Previously:
Tom and Harry are now used to each other, almost friendly. Tonks comes by to visit Tom and Harry periodically, brings more letters from the outside. Tom grows suspicious of the way Tonks acts around him. He tries to pry more information out of Harry, who reluctantly tells Tom that he is the Heir of Slytherin.
Next time, Lucius Malfoy arrives in place of Tonks. Anxious over this new change, Harry demands to see Dumbledore. Harry comes back from his conversation with Dumbledore very upset, then tells Tom that he's now willing to share more information.
Harry rises to his alarm well before the sun is up. He dresses quickly, donning extra layers to fend of the cold morning air. He's to meet Dumbledore in the field just outside the front of the house.
interlude: harry potter
Tom is still fast asleep in his room.
Tom is more of a night owl, Harry knows. Though nothing in the house is ever obviously out of place, Harry can tell when the back door's been opened, and when the blanket on his rocking chair has been adjusted, however slightly.
Tom needs his space, much like a cat, much like Crookshanks does.
The thought of Tom and Crookshanks in a room together brings a smile to Harry's lips. The two would get along famously if they didn't end up trying to murder each other. A meeting for the future, perhaps.
Harry creeps out of his bedroom and down the stairs. He'd prepared a note last night for Tom. He'll place it on the kitchen counter before he goes.
Harry hits the bottom of the stairs with a light thud and checks his watch. Plenty of time for a bite to eat. Although, maybe that's not the best idea at the moment. His stomach is churning with nerves, which is odd because his scheduled conversation with Dumbledore is supposed to help fix that. Dumbledore is supposed to reassure him that everything is fine.
The kitchen is as clean as it had been on the day they'd moved in. Harry leaves his note on the counter and pours himself a glass of water for breakfast.
He's used to going without meals. He and Tom will have to think about rationing eventually, so he might as well start now.
Harry drains his glass and rinses it in the sink before placing it on the rack to dry. Time to go.
The sun is peeking over the horizon as Harry exits the house. Harry squints in the direction of the light and shuts the front door softly behind him.
Harry treads out to the center of the field, where a patch of grass has been flattened out. He waits, holding still, breath straining in his chest. Then, quietly, slowly, his magic begins to gather. A gentle tingle spreads over the backs of his hands, ruffling his hair.
Harry feels for the gap, for the spaces in the netting that exist only on a metaphysical level, and pulls.
The magic swirls, bends to his will, the rush of it coursing through his veins as Harry steps back, unthinking, and watches the regal form of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore pop into existence in front of him.
"Sir," Harry says. There's an odd throb in the back of his head that hadn't been there before. He hadn't expected his magic to drain so much.
"Harry, my boy." Dumbledore smiles, eyes bright. "Why don't we take a walk?"
Harry falls into step next to his mentor. They trace a path towards the woods, Harry with his hands in his pockets, Dumbledore with his arms swinging loosely by his sides.
"Now, what did you wish to talk about?"
Harry's not sure where to begin, but he has to start somewhere. "I suppose I'll start at the beginning," Harry says.
The story unwinds from there: meeting Tom at Wool's, transporting him to the future, and introducing him to Kingsley. Their argument and their fight. Kingsley being replaced by Tonks, and later with Lucius Malfoy. The weeks in between and the weeks following.
Harry had avoided using names after Kingsley's disappearance, concerned that the accidental slip of identity had been what led to the Auror's demise.
Only Tonks had vanished, too, and Harry had never talked about her specifically.
It's absurd to think of Tom killing these people simply because Harry had brought them up.
Dumbledore listens attentively, never interrupting, only making a noise here and there as Harry explains his concerns. While Harry talks, Dumbledore's expression grows pensive, then worried, then grave.
"I'd like to ask you to list as many names as you can remember."
"Names?" Harry asks.
"Your classmates and professors. Their parents and relatives. The authors of your textbooks. As many as you can recall, if you please."
Harry does so, listing name after name, continuing to wrack his brain in the face of Dumbledore's patient expression. And then, when he can name no more, he presses his lips together; the nerves from earlier this morning are sinking back into his stomach.
"So what do you think, sir?"
Dumbledore stops in place, staring at a spot off in the distance. Harry follows the line of sight, but there's nothing there. Only the trees beyond the field and the brilliant, rising sun.
"Sir?" Harry repeats.
"I fear I may have made a mistake, Harry."
Harry feels a chill pass down his spine. "A mistake?"
Dumbledore turns to face him, pale blue eyes unnaturally bright. "Perhaps saving Tom Riddle was not the wisest course of action after all."
When Harry was eleven years old, Lord Voldemort attempted to steal Philosopher's Stone.
Harry and his friends told Professor McGonagall that they thought Snape was trying to steal it, and Professor McGonagall told them that she would handle it, that such matters were not the responsibility of children.
Hermione had been utterly relieved. Ron had been reassured. Harry had been… not quite placated. He had wanted to know what would become of Snape. He wanted to if Professor McGonagall had a plan, and if she would tell Headmaster Dumbledore or not.
But everyone around him had been ready and willing to lay the matter to rest, and so Harry had done his best to push the troubles from his mind, had tried to avoid invoking Snape's ire during Potions class.
At the end of the year, Professor Quirrell died in the third-floor corridor. This was the story told to all the students of Hogwarts. Only Harry, Ron, and Hermione had known the truth, that Quirrell must have died in his attempt to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone.
Headmaster Dumbledore requested for Harry to come to his office. It was then that Dumbledore laid out the sordid tale of a man possessed and cursed, forced to subsist on unicorn blood, host to the spirit of the Dark Lord Voldemort.
Harry found the entire matter fantastical, almost absurd, but it was hardly the strangest thing he had been told since he'd learned he was a wizard. Lord Voldemort was a villain, plain and simple, and Harry would be the hero of the story, brave and compassionate as all heroes were.
Dumbledore sent Harry on his way with a box of Bertie's Every Flavour Beans and a few encouraging words about the power of love. Harry remained unconvinced.
A man had died. Didn't that mean anything?
At the End-of-Year Feast, Gryffindor was awarded a hundred and sixty points for informing Professor McGonagall of the danger posed to the Stone.
It was the first time the House Cup had tied in over five centuries.
"But, sir," Harry says, hesitation present in his voice. "Do you think Tom has something to do with all these people who are disappearing? How can he, if he's been with me this whole time?"
Dumbledore's spectacles glint in the dim light of early morning as he regards Harry with an impassive expression. Harry gets the impression that Dumbledore is deciding how much to tell him.
"As you know," Dumbledore begins, "the changes to our timeline are neither instantaneous nor permanent. They are merely stepping stones that lead to the point at which the wards will break, and then your internment will end. As of this moment, if Mr. Riddle was to be sent back to his own time period, his actions would lead to the deaths of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks."
"Right," Harry says. "So that means once this is all over, once everything is fixed and the way it should be, Kingsley and Tonks should come back." A cold horror spikes within him. "They will come back, won't they? Professor?"
"The longer young Mr. Riddle remains in your care, Harry, the more information he will be armed with. No matter how diligent we have been, it appears that we have not exercised enough caution to prevent the damage we have sought to undo."
Harry mulls over this. "But Tom doesn't know any of them, really. Why would he—why would he go after them?"
Harry can't quite bring himself to say the word kill. He can't imagine Tom killing anyone. Hurt them, maybe. But murder is leaps and bounds away from that. To take someone's life… Tom isn't there yet. He is not the cold-blooded murderer who had taken the lives of Lily and James Potter.
Tom Riddle is only a boy. Thirteen years old and afraid of dying.
"Darkness lives inside of Mr. Riddle," says Dumbledore. "While he may appear to you as a peer, as a fellow student, you must remember that it matters not what someone is born, but what they grow to be."
Harry's second year at Hogwarts was utterly uneventful save for his unveiled ability to speak Parseltongue, and the delivery of a rather embarrassing Valentine's Day card from Ginny Weasley.
The excitement of Parseltongue faded to the thrill of a cheap parlour trick within the span of a few weeks, which was when its novelty was subsumed by the next Quidditch match of the school year.
Ron, on the other hand, made fun of both him and Ginny for months.
In June, a reporter named Rita Skeeter ran a story in the Daily Prophet on how Lockhart was a fraud.
Upon reading the entire sordid article, Harry wondered if the magical world was just as backwards as the Muggle one, or if adults in charge of a school, any school, simply didn't know better.
"He's not Lord Voldemort yet," Harry says to Dumbledore.
He feels compelled to defend Tom, who is nothing like the monster who haunts his nightmares, not at all like the pale face and the bone-white wand that stared him down in a graveyard less than five months ago.
"I had hope that we could change him," Dumbledore says gently. "But you must see now that our efforts have failed. The loss of Kingsley and Tonks are a testimony to this very fact."
Harry fails to make the connection between Tom and Voldemort. "Tom wouldn't kill anyone."
"Do you really believe this, Harry? You are as pure of heart as you are brave, and you must know, deep down, the capacity for evil which exists within Tom Riddle."
Harry wonders if the differences in the timeline have changed Dumbledore, too, for the Headmaster to be saying these things.
This is not the professor who had pulled Harry aside after Cedric Diggory's death and informed him that he would be welcome to spend the summer at Hogwarts. This is not the professor who had preached kindness and forgiveness for a poor, abandoned orphan who had grown up in the midst of a horrible war.
"People can change," Harry says. "Tom's changed since I've gotten to know him."
"Wiser, cleverer wizards than you have been taken in by Lord Voldemort. Do you not recall the fate which befell young Miss Weasley?"
Harry does not, and this must show on his face because Dumbledore's gaze sharpens further, the blue of his eyes hardening to ice.
"I see. Then I'm afraid I must be the bearer of further bad news. Though you tried valiantly to save her, young Ginny Weasley died in the Chamber of Secrets in your second year of Hogwarts, another victim to the Basilisk, another death committed by the hand of Voldemort."
Harry feels dizzy, his vision swimming in a blur of blues and greens. Dumbledore's eyes twinkle, bright as stars, and Harry drops his gaze to the ground.
The statement swirls in his head, real but not real.
Ginny is dead.
Ginny is dead, murdered by Voldemort.
Ginny is Ron's little sister, tiny and red-headed and as fierce as any of her brothers.
Ginny can't be dead.
Harry sucks in a large gulp of cold morning air and says, "But how? Did he come back sooner? In—in my timeline, he doesn't come back until my fourth year—"
Dumbledore raises a hand, stalling Harry's panicked spiel. "Perhaps it is best for us to leave this to mystery. No doubt should any of this reach young Mr. Riddle's ears, we would all suffer the consequences."
Harry's mouth clamps shut. For the first time in his life, he doesn't believe Dumbledore is telling him the truth.
The summer of his third year, Harry encountered a large, black dog.
This dog, he would later discover, was his godfather, Sirius Black.
But before that, Harry would learn of Dementors, of Patronuses, of the man who betrayed his parents. He would learn the lies adults would tell as they tried to protect him from the truth.
Harry would learn of Time-Turners, of lives saved and lives lost, and he would meet the only remaining family he had left in the world:
A man who understood what it meant to be unwanted and alone just as much as Harry did.
Sirius was everything Harry had wanted in a guardian. Sirius was what Harry had imagined during those gloomy, lonely nights locked in his cupboard, those days before Hogwarts, when all Harry had wished for was for someone to take him away from the Dursleys.
Sirius had promised that someday, when he was a free man, he and Harry would live together.
And Harry, who had doubted many adults during his childhood—the Dursleys, Aunt Marge, his ignorant Muggle school teachers—trusted that Sirius was telling the truth.
Because Sirius was his godfather, his parents' friend. Sirius was family, real family. Family chosen, not family given.
Harry had conquered Dementors for Sirius, and he would do so again, a thousand times, to bring even the smallest of smiles to that tired, haunted face.
It was only half a day later, when Harry woke in the Hospital Wing after passing out from exhaustion in the cot next to Ron and Hermione, that Harry had time to think about the situation.
The panic had receded and the adrenaline was long gone. Harry gazed upon his sleeping friends—Ron's leg wrapped in bandages, Hermione's frizzy hair matted with dried sweat and dirt—and reflected on innocence.
The meaning of innocence, who had it and who didn't, and how easily it could be taken away.
Harry imagined what it would feel like to have his soul pulled out of his body, to have pieces of himself ripped away repeatedly until all that remained was an empty, hollow shell.
Harry imagined what it would feel like to die.
He hoped that it was still too soon for him to find out.
Dumbledore begins to walk again. Harry follows at a slower pace, uneasy and suspicious.
"Sir?" Harry asks, when a minute has gone by. "What do you plan to do now?"
"Our options are clear," says Dumbledore. "Either we continue our current course of action, or we send Voldemort back to his time."
"But if we send him back…" Harry tries to follow the threads of logic, tracing them to their inevitable conclusion. "Will he still become Voldemort?"
"Based on the evidence we have, I would say it is very likely so."
Harry chews on the inside of his cheek. "So you are going to send him back?"
"I believe it is the best choice for everyone involved." Dumbledore smiles wistfully, grandfatherly and gentle as he gazes upon Harry with a patient expression. "You have expended a great effort, my boy. Do not mistake this failure as a measure of your personal worth! Some natures cannot be changed, and Lord Voldemort's remains unforgiving, even in the face of mercy."
Harry thinks about his first interaction with Tom at Wool's Orphanage. Though Tom had been irascible and snarky, there was a layer of fear beneath the irritable exterior. Harry had read that fear in Tom's eyes, had recognized a quiet terror that shook to the core.
And why wouldn't Tom be terrified, when World War II was happening around him?
Harry, who had once faced death in a graveyard, who could have died young so many times over, understands Tom's struggle.
There is nothing wrong with being afraid to die, with wanting to avoid it at any cost. Tom had grown up lonely and unwanted, clinging to aspirations of power, to ambitions that could only be achieved if he lived long enough to see them through.
Albus Dumbledore is too far removed from youth to truly understand what it feels like to be small and afraid, wand in hand, death lurking around the corner.
When his name emerged from the Goblet of Fire, Harry knew it was not an accident.
The first task was dragons. Harry did not doubt that his name was put in there with the hope that he would die.
His friends helped him with spells, scouring books from the library late into the night. Harry had never been more grateful for them, for their support, especially as the school turned on him with judgemental eyes.
Harry met with Sirius when he could, and when he could not, he worried over his godfather's safety. It had to be dangerous for Sirius to be so near the school, so close to public areas, yet he did so anyways. He was risking his freedom to see Harry.
Harry knew their frequent meetings were a bad idea, that they would both be better off if he told Sirius to stay far away from Hogwarts. But the selfish part of himself clamped down on that suggestion. Sirius cared about him. That care made Harry's heart feel so full it hurt.
He would do anything to protect Sirius, and Sirius would do the same for him. That was the loyalty Sirius had held for his parents, James and Lily. The loyalty that never wavered. The loyalty that had transferred along to Harry.
Sirius told Harry about how there were plans in motion to defeat Voldemort. Sirius told him not to worry and to focus on surviving the Tournament. It was the most comforting reassurance Harry had heard from an adult in a while.
Someday, when this tournament was done and Voldemort was gone, Sirius would take Harry away from the Dursleys'. Harry had every bit of faith in that truth.
"How will that work?" Harry asks. "Will we have to repeat the ritual? Or do we just break the wards down?"
"There is a method. It will require work on both sides to accomplish. We must seize the threads of magic, pulling them taut, and then snap them." Dumbledore's hand clenches a quick fist to demonstrate, the wrist snapping downwards in an imitation of a sharp yank.
Harry can't explain the yawning pit in his stomach, the sickness of guilt that swells whenever he thinks too much about Tom. Tom, who is waiting back at home, asleep in bed, unaware that Dumbledore plans to renounce him as a lost cause.
"And will we do that now?"
Dumbledore hums, thoughtful. "It will take some time for me to gather the required elements. A day, shall we say?"
After a second, Harry nods quickly. "Tomorrow," he confirms.
The momentary pause does not escape unnoticed. "Do you have more to add, Harry?"
Harry glances at the forest around them, his heart beating fast. Does he have more to add? To argue against Professor Dumbledore seems disrespectful. But Harry is nothing if not a Gryffindor, and so he has to put his thoughts into words, attempting to defend the boy he's gotten to know over the past month.
"I don't think Tom's evil, sir," Harry says at last, as respectfully as he can. "I think he's just afraid. He's just a kid, like me, like you said. He's never had anyone to look out for him before, and that's why he thinks he needs to do everything for himself. Because other people won't bother."
On the day of the third task, Lord Voldemort was reborn.
Death had never felt closer than when Harry looked down the length of his trembling wand at that colourless, serpentine face.
Fear was pounding in his head, an endless refrain. The scent of death that pervaded the chilling air of that hideous graveyard was making him dizzy. He had an unspeakable feeling that he might never see the sunlight again.
Then those golden threads appeared, the overwhelming feeling of magic pouring from his wand, surrounding him, connecting his wand to Voldemort's.
The phantoms appeared one by one.
Cedric. His parents. Others who Harry did not know but mourned all the same. Victims of Voldemort, ghosts of the past, each of them protecting him, Harry Potter, from death.
When Harry eventually landed back in Hogwarts, Cedric's body limp and cold in his clammy grip, all he could manage was a mindless relief.
Dumbledore stops them in place, looking over to their right. The edge of the open field is visible a few steps away. Harry shifts his weight to his other foot as he waits for a response.
"Your capacity for empathy is an admirable strength," says Dumbledore. "And it will serve you well in the future. But I'm afraid I must insist, Harry, that you lack the experience to make this decision."
Harry wants to retort that Dumbledore doesn't really know Tom, but then he remembers that Dumbledore had taught Tom Riddle for all seven years of Hogwarts. Still, that's not quite the same as being friends, is it? Or whatever it is that he and Tom are. Not quite friends, but almost.
"Alright, sir," Harry says. "If you think so."
Dumbledore turns to face him fully. "I do. Time is not so easily meddled with. We have taken a great risk in bringing Mr. Riddle here, but now he must be returned to his own time. Your influence, however well-intentioned, has not wrought the impact we had hoped for.
"Keeping Mr. Riddle here has only brought further damage to the timeline. Should we continue with this path, the changes will be irreversible."
Harry stuffs his hands into his pockets and stares down at the ground. "But if we send him back, won't all these changes be permanent?"
"While I am able to pass through the wards, I will be able to Obliviate Mr. Riddle, thereby removing from him the dangerous information which we may assume is responsible for the demise of those who have disappeared from the timeline. Should we delay this decision any longer, to the point where the wards will no longer permit entrance, I fear you and Mr. Riddle will be trapped here with no recourse for his actions."
No recourse, meaning that Harry will be alone with Tom Riddle until the wards fall, releasing them both into the unknown.
"If we can make it to the end, to when the wards fall, won't all of that be undone? Sir?" Harry looks up, hoping for an affirmation.
Dumbledore shakes his head, his long, white beard swaying with the motion. "The risk is too high. We have no guarantee Mr. Riddle will last until the end of your confinement. Should the wards fall too early, alterations to your original timeline will be permanent."
At this time, the safest option is to revert everything to be as it was before you retrieved Mr. Riddle from his time. With each iteration of the timeline, more lives will be lost. You may never see Kingsley, Miss Tonks, or Miss Weasley again."
The bluntness stings. Harry's breath lodges in his throat, the back of his eyes burning with wetness. With some effort, he swallows the blockage and nods in response. "I understand," Harry says.
"Then I shall see you tomorrow."
Albus Dumbledore holds out his hand.
Harry grasps it, shakes it firmly. "See you then, sir."
The summer before his fifth year, Harry was at Hogwarts learning about Tom Riddle.
Professor Dumbledore had something called a Pensieve in his office, an item which could be used to view memories.
Harry watched Tom Riddle grow from childhood to adulthood. And all the while, Dumbledore stood nearby, proving commentary, painting the picture…
Tom Riddle, said Dumbledore, had been birthed from a loveless union and delivered into a hollow facsimile of a home. An orphanage.
Like Harry, Tom had not known his heritage for years, had not known he was a wizard until someone came to tell him.
Tom had spent his summers at the orphanage, just like Harry had spent summers at the Dursleys. Only Tom had never been permitted to stay at Hogwarts.
All the while, Dumbledore and others were hosting secret meetings at Grimmauld Place. They were a group known as the Order of the Phoenix, a group formed to fight the war against Voldemort. Harry was not privy to any of the meetings. This was irritating, especially as his necessary absence was poorly justified by Dumbledore and Mrs. Weasley.
Harry had a task assigned to him—to learn about Voldemort—and this was apparently all he needed to focus on.
It was an important task, surely. But it was not something that allowed Harry to feel productive.
Harry did ask after what the Order was doing, what was so important that Dumbledore had sent both Lupin and Sirius away on a mission for, but the answers were never given to him.
Harry could only wait, frustrated and listless, to see what would happen.
Halfway through the summer, after ages of hanging about the castle, Dumbledore finally told Harry of the plan.
The plan, which was to remove Tom Riddle from the past, therefore saving countless lives and preventing a war before it had even begun.
The plan, which would give an orphan boy a second chance and a proper home.
Harry, who had witnessed the upbringing of a boy to whom he now felt a good deal of empathy towards, immediately agreed.
"Wait," Harry says. He has one more question to ask.
Professor Dumbledore pauses mid-turn, gazing over the tops of his spectacles. "Yes, Harry?"
"Are Lupin and Sirius back yet? I mean—I know I haven't gotten any letters yet, so they're probably still abroad—but I was only wondering if you had any news, sir."
Dumbledore's brows tug together, the slightest of motions, but it's enough for Harry to confirm the worst.
"Sir?" Harry repeats, more urgently this time. "Are they alright? You have to tell me—"
Dumbledore draws near, places a gentle hand on Harry's shoulder. His face, now calm, looks saddened.
Harry shakes his head. Unwilling. Disbelieving. "No."
"Harry," says Dumbledore. "I am sorry—"
"No," Harry says. Louder, nearly a shout. He wrenches away, twisting his body out from under Dumbledore's hand. "No, they're not—he's not—Sirius—"
His wand is in his hand before he can think better of it.
No one would have died, no one would have been erased from existence if not for this terrible, awful plan. This plan that Dumbledore now wants to change his mind about because it's backfired.
"Harry. I understand you are angry with me, and you have every right to be."
Harry is angry. He's seeing red, his hands shaking with it, the tremours of his rage rolling down his spine in turbulent waves, unbroken and unhinged.
Harry redirects the emotion through his wand, aims, fires:
"Reducto!"
The bush next to them blasts into particles, its ashes splattering across the oak tree behind it.
"Reducto, Reducto, REDUCTO!"
The greenery falls to his wand again and again, until Harry can no longer see through his grief, his tears, his awareness barely strong enough to note that Dumbledore is quiet, watching him break down.
"There's no shame in what you're feeling. The fact that you can feel pain like this is your greatest strength."
"This is your fault!" Harry says, seething, the pain bursting inside of him as he whirls in Dumbledore's direction. "If you hadn't wanted me to do this, then Sirius would still be alive."
If he had not agreed to this, Sirius would still be alive. Lupin, Ginny, Kingsley, and Tonks would still be alive. His pain mingles with his shame, stirring itself into a lethal concoction of agony.
Harry can't imagine losing Sirius. They were supposed to live together someday, to do so many things together once the war was done and Sirius was a free man. And now, now they will never get to do those things.
Harry shudders from head to toe, suddenly sure that he is going to die, right here, from the utter wretchedness that is running through his body, wreaking havoc, straining his heart so badly that he wants to rip it out of his chest.
Dumbledore is still calm, and Harry is sure he has never hated anyone more than in this moment.
"It is very much my fault, Harry. As much fault can be laid at my feet, I would allow it in an instant." Dumbledore sighs, then, and his shoulders slump a few degrees. "I owe you many explanations, but for this I must take you back many, many years…"
Before Hogwarts, when Harry had lived in his cupboard, ignorant of his magic and his heritage, he had often imagined the earth-shattering footfalls of the Dursleys as bombs falling on the stairs above his head.
Harry had marched his little line of broken toy soldiers, wondering and wondering, hoping that his plastic protectors would shield him from the worst of what was to come.
After Dumbledore told him of the plan, Harry read books on World War II, on bomb shelters and war drafts. It was like discovering a new world for the second time.
Dumbledore explains himself in slow, measured sentences.
There was a prophecy made years ago by Sybill Trelawney. That prophecy sent Lord Voldemort to the Potters' doorstep, intent on killing the little boy that lived there.
This prophecy dictates neither can live while the other survives.
Harry needs to know. "Does this mean one of us has to kill the other?"
Dumbledore is somber. "Yes. I am afraid so."
"But the plan—" Harry pauses. It dawns on him, then, just what the plan must have meant.
Tom Riddle had killed Myrtle Warren at the age of sixteen and created a Horcrux to secure his immortal life.
But this Tom, the Tom that is resting in the house just beyond the field, has no Horcruxes, has committed no crimes. This Tom has as much potential to fulfil the prophecy as Lord Voldemort does, but he is not Voldemort. Not yet.
Harry thinks of what it would mean to kill a thirteen-year-old boy.
The erasure of a bloody past in exchange for a bloody future.
It had been bad enough for him to face Voldemort in the graveyard. Harry had not been able to cast the Killing Curse then, had not even thought of using it.
He does not think he could kill Tom now, in cold blood and without a real reason.
"Was I supposed to kill him, when the wards fell?"
Dumbledore's expression changes at the words—'supposed to'—but he does not refute Harry's statement.
"So it was all a lie," Harry says viciously. "You didn't want to save him at all. You just—you brought him here to die. All because of some stupid prophecy. You're no better than Voldemort is."
To Harry's satisfaction, Dumbledore flinches at the accusation. But the flinch doesn't linger, and is rapidly replaced by a grim, formidable expression.
"If Tom Riddle was truly turned away from the darkness, away from the path of Voldemort, then the prophecy would not come to pass. While the prophecy lives on, so does Lord Voldemort. In this case, there is a necessity to ensure Voldemort never rises to power."
Dumbledore emanates an excess of power and authority, so much so that Harry feels the inexperience of his mere fifteen years on earth, incomparable to the ancient wizard before him.
Harry can tell that Dumbledore's mind is not to be changed. That no matter what Harry argues, no matter how many reasons Harry gives, Dumbledore plans to send Tom back to Wool's Orphanage. Memories wiped, hope taken away.
Dumbledore has lost faith in Tom's ability to change. He has erred on the sided caution, in favour of securing the lives that exist rather than the ones that could. Dumbledore has chosen Ginny and Tonks and Kingsley over the countless others who could live if only Tom Riddle had grown into a better person.
Harry still has hope. Harry has one blinding, damning hope.
"If we do this," Harry says, testing the words one by one, "will I get Sirius back? Will he and Lupin come back with the others?"
"That I cannot say, unfortunately. The events surrounding their deaths may or may not be linked to the timeline you came from."
"But what were they doing?" Harry asks, fists clenched, sweating, forcing the words out. "How did they die?"
"I'm afraid I cannot say."
Harry has to tell himself to breathe, to inhale enough air so he can think properly. Dumbledore is staring, his gaze stern and free of any softness they had previously held.
After a second, Harry pulls his gaze away. "Alright. Fine. You can't say. Then we have nothing to say to each other, Professor."
"Harry—"
"I'll see you tomorrow. That's what you want, isn't it? We'll send him back."
Dumbledore is silent this time and does not protest Harry's rude tone.
"If that's all," Harry says, dismissive, "I'd like to be alone now." He needs to think.
Some time later, long after Dumbledore is gone, the sun is at a decent height in the sky as Harry returns to the house. Most of his grief has been wrung out of him, and now all that remains is anger at the injustice of it all.
Cedric had already died because of him. Now more people are dead. Kingsley, Tonks, Ginny, Lupin, and Sirius. And how many others that Harry doesn't even know of? Names that he had listed that Dumbledore pretended to know?
If not for his letters from Ron and Hermione, Harry would have worried for them, too. But they, at least, are safe. For now, anyways.
Harry stomps into the entrance hall and tosses his cloak aside.
"Are you alright?"
Harry's head snaps up to regard Tom Riddle. His response is automatic: "Oh. Um, yeah? I'm fine. Thanks for asking, Tom."
He feels like a traitor before the sentence is even finished. Tom is asking after him, being friendly, and Harry has just concluded a meeting on sending Tom back to bombs and terror and war.
"You seem upset. Did you want to talk about it?"
Tom seems genuinely concerned. Harry's guilt intensifies. "No," says Harry. "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 realizes what that sounds like and adds, "It's not your fault, though."
It's not Tom's fault. It is highly likely that Sirius will still be dead regardless of whether they send Tom back to his time or not. Though Harry cares about the deaths of the others, Sirius' death is the one that hurts him the most. Just the thought of it numbs him inside.
"You're worried about the two that disappeared," Tom says.
"Yes," Harry says. "But that's not what—" He cuts off, mouth snapping shut. "Nevermind."
Tom doesn't seem bothered by his snappishness. "Let's have lunch," Tom suggests. "It'll help take your mind off of it."
The unexpected kindness causes Harry's stomach to twist. Harry's defense of Tom isn't wholly unfounded, and here is the proof. Tom can be nice, can be interested in others; if only others take the time to understand him and reach out.
"I do want to trust you," Harry says suddenly. "Even if other people don't."
Tom presses his lips together, and Harry wonders if he's gone too far, if Tom's going to accuse him of lying.
Then Tom says, "You can trust me, Harry. We're not so different, you and I."
"You think so?" Harry asks.
Harry has been thinking that, just a bit, just in the back of his mind. He's been thinking it ever since Dumbledore gave him Tom Riddle's life history on a silver platter. They're not so different, not at all.
Tom shrugs in response.
Harry licks his lips. The glass of water he'd drank this morning seems like years and years ago.
Tom can change, can't he?
Tom can change, and then Sirius and Lupin will have never gone on that mission to begin with.
Tom will change, and then the world will change, too, and Harry will have his godfather and his parents back. Everyone will come back.
"I'll tell you some things," Harry says. "But later, after we have lunch and tend to the chickens."
Tom smiles happily, his brown eyes dancing with cheer. Nothing like the red eyes Harry remembers. Nothing like Voldemort.
"Of course," Tom says. "Whenever you're ready."
A/N:
whew. this chapter took a long time to write out.
there is a lot of information here: harry's backstory, resulting character development, and all of the time travel explanation that's only been hinted at thus far. i'm hoping this is all coherent lol.
if there are parts that are confusing/don't make sense, please ask questions and let me know. that way i can improve on those parts! thank you :)