce a name? Tom's not sure. He doesn't have an accurate model of how Harry will respond, and so the chance of success is unknown.

"Interesting," Tom says. He'll have to watch her more closely, then. See if he can match her face to that of her potential ancestors.

The next time the woman comes by, Tom examines her. She's clumsy, this Auror. Trips over thin air, knocks her elbows into the doorframe. It's a wonder she ever passed Auror training at all, unless the clumsiness is just an act.

Her hair changes colour with some regularity. And, Tom has come to realize, her facial features shift as well. The differences are subtle, but Tom can tell she's gone out of her way to alter her appearance each time she's come by. Tom looks up the meaning of Metamorphmagus in his textbook. It's an ability to shapeshift at will. Useful skill for an Auror to have.

Tom treats her with caution, with politeness. In return, she regards him at arm's length, suspicion drawing tight lines of tension in her jaw and shoulders.

Tom wonders and wonders and wonders.

People don't hate other people for no reason. There is always a reason. Fear, jealousy, envy. A vast range of potential motivators. In her mind, Tom will fall into a category. It's just a matter of figuring out which one it is.

"I don't think she likes me," Tom says, once the woman has left. "In fact, I would say that she hates me."

Harry grimaces, adjusts his glasses on his face. "I don't think she hates you, Tom."

"I can tell she does," Tom says. I'm used to it, he does not add. Children at Wool's looked at him in similar ways. He was better than them in every way, he was different, and that greatness had always manifested hatred in others.

"She's very protective," Harry says, body language growing more evasive by the second. "She means well."

"That's not an answer," Tom says. "And it doesn't explain anything. What is her name?"

Harry bites down on his lower lip. "Tom," he says. "I don't think I should say, alright? Please don't ask me again."

Tom takes Harry by the arm and steers him into the living room. Surprisingly, Harry does not pull away, though he does squawk a protest as Tom drags him along, feet stumbling.

He pushes Harry down into an armchair and crosses his arms. If this has to be an interrogation, so be it.

"Why am I here?" Tom demands. "Why did you save me?"

"I—" Harry presses his lips together, pushes his glasses up for the second time. "I told you, Tom. If you stayed there, you would die."

Tom grits his teeth, balls his hands into painful fists. "That isn't enough," he says, forcing the words out. "Why did you choose me to save?"

Harry's shoulders are still. His gaze meets Tom's, and he says, "You're the heir of Slytherin. That's why you can speak Parseltongue, and that's why you're a wizard."

"The heir of Slytherin?" Tom repeats. "Salazar Slytherin?"

At Hogwarts, Tom had researched his heritage, combing through the library archives for Toms and Riddles alike. He was named after his father, that was what Mrs. Cole had said. His father held the secret to his past, to his magical history. Only there had been nothing to find, neither Toms nor Riddles that he could have been related to.

Now Harry was telling the secret to him. A secret no longer, apparently. Maybe it was even common knowledge in this time period. Tom Riddle was the heir of Slytherin.

"You're the last living heir of Salazar Slytherin," Harry says. "Your mother's name was Merope Gaunt, and you are the last of the Gaunts, the last of the descendants of Slytherin."

Gaunt is a Pureblood name. Tom remembers it from his readings on Pureblood culture. They were a family that was said to have vanished ages ago. An old family that had fallen from grace and settled into obscurity. His mother had been magical, had been a Pureblood?

"So I've been saved because of my heritage?"

"Not just that," Harry says quickly. "Things aren't the same anymore. People are more accepting of Muggleborns and Half-Bloods now. It's the rotten sort that only care about blood status."

"Then what else?" Tom asks, not about to let Harry derail the conversation again, no matter how interesting the subject.

Harry pauses, considering his words. "Your life has the power to change a lot of lives."

Tom stares, discerns the truth of the words in Harry's eyes. "And that's all you can tell me?"

"Tom," says Harry. "You're not really here. You're still anchored in the past. Any information we give you is dangerous."

That's what they tell him. Tom's not sure if he believes it. But he has more information than he had in his own timeline. It's a start. He just has to work at befriending Harry, convince him that it won't hurt to share a little more. After all, it's just the two of them here.

"Sure," Tom promises. "I won't ask anymore."

Their next visitor, some days later, is someone else entirely. Not Kingsley, not the nameless female Auror. They don't ring the doorbell. They knock, and the sound is hard, like the bang of a gavel.

Harry beats Tom to the door, has his wand drawn before the door is even all the way open. Tom draws his own wand, then dares to peek at the new guest.

"Stupefy," says Harry, voice shaking, wand flaring with red.

The man on the other side deflects the spell with ease. "Potter." The languid drawl is familiar. "If you could please lower your wand, I believe I can explain."

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouts.

Harry's spell is once again deflected, and then Harry's wand flies out of his grasp.

The door pushes open, a pale hand clenched around the side of it, but Tom is ready.

"Expelliarmus!"

Harry's wand flies up in an arc, away from the intruder, just in time for Tom to lay eyes on the tall, imposing figure in the doorway. Long blond hair and a pale, pinched face. Tom has no doubt as to who this man's ancestors are.

"Malfoy," Tom says in a loud voice, hoping to distract.

Malfoy freezes, eyes widening as he pivots to face Tom. Harry dives for his wand, hand outstretched, nearly slamming his shoulder into the closet door opposite.

"Stupefy," Tom says.

Malfoy recovers enough to deflect. "Enough!" he says. "I am here to help. I have proof, if you would desist with all of this insanity."

Both Harry and Tom level their wands at him. "I've got no reason to trust you," Harry says, seething, wand arm trembling with anger.

"You know the requirements to pass the wards," Malfoy says evenly. "There were no other options."

"None except you?" Harry asks, stance unchanged. "Give me your wand, then we can talk."

Malfoy scowls.

"We can duel," Harry says. "I think Tom and I can take you together. Isn't that right, Tom?"

"Yes," Tom says. He's tense all over, but he's also curious about the intruder and what changes have been wrought this time.

"Fine," Malfoy spits. "I want it back after." Then he spins his wand, snake handle out, and Harry snatches it up.

"Harry," Tom says, casual, "pass it to me."

Harry hesitates. "No," says Harry. "That's alright." And then he tucks the wand into his back pocket. "Let's go into the living room."

The three of them seat themselves awkwardly. Malfoy looks out of place amongst the plain furniture and the autumnal colouring of the decor. His pitch-black robes, heavy and elegant, drape stiffly over the lip of the squashy armchair as he adjusts them.

"I have a letter to prove my trustworthiness," Malfoy says. "From Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore really does think of everything, doesn't he?" Harry mutters, but the phrase sounds unfamiliar coming from Harry, as though he's parroting another's words.

Malfoy retrieves, with two fingers, a folded piece of parchment. He holds it out to Harry, disdain etched into the fine lines of his detached expression.

Harry takes it, unfolds it, reads it slowly.

Tom waits, wand in hand. "Well?" Tom demands. He should have known Dumbledore was even more wrapped up in this business than originally expected. That man is too nosy for his own good.

"He's right," Harry says, drawing the syllables out. "He's supposed to be here." Then Harry hands the parchment back. "Can I ask you something?"

"If you must." Malfoy spares a glance in Tom's direction. Tom notes the nervousness, the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

"Kingsley Shacklebolt," Harry says. "Do you know of him? Have you heard of him?"

"No."

Harry sucks in a breath. "Okay. Here's another name. Nymphadora Tonks."

"I'm unaware of anyone by the name." Malfoy pulls a bunch of letters out and tosses them onto the coffee table. "I've been told to inform you there will only be one more visit. The wards barely recognize me as it stands; I doubt I will be able to manage another trip. It has grown too dangerous for the both of us."

"Wait," Harry says. "That's too soon. Dumbledore said—he said that there ought to be at least three months' worth of visits."

Malfoy's gaze is fixed upon Harry, but his jaw twitches with tension, and Tom has the sudden suspicion that this is deliberate, that Malfoy is deliberately not looking at him. Tom wonders if this has to do with the way Malfoy had frozen up upon being addressed.

"If he ever said that," Malfoy says, "it has now changed. Our time together is coming to an end, Potter. I should think you would be glad."

Harry is motionless, his expression dazed. It lasts only a second, and then Harry snaps back to clarity, his eyes blazing. "Wait," Harry repeats. "Dumbledore can still come through, can't he? You have to tell him to come through. So I can talk to him. I need to talk to him."

"This hardly constitutes an emergency," Malfoy snaps. "Was the letter not clear?"

"It does if I say it does," Harry says, voice carrying a tone of finality. "So tell him we need to talk."

The letters are an excuse. Tom can see that now, can see it when Harry hands Malfoy's wand back and Malfoy never turns his back, not once, not to Harry and definitely not to Tom. Tom, who Malfoy regards with a rigid mask. That mask does nothing to erase the instance of Malfoy's fleeting terror that Tom had witnessed earlier.

The letters for Harry from his friends are a thinly veiled sham to prop atop the truth.

The truth is this:

They are afraid to leave Harry here with him.

Shacklebolt was suspicious and Tonks was borderline hostile and Malfoy was afraid.

Tom is the heir of Slytherin, a lauded prodigy, the most ambitious student to walk the halls of Hogwarts in decades. He is, apparently, to be feared.

Harry is quiet after Malfoy leaves. Harry keeps his letters close, does not leave for his bedroom, does not let Tom out of his sight. His gaze passes in and out of attentiveness as he stands idly in the entrance hall.

"Do you think Dumbledore will be able to do something about the changes?" Tom asks.

Harry looks up, pulled from his preoccupations. "What?" Harry asks. "I mean, sorry. I did hear what you said." He runs a hand through his hair, disturbing the messy locks. "I think he'll be able to give me some answers. Or at least reassure me that things aren't going horribly wrong. I knew there would be changes but this—this is so much."

"People are missing," Tom says, solemn. "It is concerning. Malfoy should have taken it more seriously."

"He should have," Harry grouses, shaking his head. Then his eyes shift back to Tom, blinking slowly. "There's nothing to be done now, anyways," he adds, the frantic edge of his tone now muted.

Tom nods, smiles pleasantly. "We'll simply have to wait and see, won't we?"

The next day, Tom wakes to an empty house and a note on the kitchen counter.

Harry had woken early and gone out to meet Dumbledore. Tom crumples the note and tosses it. He makes toast for breakfast. Afterwards, he paces the kitchen, waiting for Harry to return.

Harry and Dumbledore will be talking about the changes wrought upon the timeline. Though all of this world is new to Tom, the differences must be jarring for Harry, who has had some of the people in his life simply blotted out of existence.

Tom assumes they'll also be talking about him, but he has faith he can guilt Harry into telling him about that portion of the conversation.

It's a surprise when Harry comes back steaming mad, his face set into a dark glower as he stomps into the house, tossing his cloak onto the rack with a violent motion.

Tom bites down his impulsive 'what happened?' and asks, "Are you alright?"

Harry's head swivels. "Oh. Um, yeah? I'm fine. Thanks for asking, Tom."

"You seem upset. Did you want to talk about it?"

"No," says Harry, too quickly. Then he pauses, the anger on his face already softened by Tom's concern, and adds, "I'm just irritated. It'll pass."

"Sure," Tom says. "I imagine this situation is very stressful for you."

"It sure is," Harry mutters. Then he blinks. "It's not your fault, though."

The statement sits funny in Tom's gut. Harry and the others had chosen to do this, to pull Tom from his time period and bring him here. It's not his fault, so why does he feel like it must be? Shacklebolt and Tonks are gone, but Tom doesn't care about them. It is not his fault they're missing.

"You're worried about the two that disappeared," Tom states.

"Yes," Harry says. "But that's not what—" He cuts off, mouth snapping shut. "Nevermind."

"Let's have lunch," Tom suggests. "It'll help take your mind off of it."

Harry's eyes soften further, the last of those tight lines fading away. "I do want to trust you. Even if other people don't."

Tom presses his lips together, conflicted. Then he says, "You can trust me, Harry. We're not so different, you and I."

Harry blinks again, momentary confusion visible in his sudden frown. "You think so?" Harry asks.

Tom shrugs. There are many parallels he could draw, but he doesn't feel like going over them. The adults at the orphanage hadn't liked magic either. Although that was more because they thought he was an irredeemable delinquent than because they were intolerant.

Harry licks his lips, seems to consider his next words with care. "I'll tell you some things," he says, decisive. "But later, after we have lunch and tend to the chickens."

Tom suppresses a wild grin, tries to still the sudden increase in his heart rate.

"Of course," Tom says, holding his voice steady, keeping his smile in place. "Whenever you're ready."

A/N:

the next chapter will probably be an interlude from harry's pov. if you've been wondering why harry is the way he is, where the differences lay in this universe's timeline, etc., then all questions should hopefully be answered there.

thanks for reading.