a less detailed summary because i am drafting this late at night. i might come back and edit this later.

Previously:

Harry talks to Dumbledore about his concerns regarding the missing people. Dumbledore becomes concerned about the influence Tom is having on Harry. He warns Harry not to trust Tom. Harry doesn't believe him. Harry considers himself and Tom to be friends.

Harry's backstory reveals a different version of canon. We learn that Harry spent the past summer learning about Tom Riddle, and now he truly believes that Tom can become a good person.

Then Dumbledore tells Harry that Sirius is dead, and this is what tips Harry over into siding with Tom over Dumbledore.

month one, cont.

Once the chickens are fed, Harry leads Tom back into the house to grab a blanket and some snack foods. From there, they take a walk out towards the field across from the house.

"Did you want to talk about what Dumbledore said?" Tom asks.

"I'll get to that," Harry says, evasive.

Perhaps Harry hasn't figured out what he wants to say yet. That's fine. All the better if Tom can convince him to overshare.

They reach a spot in the field where the grass flattens out. Tom recognizes it, as they've walked out this way a few times before. Harry sets the large blue blanket down and sits on top of it.

Tom follows without hesitation, knowing it will make Harry more comfortable if he doesn't complain. Next, Harry opens his satchel bag and hands Tom an apple. Tom accepts it but makes no move to eat it. He merely rolls the fruit around in his hand, waiting.

Harry stares at the sky, his eyes tracing the clouds above. Blue touching green.

"Dumbledore told me that my godfather is dead."

For a second, Tom is rendered speechless. The remark is unexpected. But he recovers quickly enough to respond appropriately.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Tom says. "That must be very difficult for you. Since you can't leave here and everything."

"Yeah." Harry ruffles his hair with a free hand. "I haven't seen him in a while, actually."

Tom thinks over his next question carefully, then decides it can't possibly hurt to ask. "If you have a godfather, why were you staying with those Muggles?"

Harry's eyes sadden, misty and distant. "He was in Azkaban for a long time. He was innocent, though," Harry says. "Someone framed him."

Tom's framework for social niceties doesn't extend to responding about someone's wrongfully convicted godfather. "But he got free?" Tom asks.

"He escaped two years ago."

"Clever of him," Tom says. "No one's done that before. At least," he adds, "not during my time."

Harry picks at the fabric pilling on the blanket. "He was my only real family. I can't believe he's really gone. We were going to live together someday."

Tom doesn't have any family at all to live with. The idea of losing a family he does not have is foreign to him.

"You're a strong person," Tom says slowly. "It's sad that he's gone, but you don't need him, or those Muggles you lived with. You've left them now, and you're living here with me. And we can take care of ourselves."

"I suppose."

"What else did Dumbledore say?"

Harry bunches his knees up under his arms and sighs.

Sometimes Tom forgets that Harry is older than him by two years. Harry maintains an air of innocence, a certain guilelessness that Tom knows isn't a true representative of who Harry is. But it's small moments like these that betray the soft heart lurking in Harry's chest. Harry can be fierce, can duel like he was born to do it, but he also bleeds emotions like a leaky tap.

"He doesn't think the plan is working," says Harry. Then he presses his lips together, face paling, like he's already said more than he'd wanted to.

"What do you mean?" Tom demands. "Is there something wrong with the wards?" The apple in his hand drops down, rolling across the blanket to bump against Harry's knees.

Tom's mind jumps from one disastrous conclusion to the next. The wards will collapse, killing them both. The wards will fail, ejecting Tom from this time period, sending him back to the 1940s to die.

"There's nothing wrong with the wards," Harry says, alarmed.

The surprise is genuine, Tom decides. Harry isn't lying about that.

"Then what's wrong?" Tom asks.

Harry fidgets, avoiding Tom's gaze. Impatience rises in Tom; he has never been good at withholding his curiosity, his need for dominance. And with this matter, a matter that concerns his life, he has no reason to hold back.

"Spit it out," Tom says harshly. "What is it?"

Harry's mouth twists, his brows knitting together. He is deep in thought. Concocting a lie? Deciding what half-truths to tell?

"Tell me," Tom demands, louder now. "Harry, you must. Am I going to die? You promised me I wouldn't—you said—we're supposed to be safe here." He reaches over to grab the older boy by the shoulders, pinching with his fingers, shoving hard.

Harry jerks at the violent touch, but he does not pull away completely. "Tom," protests Harry, eyes wide and dazed with shock. "Tom, I wouldn't—"

"Then tell me," Tom repeats, almost in a hiss, his hand digging into the flesh of Harry's arm, squeezing enough to bruise.

"You won't die," Harry says vehemently. Though Harry seems shaken, this statement is firm, full of conviction. "I would never let that happen to you."

Tom's grip slackens, his hand struck with a sudden weakness that causes his arms to drop away. Tom swallows thickly. His throat feels dry, scratchy, and hoarse. It takes him a second to speak. "Yes," Tom says. "Good. So what is it?"

"Dumbledore says that if we send you back, all the missing people will come back as well."

Tom has never liked Dumbledore, but the betrayal still twists sharply in his gut, like the serrated edge of a blade marking up his insides. If he could, if he was given the option, he would kill the old man right now. What right did Dumbledore have to play god? To pretend like the lives of others had more value than Tom's?

Tom thinks through the rest of the statement, then narrows his eyes. "People like your godfather?"

Harry's mouth contorts into a frown. "No. Sirius died for other reasons."

The name 'Sirius' stirs a memory in Tom's mind. The Blacks have always named their children after celestial bodies, after constellations and stars. Alphard, Cygnus, Orion, Walburga. Harry's godfather must be a Black.

But back to the conversation at hand: Harry wouldn't be so upset if there was a way to save his precious godfather. No doubt if it were possible to exchange Tom's life for Sirius', Harry would do so. But this is not the case, Tom tells himself. This is why Harry has chosen to align with Tom rather than Dumbledore.

Harry cannot save his godfather, so he will save Tom instead, even at the cost of others' lives. This is an outcome better than expected. Tom decides that Harry is already proving his use as a good ally.

"Well," says Tom, lacing his words with deliberate hesitancy. "What do you think we should do now?"

The new plan, Harry says, is to meet Dumbledore tomorrow morning, as promised, but not let him through. To remove the wards will take effort on both sides. Harry doesn't plan to comply, and so he believes it will all be fine.

Tom is less sure, but he is willing to accept Harry's reassurances that Dumbledore will not pass through the wards and force their hand.

"How do the wards decide who to let in?" Tom asks.

They're in the kitchen preparing dinner. Tom is minding the pot of pasta currently cooking on the stove top while Harry sets the table.

"Dumbledore can pass through because he's magically powerful enough," Harry says. "Kingsley managed at the start for the same reason. This morning, though, I had to help pull Dumbledore through. That's why I think he won't be able to come through tomorrow unless I let him. And soon the wards will be too powerful for anyone to get through. Then we'll be kept in here until the timeline is finished changing, like I said."

"But what of the others? The woman and Malfoy. They were able to visit without help."

"Tonks was always supposed to come by for visits. The wards are tied to me, and she's related to the Potters through her mother's family. So she can come through." Harry runs a hand through his hair, then adds, "And Malfoy, too. But it doesn't work as well for him because his relation is by marriage. At least," Harry adds, frowning, "that's how it's supposed to work."

Tom casts his mind back to the day Malfoy had arrived at the house. Altercation aside, Malfoy did not seem unfamiliar to his surroundings. He'd settled into the living room with ease, and he'd spoken as though the visit was routine and the negative reaction was expected.

Given what he's seen so far, Tom assumes that the changes to the timeline are not immediate. Rather, things will build for a time, and then the changes come all at once. Otherwise people would simply vanish in the middle of their conversations rather than only after they'd left the wards. Or, alternatively, when people were inside the wards, their presence could not be altered?

Tom gives the pot on the stove a swirl, then decides he may as well ask.

"How do the changes to the timeline work?"

Harry walks over and switches the element off. "Let's get this plated, first."

Tom obliges. They portion out the pasta and dump tomato sauce onto it. Before coming here, the only decent food Tom had ever eaten was at Hogwarts. He'd grown used to the meals prepared by House-Elves. Here, however, meals are different. Harry has his own style of cooking that is unique in its own way, even with simple dishes—an interesting blend of spices and sauce that is delicious.

"Smells nice," Tom allows.

Harry grins. "Yeah? Thanks."

Tom grabs his plate and follows Harry over to the wooden table, where they settle into their respective wooden chairs.

"Okay," Harry says, cracking his knuckles. "You probably have figured some of this out already, but I'll try to explain it in a way that makes sense."

Harry talks all throughout dinner, gesticulating in the air to make his various points. It is as Tom had surmised: time is not as fluid as one might imagine it to be. As Tom's presence (or lack thereof) in the past alters the future, the ripples of impact roll forward in waves.

Changes are not immediate. Changes are not permanent. When the wards fall, they will awake to a brand new world.

"Will you still be born?" Tom asks curiously. "What if my not being there in the past impacts your life? It's already made changes to the lives of others, to people I don't even know."

Harry shifts back in his chair, a slight frown marring his face. "This method of time travel is based mostly in theory. There isn't much anecdotal evidence. A lot of things have to come together in order for it to work. Dumbledore said that no matter what happens, you and I will emerge regardless. Because we're tied together."

Tied together. Previously the thought of being linked to Potter had disgusted him. But Tom now finds the idea more palatable.

Speaking of connections, this also reminds him of something else.

"Does it have to do with the Priori Incantatem?" Tom asks. "Is that why our wands react like that?"

"I—maybe? Our wands have the same phoenix core. They're what Ollivander calls brother wands."

"Brother wands," Tom repeats.

They eat without speaking while Tom mulls over the information. Their wands are compatible. Tom doesn't know much about wandlore, but he does know that wands are connected to their owners. Wands are a representation of their magical abilities. Tom had taken the time to research yew wands and their owners, searching for confirmation that his wand was as unique as he thought himself to be.

Yew wands have a reputation for belonging to notable figures in history. Only the fearsome and powerful own such wands. Tom had been satisfied with this explanation, and here in front of him lies another proof: his wand shares a core with this green-eyed boy from fifty years in the future.

For all that Tom has believed himself to be destined for greatness, the physical evidence never fails to amaze him.

Tom had felt an affinity towards Slytherin house long before Harry had told him he was the heir of Salazar Slytherin. He had known that Slytherin was where he was meant to be, where he would grow into his own. If only his housemates could see him now—the Heir of Slytherin—they would bow and scrape at his feet, dying to worship his lineage.

The sound of the metal clinking pulls Tom back into the present. Harry has set his utensils down upon his empty plate.

"Are you not hungry?" Harry asks.

"Just distracted." Tom stabs at some pasta with his fork and eats it. He chews, then swallows, then says, "You and I are very similar, aren't we?"

Their wand cores, their lack of parents. Their shared ability to speak to snakes.

Harry has all the reasons to be as angry as Tom is, to want more, and yet Harry directs his ambitions towards saving lives. A lofty goal, surely, but not one Tom would ever see himself choosing.

Harry shrugs and stands. "I'm going to wash my plate."

Tom notices that Harry isn't looking at him. "Don't be stupid," Tom says, before Harry can step away. "I'll do the washing up. Just wait for me to finish."

Harry sits back down.

"We're friends now, right?" Tom affects a casual air, poking at his dinner.

"Yeah," says Harry. "We're friends."

"And we're… different. Which is why we're here."

"Yeah."

"You can speak to snakes," Tom points out. "Like I do."

"I—" Harry rubs at the back of his neck. "I'm not the heir like you are or anything. I'm just—I'm just Harry Potter."

"You're not," Tom says, dismissive. "You're not just anything. You want to save me, unlike Dumbledore. You're better than he is."

Harry seems to want to say something in response, then thinks better of it. He turns his eyes to the glass panes, to the backyard. Tom can spot the hint of flush in those tan cheeks; his compliment does more than Harry is willing to let on.

"I won't abandon you," Harry says eventually. "I did promise that."

"Oh, I know," Tom says, nodding. "We will face this together, Harry."

Harry glances back over, smiling and nodding in response. There is a definite warmth in Harry's expression. Warmth that stirs comfort in Tom's gut. They will face Dumbledore together, and they will triumph.

They rise before the sun the next morning. Harry is apparently too nervous to eat, but Tom convinces him to have some fruit.

"You'll need your strength," Tom advises. "Just in case."

In case of what, Harry does not ask. They both know what Tom is referring to. In spite of all Harry's assurances, the impending meeting hangs over both their heads like a guillotine.

Tom is not afraid of Dumbledore. If only Tom was older, if he knew more spells—then the old man would fear him.

After the tense affair of an early breakfast, Harry paces the front hall while Tom dons his cloak, taking his time to adjust the folds so that it falls properly over his shoulders.

"You'll wear a hole into the floor," Tom says.

Harry stops, startled, and looks up. "That's a joke."

Tom adjusts the collar of his shirt in the mirror. "Clever of you to have noticed. Let's go, then."

Harry holds the door for him. Tom strides through, then squints out at where the sun is just visible over the horizon. Somewhere beyond this place, Dumbledore is waiting for them.

They walk out to the field, to the place where the grass flattens out in a large, circular patch. Here, then. Tom eyes the ground, then the trees in the near distance, then the cloudy skies.

"Tempus." Harry eyes the time, which is now nearing the hour. "Any moment now."

Tom draws his wand. Harry stares at it, but he doesn't tell Tom to put it away. The tension in the air is now grim, thick with the unknown. They stand together for some time, the seconds slow like syrup, and then Harry draws his wand as well.

When the magic starts to congregate, Tom can feel it. The prickling that spreads all over, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He possesses an innate sensitivity to the magical world he had inherited from his mother.

Harry's eyes are unfocused, his hair in disarray. From where Tom stands, the break of day bathes Harry's face in a golden glow. Pressure builds around them, buffeting him and Harry on all sides. Wind beats against Tom's heavy wool cloak in sweeping pulses, the magic breathing to life through nature.

"I can feel him trying to push through," Harry says, eyes sliding shut. "The barrier is strong today."

Tom holds his breath for a second, then asks, "So he won't be able to pass through?"

Harry's head twitches, canting to the side, listening to a cue that is inaudible to Tom's ears. "I don't know—he's still trying. There's pressure on the wards, but the layers are thick. It feels more muffled than usual."

"Can he tell that you're not letting him in?"

"I—I really don't know, Tom."

Harry sounds strained, so Tom decides to cease his line of questioning. It won't do for Harry to slip up and let Dumbledore through.

The magic does not fade from the air. Tom flexes his fingers around his yew wand, tense and alert, watching the equally-tense form of Harry standing a few steps away.

"I feel—" Harry starts, then cuts off abruptly, green eyes widening.

The wind swirls violently, a flock of angry, animated knives, whipping the folds of Tom's robes around. Invisible hands are wrapped around his limbs, squeezing down on the joints.

"Harry," Tom says, a warning, trying to smother the sudden unease in his chest.

The air in front of them distorts.

Tom blinks once, twice. What he is witnessing doesn't sink in, not right away. The empty space is blurry but not quite. His eyes slip around the gap, failing to lock on.

"Wait, I—" Harry stutters. "I can't—"

The air shifts, perceptibly so, a faint warble in the fabric of the universe.

Tom raises his wand, forcing his arm up despite the discomfort, prepared to cast something, anything, to cease the horrific sensations crawling up and down his spine.

Then the universe opens.

Harry speaks, or maybe he screams. Tom can no longer hear anything—all his senses have been devoured by the blatant, gaping hole in front of them. Thin threads spread through the open space like gossamer vines, creeping and crawling in strange patterns.

Tom jerks back without conscious thought; the sight of the opening is abhorrent, is wrong. It goes against everything he is, was, or will be.

The split yawns, widening, revealing not a figure, but a blurry golden shape that glimmers with the same gossamer, these threads finer still, wound loosely in wavy patterns that hurt to look at. The shape bulges like someone is pressing against the shell from the other side.

The other side, Tom realizes, which is where Dumbledore must be.

Tom turns to Harry, who has been motionless all this time, transfixed with the same horror that Tom feels crushing down upon his chest, worming spindly fingers between his ribs.

"What do we do?" Tom yells, hoping that his voice will carry across the space between them.

Harry shudders, twisting his head in an aborted shake, wand held in a tight grip.

If Harry won't do anything, fine. Tom will do something.

"Depulso!"

The Banishing spell goes wide. Tom grits his teeth, adjusting his aim to account for the whatever that is distorting the path of his magic, and casts again. And again. And again.

Some of the spells land—the rippling gape flickers, swallowing Tom's magic up like a shimmering Protego shield.

"Depulso!" Harry's cry sends a jolt down Tom's wand arm, a wash of magic that tingles all the way to his fingertips.

Harry's eyes are alight with a fierce expression, blazing with green and gold reflected from the obscenities leaking out of the air before them. His hair, windswept, trails in dark tendrils, the silhouette of an avenging angel.

"Depulso! Depulso!" Tom flings the spell repeatedly, but the magic soaks into the warped shape, which only shudders at the assault.

"It's not working," Harry says, desperate. "Tom, it's not—"

Tom does not accept this. "Again," he hisses, rage and desperation boiling thick in his veins, in his throat, choking out the sounds of fear that he refuses to let out.

Harry shivers, a wave of magic trembling around him. Is it a trick of the light? An effect of the unnatural magic they are interacting with?

Tom shakes himself from his distraction and aims his wand at the opening once more. "Depulso!"

The spellfire blasts up against the opening, shoving at that which is attempting to push through. Harry fires again, and Tom feels that same rush crawl down his arm and down his wand.

So Tom stops, waits, and then next time Harry raises his wand to cast, Tom does the same—

"DEPULSO!"

The spell floods forth from his wand, from Harry's wand. Tom's fingers nearly slacken out of shock; it is only the freezing air that keeps his hand stiff around the wood.

The Banishing Charm slams into the hole in the universe with a screeching that grates on Tom's ears.

Tom squints past the discomfort of the distortion and sees that yes, their combined effort is working!

The rest passes in a strange blur—

He and Harry fall into a pattern of casting. A blast of magic, a brief pause, and then another casting. Tom's magic does not drain, his mind feels no fatigue.

When he casts with Harry, it is laughably easy; Tom feels free, weightless, like magic is at last unleashed upon the world by his unrestrained hand, under his total control, made moldable by his will.

His will and Harry's.

Slowly, the gap mends under their concentrated effort, until the rip in the fabric of the universe is gone, until all that remains is the clear azure sky above and the vibrant colours of nature in the far distance. Until all is as it was before. Until all is well.

Tom finally feels safe to exhale, to push out the frenetic agitation buried deep into his lungs, to loosen his limbs and tuck his wand into his robes with a steady hand.

"He's gone," says Harry, so softly that Tom almost misses it.

Tom doesn't ask for clarification. He knows what Harry means. He knows who is gone.

"Gone," Tom confirms.

"The barrier is solid," Harry continues. "I don't feel anything anymore. Nothing from the outside."

Nothing more outside. Tom gazes back at the flattened patch of grass, at the space where they had just defeated Albus Dumbledore, so-called the greatest wizard of his generation. At last purged from Tom's life, Dumbledore is now only a memory from the past—a memory that will not be permitted into the future.

"Just us two," Tom says. "Just us left."

Though part of Tom still wants to leave this place, to break down the magic holding him captive and escape into the world outside, the rest of him has reached an eerie state of acceptance.

He can be content here, separate from the reality of the harsh world he detested, of the terrible war he feared, of the loathsome classmates he wished to subjugate.

Just him and Harry Potter until the wards fall, launching them into an unknown future.

A/N:

thank you for reading! this chapter marks the end of other characters in the story—it will be just tom and harry going forward, and with some time skips we will begin the descent into romance!

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