A/N: . .tragedies, annl, thank you! I'm happy you enjoyed the start!
Gery O Donut, ah, thank you so much for your wonderful words! I'm so touched you enjoyed the first chapter this much. Hope you'll like the second one as well!
Chapter Two: Growing Pains
Three and a half months. That was how long Harry's reservations had managed to hold up. His thoughts of be careful, and act smartly, and don't let yourself get attached to him shattered the moment he saw Tom with a broken vase, trying to fix it with trembling, bleeding hands. The panic and resignation in his eyes were so palpable that Harry didn't need to glimpse through his memories to understand what he was feeling and why.
Tom was scared he'd done something unforgivable. He thought Harry would send him back to the orphanage over this, discarding him like an abandoned toy.
Looking at this young, dark, vicious boy, Harry felt his heart swell with pure, unadulterated love. He didn't even remember dashing forward and hugging him, didn't remember his solemn promises of You are more important and I'm not giving you up. He was following his emotions, again, no matter how dangerous it was, and he was mindless enough to let it happen. A part of him registered that Tom wasn't holding him back but the stubborn feeling in his chest made him ignore it.
Tom wasn't used to being hugged. Tom wasn't used to anything good happening in his life, it was obvious from the start and still. Harry had felt it within moments of meeting him, maybe even before, a whole life ago, when he was watching the memories with Dumbledore, feeling a stirring of something that could only be empathy.
Tom had been a miserable child and Harry's mission entailed changing that. So he bought him things, taught him about magic, but he never let himself open emotionally. He knew very well who Tom Riddle was. His age didn't matter because even now, there were undeniable cruelty and calculation in his gaze that no child should have. Tom didn't experience gratitude, maybe only a superficial semblance of it. He ridiculed emotions and he was greedy and possessive of everything Harry had never put importance into.
Sometimes, he thought there were glimpses of something deeper. There were moments when Tom glanced at him with uncertainty and frustration, the need to be touched and reassured of his importance emanating from him in heavy waves of insecurity, but whenever it happened, Harry ignored it.
He wasn't going to get attached to Tom Riddle. Raise him in comfort, teach him the right things, give him a home, yes. Be sincere and openly affectionate with him? Never. He wasn't that much of a masochist.
But maybe he was, after all. Because now, holding Tom, Harry knew with startling clarity that he wasn't going to stick to the initial plan. He was going to let himself love Tom, and maybe, just maybe, this love would be enough to sway him to the right side in the end.
How could he ever believe that he would be able to bring up a child and hold off his affection? Tom needed it, even if he tried to deny it. He needed to be loved and Harry needed someone to love, longed for it.
This Tom Riddle wasn't Voldemort yet. He was his, and all reservations and worries didn't matter, not anymore.
He would do what he felt was right, and hope for the best.
So Harry took Tom to the kitchen, cleaned his hands, murmured over his scratches and healed them carefully, happy when it actually worked.
"They didn't hurt much," Tom told him, watching him attentively, and Harry gave him a warm smile, noting how Tom's eyes immediately glued to it.
"It doesn't matter," he said softly. "You shouldn't have been hurt at all."
Tom considered it, his face unsmiling, and Harry couldn't believe he'd managed to fight this terrible, crushing affection until now.
Dumbledore was right. Love was the strongest weapon of all, and if anything was going to change Tom for the better, it was this.
"I'll make you a cocoa," Harry decided. "Then I'll read you a book."
At this, Tom perked up visibly.
"Which one?"
"Hogwarts: A History. I think you'll find it interesting, though personally, I always considered it boring."
"That doesn't surprise me."
Smirking, Harry opened the shelf and took two cups from there. With the corner of his eye, he could see that Tom was still watching him.
"I can read by myself," Tom said after a few minutes. "I don't need you to do that for me."
"I'll still read to you. Families have some traditions, don't they? This will be ours."
Tom snorted rudely, but Harry noticed he didn't argue.
He counted it as a victory.
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It all started with George. Or with Fred's death. Or back on the night when Voldemort had learned about the prophecy and decided to make it real — Harry didn't know. But it all went downhill from there.
After Fred died, George had tried to hold on. He worked at their shop tirelessly, inventing more and more new things. He visited Molly and Author regularly to support them and he, Harry, and Ron had dinners at least twice a week, all absorbing the strength of one another.
And yet, George stopped smiling. He was talking less and less, and after a year and two months, he killed himself, quietly and unassumingly, by swallowing the joke-concoction he himself had developed.
The Weasleys had managed to survive Fred's death but George's broke them. Molly turned into a silent, grief-stricken wreck who never left the house, sitting on the chair and staring at the magical clock. Ron began to drink, and since Hermione started to seek him out in the magical bars to talk some sense into him, he moved to the Muggle ones. One night, he was hit by a Muggle car, and though magic had kept him alive, his mind was barely working no matter how much the Mungo team tried to undo that.
Hermione didn't give up, naturally. She fought relentlessly, researching and trying to come up with all possible methods to help. She attempted Muggle therapy at some point and that was when she and Ron had made the vase for Harry. It was childish but in Harry's eyes, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Ron seemed to be getting better but one day, his heart stopped, and the suddenness of it after what appeared to be a recovery destroyed Hermione. The death of another family member also broke Harry and Ginny's relationship, with Ginny leaving the country and trying to lose herself in work.
This way, four years after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry's life was reduced to nothing. It happened quietly, and in the end, it made everything feel even more horrifying.
What had they fought for? The world was saved but to Harry, it didn't seem any better. Slytherin was eliminated as a House due to violent stereotypes surrounding it. People even suspected of practising dark magic were imprisoned. Harry himself was constantly harassed by the public and Ministry both, with every his breath being scrutinised. He wasn't interested in helping them and soon, he felt a palpable shift to negativity. Speculations about him not aging began to flourish, even though he didn't differ much from other wizards at that stage, with the deaths of his loved ones slowly but steadily being blamed on him. A little more, and they would have turned him into a new Dark Lord.
So he fled, but the thoughts about those rumours kept haunting him. By the time he figured out his Master of Death status, he was horrified at his own stupidity. He had thought that destroying the wand would mean the end of the Hallows, but in retrospect, it could never be this easy.
Harry didn't want eternal life, in any form, even temporarily. He especially didn't want a life like this.
It took him another year to start thinking about going back in time. He tried to talk to Hermione but her brilliant mind had faded along with her willingness to live. She stared at him emptily, seeing the past instead of the present, and while he didn't get any actual help, this meeting strengthened his resolve. Doubts, research, and preparations took a while, and when Harry was finally ready, he learned that he could only go back by a limited number of years. Tom Riddle was eight at that point, and since he only had one chance at travelling even this far, Harry was determined to do everything right.
A small, nasty part of him whispered that things never went as planned.
He ignored it.
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The potatoes were boiling suspiciously slowly. Harry peered into the cauldron, wondering if Tom could have had something to do with it. Over the seven months they'd been playing the game, he had gotten extremely creative, and even though he hadn't succeeded yet, Harry knew it would happen sooner or later. Tom was brilliant for his age, and while Harry had more advanced magic on his side to help him save the dishes Tom was trying so hard to ruin, he was aware that it wouldn't last forever.
The potatoes were stiff as if they hadn't been boiling for the last fifteen minutes. Frowning, Harry leaned closer, and at this moment, the scorching hot water exploded right into his face.
His reaction allowed him to cover it with his hands, making them take the most damage. Immediately, pain thrummed through them, blossoming in the form of ugly blisters, and Harry let out a pained noise, already knowing that his weak healing skills wouldn't be enough to help.
There was a thump, and when he turned, he saw Tom gleefully stepping on the potato that had fallen out of the cauldron, slowly rubbing it into the floor.
"I won," he said, his voice low with malicious victory. "You will have to cook what I want today."
Harry stared at him incredulously. Then he looked down at his disfigured hands.
Tom had somehow made the water explode, knowing it would distract him… knowing it would burn him. If Harry hadn't reacted timely, his whole face would be destroyed now.
How in the world had Tom thought it was a good idea?
Maybe he'd miscalculated. It could be just an accident that…
No.
Slowly, Harry straightened, feeling his gaze grow cold.
Tom knew very well what he'd been doing. He was seeing the results of his work now and there was not a trace of shame or remorse in his eyes. The only thing that mattered to him was victory.
And here Harry was, thinking they were making progress.
His heart ached but he ignored it.
"Very well," he said, his voice emotionless. "What do you want?"
Triumph faded from Tom's face somewhat and he stared at him suspiciously.
"I want a pie made of a mix of Muggle and magical ingredients," he said arrogantly. "From Muggle ones, I want saffron collected right from Iran, black truffles from France, and white truffles from Croatia. Among magical ingredients, I want you to bring me bursting mushrooms — they'll have to be treated, of course; African red pepper and merfolk sea salt, and a heart of an Indian salwater crocodile for meat."
Stupor was an unpleasant sensation. Harry gaped at Tom, unable to believe his ears, hoping that it was a poor joke. But Tom continued to gaze at him in a challenge, satisfaction and that same strange maliciousness still surrounding him, and a deep, cutting disappointment seeped into Harry's bones, suddenly making him feel endlessly tired.
Despite his words, despite his attempts to turn this cooking challenge into a game, Tom had still approached it as he would a war. And now he was punishing his defeated enemy, giving him a task that was stunning in its thoughtful, meticulous cruelty.
Tom didn't love him. He knew it. Tom greedily took all the love he was offering but he never gave any affection back. Harry didn't mind, not really — he was prepared for it. But for Tom to be this callous towards him? They could just as well be strangers. Seven months of what Harry perceived as slowly growing closeness, and in the end, it meant nothing in Tom's eyes.
"Fine," he said aloud, giving Tom a look as empty as he was currently feeling. "I don't expect to be back until eleven, so fix yourself some other supper for now."
Tom's eyes narrowed at the sound of his voice, and probably due to his lack of reaction. Did he expect Harry to be impressed with this kind of victory? With his oh-so-clever demand?
Right now, all Harry wanted was to be away from him.
Without another word, he moved towards the door, feeling Tom's anger and turmoil with his back.
"Potter…"
Gritting his teeth, Harry turned his head.
"What?" he asked sharply. A barely visible flinch from Tom indicated that he was affected by Harry's harshness, but considering the situation, it didn't mean anything. Not now.
"Nothing." Tom raised his chin defiantly. "Make sure you bring everything."
Despite his strong words, he appeared almost uncertain, and it only served to fuel the anger of disappointment flaming in Harry's chest.
He didn't say goodbye, slamming the door shut and hoping vindictively that Tom would be startled by it. Then he immediately felt guilty.
This child was a young Voldemort all right.
But he was still just a child.
Seven months did nothing to abate his cruelty.
But it was only a start. Harry couldn't possibly expect to change his core so early. Four months ago, he had been trying to stop his affection for Tom from growing, and of course it slowed down the process. Tom still seemed suspicious of his display of feelings at times, and maybe it was natural that he was testing his boundaries.
Harry grimaced when a new surge of hot pain hit him.
First, he'd try to lessen the burns by going into Apothecary. Then, he'd get those damned ingredients.
Maybe it would prove to Tom that he kept his word. Maybe, in the long run, it would be worth it.
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By eight o'clock, Harry had retrieved both kinds of truffles. His head was spinning from such complex apparition and his magic was already groaning in protest. Still, he apparated again, this time to Iran, looking for saffron.
By eleven o'clock, he was barely keeping himself on his feet, stuck on the Indian beach. His magic was at its limits but he pushed forward, comforting himself with the thought that he wouldn't be able to die, at least not until he truly wished for it.
He found a crocodile at half past eleven. Killing an innocent creature that did him no harm filled him with an itching regret, and while Avada Kedavra required a considerable concentration of power, Harry still chose it because at least it was quick and painless. He was holding the heart in his shaking hands, thinking about Tom, knowing he had to apparate two more times, when darkness that kept dancing in front of his eyes suddenly jumped at him, stealing his consciousness.
At half past two, he got to Scotland. He knew how to deal with bursting mushrooms, the precautions he had to take, but in his exhaustion, he still missed one. It exploded with violent force, and once again, Harry found himself drifting into the darkness, cursing his own stupidity.
When he dragged himself to their home, it was almost five in the morning. His clothes were torn in several places, baring ugly scratches, and his hands had long since gone numb with pain. His magic, average as it was, was beating quietly at the very bottom of his body, and at this moment, Harry doubted he would be able to even light a fire.
There was a strange sound from the dark living room and he turned towards it automatically. Tom was curled on Harry's seat, hugging Hogwarts: A History to his chest, staring at him wide-eyed, as if he had never seen him before.
"I brought your ingredients," Harry told him. His tongue felt too swelled to function properly, so his words came out as drugged. "Not sure you will want to eat supper now but—"
An already familiar wave of weakness flooded him, making him stumble.
"Harry!" Tom jumped to his feet but didn't move, only pressed the book even harder to him, to the point where his whitened knuckles began to glimmer in the darkness.
…Had he just called him by his name? That had never happened before.
Harry was so focused on this thought that he didn't realise he finally fell to his knees, dropping the small bag he was holding. Tom was instantly by his side, reaching for him, and for a second, Harry was almost sure he saw a red gleam in his eyes, the one Voldemort had after creating his first horcruxes. He jerked away, sick and disgusted.
"Don't touch me," he snapped. Tom's flinch this time was far from subtle. A wounded look that entered his eyes cleared Harry's mind, and he immediately felt a crushing sense of guilt.
He wasn't being fair. Tom would make mistakes as he matured, it was obvious. And seeing Voldemort in him after the first serious transgression was as unjust as Dumbledore's treatment of him had been.
Sighing, Harry reached for Tom himself, pulling him into an embrace.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "As you can see, I had a difficult night."
Tom didn't hold him back, predictably, but he leaned his head against Harry's shoulder and Harry dropped a small kiss onto his dark hair.
"Magic supplies are low," he tried to explain. "Too many apparitions. I will need to rest before—"
More darkness whirled up unexpectedly and Harry closed his eyes, unable to fight it again.
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When he woke up, he was lying in bed. Sunlight was already filling every creak of his room and weak pain was pulsing quietly in his hands. All in all, he felt much better than he expected after yesterday.
Harry blinked, looking around the room before focusing on himself. The wounds on his chest were absent, as if they had never been there. His hands were bandaged carefully and based on sensations, the blisters were all gone. Only vague discomfort remained.
How could this happen? He wouldn't have been able to heal himself in such state, that's for sure. Healing required three essential things: strong desire, powerful magic, and the ability to visualise one's body perfectly. Harry was usually enthusiastic but he lacked everything else. He could heal small wounds but nothing as major as from what he'd been suffering from.
Which left Tom as the only other wizard who could have helped him.
Tom and healing? The idea seemed otherworldly in its strangeness, but there was no other explanation.
Incredulous hope raised its head weakly and Harry left the bed, going in search of its source.
Tom was in the kitchen, cooking. The table was set for two and Harry took it all in, feelings his hope grow, strengthen, gain visible contours.
"Good morning," he said quietly. Tom froze before slowly turning to him, his expression wary.
"Good morning," he echoed back. His eyes shifted to Harry's hands and Harry twisted them experimentally.
"Did you heal me?" he asked. Tom immediately looked annoyed, as if he didn't want this topic to be discussed and was appalled by Harry's bluntness.
"Yes," he said shortly, but no matter how cold he was trying to look, Harry saw more.
Tom might never admit it aloud but he had to feel at least a twinge of guilt. Healing him, putting him into bed… Merlin knew how he'd managed to do that… cooking him breakfast — it all sounded like an apology. And it made Harry perfectly, mindlessly happy. His joy spread, lighting every gloomy part of his mind, and all worries and disappointment dissipated.
He'd overreacted yesterday. This Tom, the one that took care of him, was clear evidence that he was doing the right thing. Maybe it was happening too gradually, not as quickly as he had secretly expected, but it was progress, undeniably so.
"Thank you," he said cheerfully, and his smile widened when Tom just stared at him incredulously. "I believe you will want your supper for dinner?"
More suspicions in Tom's eyes. What, did he think Harry wouldn't cook his outrageous pie after everything he had done to retrieve the ingredients for it?
"I hope you won't try to ruin this one," he added. "Would you like to help me cook it?"
"Yes," Tom replied after a pause, his body relaxing imperceptibly, and for some reason, Harry felt as if something crucial had shifted between them.
Tom never called him by his last name again.
Harry had no idea hearing five simple letters could feel so good.
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On their first Christmas together, he finally took Tom to the Diagon Alley. Tom deserved to see it in all its glory, with bright colourful lanterns floating above the heads of the visitors, cheerful songs sung from every corner, and the very air filled with sparkling magic.
Tom's eyes flew wide open the moment they stepped inside, and his unguarded expression of awe was so profound that Harry felt overwhelmed with his own happiness.
"This is your world," he said quietly.
"Yes," Tom kept staring at everything, still looking stunned. "Yes, it is mine. And one day, it will belong to me alone."
Happiness stumbled over the hard, warning rock that had emerged from nowhere. Harry tried to bypass it but a jab of worry made it difficult.
These could just be the words of the overly excited, possessive child. Many young boys threw phrases like this around and they never meant anything.
But Tom was never an ordinary young boy, was he? Harry knew it painfully well. This was what had made him so reluctant to get close to him in the first place.
Tom turned to him suddenly, almost blinding him with his joyful smile, and Harry's premonition faded again, suffocated by optimistic hope.
"Where would you like to go first?" he asked. "There are plenty of different shops here. Sweets, books, clothes—"
"Books," Tom said immediately. "Then clothes. Then sweets — maybe."
His confidence towards the fact that Harry would buy him anything he wanted made Harry falter for a moment.
On the one hand, it reminded him of Dudley. And of Malfoy.
On the other hand, unlike them, Tom had never lived in luxury. Wasn't it good that he was overcoming his never-ending pessimism and trusting Harry to take care of his needs?
In the end, Harry chose to go with the latter. After all, it was a big day today.
"I had a feeling you'd say that," he uttered, grinning. "Since it's Christmas and your birthday soon, you can get as many things as you want from here. But don't overdo it. Remember, there are already presents waiting for you at home."
Tom's eyes fixated in him, drinking him in, and another unsettled sensation stirred in Harry's stomach for a moment.
He wasn't sure what to think when Tom was staring at him like this. The intensity and possessiveness he glimpsed there were not something Harry had even seen on the face of Voldemort, or on anyone else's, for that matter. But…
There was always a but. And Harry refused to be intimidated by his own paranoia.
"Ready to go?" he asked, offering his hand. Tom measured it with a thoughtful gaze before accepting it, and once again, it felt like the sun around them shone brighter.
Everything would be all right. Harry would make sure of it.
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At midnight, the stars fell. Harry pulled annoyed Tom to his chest, giving him a Christmas hug, and wished for them both to be happy.
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Time was flying so quickly that Harry barely noticed it passing. He and Tom spent the majority of it together, doing all possible and impossible things. Harry read to him, a part of their tradition that took roots in their everyday life. They argued about magic and blood status, and whenever Harry felt the alarm rising after some particularly dubious things Tom had said, Tom backed away, destroying his hesitation with a bright smile or perfect obedience and thoughtfulness.
A Slytherin part of Harry whispered that Tom had learned him well enough to deceive and manipulate him. He noticed even the tiniest flickers of reaction and pushed buttons to either escalate or remove it entirely. This same part warned him about being cautious because if Tom was this skilled at manipulation at nine, there was no saying what he would become in the future.
A Gryffindor part of him refused to lose optimism and insisted on Tom being simply attentive and inquisitive, enjoying the challenge of stirring someone's anger up before soothing it.
Harry listened to both of them but he wasn't hurrying with conclusions. The strange and maybe cruel truth was that Tom had become his family in the way no one ever had. Dursleys never qualified for this concept. Ron and Hermione were endlessly dear to him but they were friends first and foremost, friends he had been separated from every summer, missing crucial opportunities. The Weasleys came the closest, and being with them was something Harry knew he would cherish always, whether he would see them ever again or not. But the time he spent in the Burrow was so limited that it felt like a taste rather than the actual life.
He and Ginny were too immersed in the gloom of post-war and deaths to reach the level of closeness Harry craved, so a part of him had always remained unfulfilled. Now, it was filled by Tom, and sometimes Harry worried that his previously unused supplies of love were too overwhelming to be good for a child. He was spoiling him, rarely able to deny him anything, and this was definitely not what was supposed to happen.
But even knowing it, he couldn't stop. He couldn't even say what Tom was to him because no labels he knew described his feelings adequately. He worried about co-dependency sometimes, seeing that Tom refused to interact with others and chose his company over and over again. But it also made a small, selfish part of Harry blissfully happy, so in the end, as always, he decided not to think about it much.
Tom turned ten and their routine didn't change. They read, and cooked, and even brewed potions together, bickering and glowering at each other and then waiting with equally bated breaths to see if they managed to prepare everything correctly. Harry was still rubbish at potions, even though after Snape's book, he had learned the necessary basics. Still, he had experience unlike Tom, who was attentive to instructions but was always willing to experiment. He stubbornly added unmixable ingredients, determined to overcome the laws of potion making, and as the result, they destroyed the room that was their lab on countless occasions.
They were still engaged in their cooking war, though it was never as bad as Tom's first victory. Every time he won, Tom demanded rare ingredients, and they went in their search together, exploring unfamiliar woods and practicing Tom's wandless magic, sometimes chasing the strange magical creatures, sometimes running from them.
When Tom turned eleven, he received his letter from Hogwarts. It came right on time, and Harry knew that the image of Tom's wild happiness and pride would stay engraved in his memory for as long as he lived. Tom clutched at his letter with greed, reading it again and again. Then he looked up, his eyes finding Harry and staying on him, and his emotions felt so raw and vivid that Harry stared back, feeling a tight knot stuck in his throat.
This was how Tom should have received his letter to begin with. In the comfort of home, with a person who could share his happiness, who could support him and encourage him.
Harry loved Dumbledore, he probably always would, and he thought him a great man. But Dumbledore had made many mistakes, and perhaps the worst of them concerned Tom. The way he introduced him to magic was unforgivable, and most of all, Harry wanted to change that.
Smiling, he embraced Tom, slowly stroking his hair.
"I'm proud of you," he whispered. Tom still refused to hold him back but like always, he readily accepted the embrace. When he pulled back, Harry saw a triumphant smirk on his face. And then, suddenly, something happened. The smirk wavered, paled, and then disappeared, replaced by a shadow of hesitation.
"What?" Harry asked, frowning. "Is something wrong?"
"No." Tom turned away from him but Harry could see how his fingers curled around the letter, almost in a claw-like manner.
"Tom—"
"I want to be alone."
Bewildered, Harry watched Tom walk into his room and slam the door shut. He stared after him, uncomprehending, with worry beginning to gnaw at him.
Getting a letter from Hogwarts was supposed to be one of the happiest moments of Tom's life. What could have happened to alter his mood like this?
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"Would you like to go the Diagon Alley to buy your things?"
"No. Later."
Tom's voice was emotionless as he stared at the plate with his breakfast without even attempting to touch it. His face was pale and contorted, as if he was thinking hard about something. Harry hadn't seen him insecure for so long that such sight made his own insecurity rise.
What could be wrong? Tom had been happy to receive the letter, he'd seen it. He'd been waiting for it for years, ever since he learned what Hogwarts was. What could have ruined his mood so abruptly?
"Tom. Talk to me."
Dark eyes narrowed at him but Tom said nothing. Harry bit his lip, anxiety and desire to push warring inside him for dominance.
They had never had problems like this before. Tom never withheld information — if he was displeased with something, he always made sure Harry knew it, without any prompting.
"I'm not hungry." Tom stood up abruptly and left the kitchen, not even bothering to remove the plate after himself. Harry watched him go, his mind running quickly, trying to figure out all possible reasons for such behaviour.
In the end, he came up with nothing.
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They lasted like this for almost a week. A week filled with silence, uncertainty, and Tom's glares that clearly warned him to back off.
One night, Harry woke up with confidence that something was wrong. He glanced at the clock, then at the window. It was still dark outside, not a thing visible. But falling back asleep wasn't an option because after all these years, he learned to trust his intuition. And it was saying that at this moment, something was happening.
Quietly, Harry left his bed and rushed to Tom's room, his wand clenched in his hand tightly. At the door, he hesitated for about a second before pushing it open and stepping inside, the words of a curse spinning on his tongue.
No one but Tom was inside. However, before Harry could breathe a sigh of relief, he noticed that Tom's sleep was far from peaceful and undisturbed. He was panting, his face twisted in a miserable grimace, and his hands kept jerking weakly, as if he was trying to attack someone or defend himself.
Harry dashed to his side before he could even think about it, the memories of his own nightmares expanding, reminding him of how desperately he hoped for someone's comfort and how he never dared to actually ask for it out of a sense of deep-rooted shame.
"Tom," he called carefully, rubbing gentle circles into his wrist. "Tom, wake up. Everything is fine. I'm here."
At first, there was nothing, but then Tom's eyes flew open. He immediately stared at Harry, looking vulnerable and terrified, and Harry risked touching his wet hair, brushing it to the side.
"It's all right," he repeated. "You're safe."
Tom leaned into his touch briefly, and this half-conscious gesture of trust sent a trickle of melting warmth through Harry's chest.
"Hey," he whispered softly. "What's wrong?"
"They will hate me, won't they?" Tom's eyes were still wide and terrified. "They will think I'm a Muggle-born. They won't want me in their House."
It took Harry a second to figure out what this was about.
"Of course they won't hate you," he replied automatically. "Hogwarts is about unity. Only some pure-bloods—"
"But if what that book said is true, then Slytherin is crowded with pure-bloods. They won't accept me. Even in Hogwarts I will be—" Tom's voice trailed off, the blackness in his gaze intensifying. "But I'll prove it to them," he murmured, an upcoming wave of sleep making his words slurred. "I'll prove my worth. They'll be sorry… I'll make them sorry. Muggle-born or not, I'm better than them. I'm better."
Tom's eyes fluttered close and Harry pushed him on the pillow, adjusting the blanket around him, dropping feather-light touches across his hair in attempt to chase the rest of the nightmares away.
When he made sure that Tom's breathing evened out, he left the room and went to the kitchen, making tea for himself in the vain hope to busy himself with something.
He was an idiot. How could he not consider this? It was natural that Tom was worried about being accepted. He was obsessing over Slytherin from the moment he'd learned about each House, and while Harry seemed to have changed his mind about blood superiority, it meant nothing for expectations of Tom's potential housemates.
With "Riddle" as his last name, Tom would indeed be rejected by the majority. Naturally, it wouldn't last forever — the past had been a clear indication of it. Back then, Tom had managed to rise up in the ranks and make everyone forget about his blood status, but this journey couldn't have been short or painless.
Dumbledore had never talked about discrimination Tom Riddle had to encounter as an orphaned, Muggle-raised child in Slytherin. According to him, Tom had gained his following right away, but even at his most naïve, Harry couldn't believe it entirely. Hogwarts was full of stereotypical thinking, discrimination, and harassment. Harry himself had been the victim as well as the perpetrator of some of it more than once, and he could only imagine how bad it had to be during the thirties.
Then again, maybe it was good for Tom to fight for something at this stage instead of assuming he was special without having to prove it. Instead of instilling humility within him, Harry had only managed to spoil him rotten, the thought that still sent a pang of muted worry through him occasionally. He knew that his mistakes could come to haunt him later, but faced with reality, he found that he couldn't really deny Tom anything. And that was a problem.
Letting Tom go to Hogwarts without knowing of his legacy could be just what Harry needed to correct his own mistakes. To restore the balance. Tom would get unconditional love at home and he would fight for recognition at school. It was only logical. But… but…
Recalling the look of fear in Tom's eyes, his subdued behaviour during this week, Harry groaned, dropping his head into his hands.
He already knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it. He wouldn't be able to send Tom, his Tom, to the magical place that would meet him with coldness and hostility, throwing him in the middle of the war that would only sharpen his own cruelty. Everything inside him ached at the thought of the first version of this boy coming to the magical school where he thought he would meet other special people and realising he was a freak to them just like to the children in the orphanage.
At least his Tom expected it. That Tom had to be taken completely aback, forced to maintain a façade of calmness and hide his confusion and disappointment when his housemates turned their noses up at him.
But his Tom didn't deserve this treatment either despite the fact that he had a chance to prepare himself for it. Harry might have come back in time in order to make the future better but it didn't mean he couldn't have found some other goals to fulfil in the process. And one of them included making Tom happy.
Tom wouldn't need to conquer the world if he already had its recognition and appreciation.
That left Harry only with one course of actions.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
"We need to go to Gringotts."
Tom gazed at him blankly, curiosity merging with darkness that had to be the direct result of his disturbed sleep, and it only persuaded Harry further that he was doing the right thing.
"You should have told me that you feel worried about your reception at Hogwarts," he rebuked. Tom tensed immediately, so he hastened to go on. "You know you can tell me anything. I would try to help in any way I could."
"You can't help with something like this. As long as my backstory remains unclear…"
"I placed a request with Gringotts. They're already expecting us. You will pass a small blood test and if you are related to any wizard with a Gringotts account, you will know their names. This way, we might be able establish your blood status."
Tom blinked, looking incredulous, and then the dark cloud that had been marring his face all this time shifted. A powerful, dazzling hope came in its stead, transforming him into some ethereal creature that emanated light and anticipation.
It was all evidence Harry needed.
He was on the right track. Tom deserved to know the truth — this part of it, at least. The less cruelty he would encounter in his life, the less cruelty he would want to unleash in the future.
"I didn't know such tests are possible," Tom murmured, his eyes still alight with hope. "Why haven't you told me sooner?"
"Because I don't care about your blood status." Harry made sure that his voice sounded firm. "I told you. Such matters aren't important. It's who you are that makes a difference. Concerning your family… if your magical relatives were looking for you, they would have already found you through magic."
Some of the light left Tom, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
"I know," he uttered. "No one has been looking for me. If I'm not a Muggle-born and if any of them is still alive and knows of my existence—"
"Then what?" Harry raised his eyebrow, letting coldness touch his words as a warning. Tom grimaced.
"Nothing," he snapped in annoyance. "But I would have still preferred to know it. You should have told me that sooner."
"To be honest, I never considered it until I realised how worried it makes you."
"I'm not worried!"
"Neither should you be. Not over this."
Tom rolled his eyes, but his shoulders did lose the tense edge that Harry had come to hate. His voice barely hid his excitement when he said, "When can we go?"
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
It all took less than half an hour. Harry watched Tom scan the list with the names avidly, undoubtedly stopping at the Gaunts and then reaching Salazar Slytherin, and his eyes widened, the shock in them so potent that Harry's lips twitched in a tender smile. Tom looked up after what seemed like ages, wordlessly passing the piece of paper to Harry, and he looked so breathless with happiness, so animated and thrilled and proud that even more affection poured into Harry's chest, making his lungs constrict.
It was worth it. This happiness was worth any possible consequences.
"I'm not a Muggle-born," Tom said quietly, and it was the dark glee in his words that put a cork in Harry's empathetic joy. "I knew I wasn't. I couldn't be."
"I thought we agreed that being a Muggle-born doesn't make you weak or unworthy," Harry remarked mildly. "As you can see, you aren't a pure-blood either. There is no information about your father here, which means he must be a Muggle."
"It doesn't matter. Don't you understand?" Tom snatched the piece of paper from his hands, almost pushing it in his face instead. "I'm the heir of Slytherin himself. It places me above other half-bloods."
"You mean people like me."
Tom wavered for a second, glazed expression melting from his face to a degree. His eyes focused on Harry and Harry waited patiently, hoping that all information and values he'd been teaching Tom would play their role in his answer.
For a moment, he caught a glimpse of unguarded affection in Tom's stare. But then his eyes darkened, his lips curling in a cruel, derisive twist.
"Indeed," he said coldly. "And that brings us to the question of why I should stay with you and what exactly you can offer to me."
Shock had knocked every wisp of air out of him and Harry stood, feeling dazed, paralysed from the neck up, unable to breathe, unable to believe what he'd just heard.
"What do you mean?" he pushed out, not recognising his own voice, and Tom sneered at him as if he were beneath his notice, looking haughty and arrogant.
"If I'm the heir of Slytherin, I have opportunities. The whole magical world will want to cater to me. You said once that you are an average wizard. Is that true?"
"Yes," Harry said emptily.
"Yes," Tom repeated, and even this short word sounded like an insult on his lips. "So what can you offer to me? I deserve to have only the best teachers. I deserve luxury and access that only powerful wizards can provide me with. What can you give me with your limited abilities and an absolute lack of ambitions? You are no one in the magical community. Why would I need you? What's the point of you?"
Almost three years. Three years together and it meant absolutely nothing to Tom. Three years, lessons, reading, those endless conversations, shopping trips where Harry spent more than he'd planned because denying Tom was an impossibility. Decorating house, playing stupid but funny games, travelling and cooking — all gone in an instant, after one piece of paper that Harry believed would bring Tom comfort.
He had no one to blame but himself.
"I thought I was giving you a family," he murmured. Tom's lips tightened, his look becoming even more callous and hostile, as if Harry was an enemy who was encroaching upon his imagined wealth.
"I see," Harry said after a pause. A terrible bitter weight was dragging him down, making even the slightest movements a challenge, but he managed to raise his head higher. "Fine. I'll see what I can do."
That was the last thing he said to Tom for hours to come.
They travelled back home almost separately. Tom was walking in front of him, hiding his hands in the pockets, as if in fear that Harry might try to catch up and take his hand, dirtying it. When it was time to apparate, Harry did have to touch him and Tom gazed at him with contempt, his mouth still curled in a derisive line.
How had they come to this so quickly?
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
"Can I change my last name?" Tom asked. He was sitting in the kitchen, clearly prepared for Harry to start the cooking process. As if nothing had happened and he hadn't rejected him so thoroughly and hopelessly just today.
"That was the idea," Harry said stiffly. "You can change "Riddle" to Gaunt or Slytherin."
"Slytherin. Does it mean I'll be eligible for the actual inheritance? Once my status is recognised officially."
"Neither the Gaunts nor the Slytherin line has any savings left, so I guess you will have to do with my money for now."
Tom frowned, contemplating it, and staying with him under one roof for even a minute more suddenly seemed unbearable. Harry turned off the stove and moved towards the front door.
"Where are you going?" Tom's words were genuinely perplexed.
"To buy you some supper. I'm not in the mood to cook today."
He slammed the door shut, drowning whatever response Tom could have had.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
Maybe his whole idea of time travel had been doomed from the very start, or maybe he'd simply screwed up Tom's upbringing already, all by himself. Because regardless of Tom's natural penchant for darkness, Harry hoped he started to mean something to him, too. Tom seemed to enjoy spending time with him, and to be discarded so ruthlessly once he learned of his connection to Slytherin… it hurt. Like every previous rejection.
Maybe he just wasn't suited for a family. Either he ruined the lives of those he loved or they didn't want him back. It wasn't surprising that Tom fell into the second category.
After today, Harry couldn't see how they could go on. He refused to stay with a person who despised him — never again, no matter what was at stake. And since Tom evidently didn't want to remain with him either, there was only one thing he could do without discarding his plan of saving the world entirely.
Harry bought the ready-made supper, apparated back to their house and put the meal in front of Tom, who was frowning at him uncertainly. Without saying a word, he went up to his room.
Then he began to write a letter.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
The Dumbledore of his time had to know who Tom was related to the moment he heard about his ability to talk to snakes. He had never disclosed the truth to him, though, easily leaving him in the orphanage, even when the war spread, making every return to London a deadly experience.
It wasn't surprising that Tom had become obsessed with immortality. His obsession prevented him from reaching his full potential as he started losing parts of his sanity not long after leaving Britain.
Dumbledore had made mistake upon mistake but Harry still had faith in him. And it was Dumbledore who could help him now.
"Mr… Potter, you said?" Dumbledore looked at him curiously and Harry's heart ached at the sight of his younger but painfully familiar face.
Some habits were hard to break. Including his naïve, childish attachment.
"Yes. As I said in my letter, I'm here to discuss my charge, Tom Riddle. Recent inheritance test has revealed that his mother is from the Gaunts. It makes him the heir of Slytherin."
Dumbledore's eyes widened in controlled surprise before he tilted his head to the side thoughtfully.
"I see," he said slowly. "That is remarkable indeed. I was sure that the line has died out."
"It hasn't," Harry bit his lip, carefully planning how to proceed. He didn't trust Dumbledore with Tom, not entirely. But as long as Dumbledore had no reason to form an immediate mistrust, things could work out. "Tom is powerful. Extremely so. I'm afraid my guidance is no longer enough to meet his needs but I know you as one of the greatest wizards of this time. I'm also sure that you wouldn't let prejudice affect your treatment of a student."
Something flickered in Dumbledore's eyes, as if he caught the warning and was now mulling over it.
"I would like you to consider taking Tom in as your charge," Harry said, though words stumbled upon his tongue, fighting against being spoken. "Granted, I haven't discussed it with him yet, but his thirst for knowledge and experience will likely encourage him to agree. Would you be interested in such offer?"
"This is highly irregular," Dumbledore noted, studying him attentively. He wasn't refusing outright, though, and a strange mix of relief and disappointment twisted Harry's insides. "I would like to meet him first. Let us make all decisions then."
"Thank you," Harry stood up, forcing his dead lips to move in an empty smile. "Would a week from now be all right?"
"I believe it would."
"I'll send you a letter with confirmation. Thank you again." Harry turned to leave, suddenly sick with all this impersonal communication with a person he knew and understood better than he would have preferred to. But then he thought of Tom, and of what years of Dumbledore's suspicions and indifference had done, and his desire to leave like this, like a coward, waned.
Harry turned, narrowing his eyes coldly.
"I know more things about you than you can probably imagine," he said, and Dumbledore straightened. A faint brush of Legilimency touched Harry's mind and he immediately erected his shields, clumsy as they were. "And about this habit of yours as well," he added, his tone getting icier. "I know you have no reason to trust me but I'm on your side — in general. I know what you're fighting for and I share your ideals, even though I disapprove of the methods you use to achieve them. But Tom is my charge, and if everything goes well and you accept the guardianship over him, I will want an oath that you won't try to harm him in any way."
Dumbledore's face went just as cold and wary.
"It's quite a harsh request, Mr. Potter," he said, his fingers playing with a small yellow candy. "I do not harm children."
"Not physically."
"I assure you that—"
"I know what you do and don't do. And if you accept the guardianship over Tom, I want to make sure that you don't judge him based on some old stereotypes. Tom is a complex child. He grew up in the orphanage where he was mistreated by others due to his magic. I took him from there when he was eight but it left a reflection on him."
Coldness dissipated from Dumbledore's face, replaced with a shadow of sympathy, and Harry softened in return, sensing that it was genuine.
"He might be difficult to cope with," he said, and to his horror, his voice wavered. "But you have to try. You are powerful and respected by the entire wizarding world. He will listen to you. He will respect you even if he won't agree with everything you're saying."
"After your words, I am even more curious to meet him," Dumbledore said, smiling a little, but even though there was wariness on his face still, he looked more relaxed. "Don't worry. We will meet and make our decisions afterwards. I don't mind giving you an oath if that will bring you some comfort. You are clearly attached to this child and I can only admire your willingness to do what's best for him, even if you have to make sacrifices in the process."
Dumbledore always understood everything quickly, skilfully filling in the blank spaces. Harry nodded jerkily, murmured another thanks and left, trying to ignore the dark, hopeless simmering of hurt that refused to be extinguished.
Maybe he was acting like a coward. Placing the majority of his responsibilities on Dumbledore and planning to send Tom away without even talking to him about it...
But Tom would hardly be against this idea. And frankly, seeing the purposelessness of his efforts, Harry no longer had faith in himself. He was a useless guardian. If power was still the only thing Tom respected, then Dumbledore, in turn, was the only person who could influence him at least in some way.
Harry would cling to this idea.
It sounded better than admitting that he was too hurt by the unexpected rejection to keep trying.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
That day, Harry didn't cook anything again. He bought the prepared food and placed it in the fridge, all under the watchful stare of Tom. Miraculously, Tom said nothing, neither about his new status, even though Harry knew he must still feel giddy with joy over it, nor about his silence.
They didn't cross paths until the evening, when it was time for reading. Harry grabbed a snack from the kitchen and stopped, seeing that Tom had already taken his place in the armchair, looking at him expectantly.
Did he really think…
"We won't be reading tonight," Harry said. He knew he sounded cold, too cold for it to be acceptable, but there was nothing he could do to make himself sound differently.
He saw rather than heard how Tom drew in a sharp breath and how his hands tightened around the book.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I don't want to."
Tom's eyes widened, and a wounded expression flickered across his face so quickly that Harry barely caught it. It was gone in an instant, replaced by uncertainty and silent accusation, and watching it was as unbearable as staying in this room because Harry had no strength to keep deciphering Tom's reactions.
"Have a good night," he said.
He woke up in the same crappy mood, and in whatever corner of the room he looked, he saw Tom's input. It was maddening, and more than anything, Harry regretted giving Dumbledore a whole week before visiting them.
He apparated to buy more food, dropped it at home, and apparated again, this time to the closest woods. He spent hours simply walking somewhere, trying to clear his mind and not to think, but ache and misery kept echoing inside him with every step, again and again.
He came back late in the evening and was immediately treated to Tom's silent, furious glare. Starting a confrontation with him was the last thing Harry wanted, so he moved towards the stairs without a word, stopping only when Tom called, "Harry."
Reluctantly, he turned back, and was surprised to see that Tom no longer looked angry. Now, his dark eyes were wide with fear, and considering everything, it was impossible to understand the reasons for it.
"Will we read tonight?" Tom asked hesitantly, and though Harry wanted to say "yes" more than anything, he wasn't going to lie.
"No," he said quietly. "We won't."
Tom wrapped his hands around himself, looking so insecure that Harry almost gave in, almost found himself willing to agree to every demand just to have him look like he normally did — no fear, no hesitation, only confidence.
"Will we read tomorrow?" Tom's voice sounded small and Harry sighed, closing his eyes briefly.
"No," he repeated. "We won't be reading again, Tom."
Tom let out a quiet sound that Harry couldn't interpret but which reminded him of hurt. Swallowing around the lump in his throat, he hastened to walk away, wondering if he was being deliberately cruel, horrified and darkly satisfied with himself at once.
Tom was reacting. It was something, wasn't it? He wasn't indifferent. Not entirely.
But he had also been truthful in Gringotts. Harry sensed it.
Perhaps he should have waited until contacting Dumbledore… but with years, he found a new disturbing quality in himself. He stopped forgiving easily. And no matter how much he hated himself for his inability to let go sometimes, he couldn't do anything about it.
He hoped with masochistic despair that Dumbledore's visit would help him gain the ground again, get out of this terrible free-falling state.
He didn't want Tom to be upset with him. He wanted him happy. It was possible that he wanted it more than anything else, however scary that thought was.
But he also wasn't willing to tolerate Tom's indifference and derision. And if the only time when Tom showed some positive reaction was when he thought Harry was distancing himself, then they were doomed already, and Dumbledore's help wouldn't hurt.
Harry was always good at hoping.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
Next morning, Tom made breakfast for them. It was flawless and tasted much better than anything Harry could have ever prepared himself, so he finished it wholly, unmoved by Tom's intent stare.
"Thank you," he said simply. "It was very good."
Tom sent him an almost questioning smile and Harry looked back evenly, knowing he would be unable to return it.
When Tom realised Harry wasn't going to smile back like he always did, his grin died, worry blooming in his eyes instead, and angry or not, Harry was helpless against the urge to comfort him.
"We can go and change your name today," he said. Tom's face brightened.
"All right," he said. "Will you come with me?"
"Of course I will. You are too young to apparate, though I wouldn't be surprised if you learned how to do that much sooner than your future housemates."
Tom seemed to flourish under his praise, confidence returning to him and making him look taller, more like the version Harry was used to.
Not that it mattered, in the end. Tom liked being praised, and Harry wasn't going to deceive himself by thinking it's his approval in particular that held any actual meaning for him.
Changing name didn't take long. Soon, they were already leaving the Ministry, Tom beaming, radiating a smug, pleased energy that Harry would have found endearing if not for the circumstances.
"I want to celebrate," Tom said. "Can we go somewhere special?"
Harry hesitated.
"I can give you the money," he said finally. "You could go to the Diagon Alley. It's a good opportunity for you to finally start making friends."
His excuse was almost believable. Harry had tried to push Tom to befriend someone his age numerous times, but Tom absolutely refused the company of the Muggles and avoided other wizards whenever they went out. Now that Harry knew the reason, and now that it had been eliminated, he hoped Tom would jump at the opportunity.
Instead, it seemed like all Tom's happiness burst like a balloon, wiping his smile off as if it was never there.
"You don't want to spend time with me," he accused quietly, his hands clenching into fists. "You are ignoring me."
He never expected for Tom to be bothered enough to say it openly.
What could he tell him in response?
"I'm making plans," he replied ambiguously, and accusation in Tom's eyes turned into wariness.
"What plans?" he murmured.
"It doesn't matter."
"If it concerns me, then yes, it does!"
"They'll make you happy. I think."
Fear, anxiety, and disbelief made Tom's glare even more vivid, and Harry breathed in slowly, willing himself to calm. He wasn't going to give in to Tom's rapidly changing moods this time.
"So, would you like to go to the Diagon Alley?"
"Now without you."
Warmth washed over him, unwilling and unwelcome, and Harry turned away from Tom, trying to visualise the distance between them physically, hoping it would work.
"Let's go home, then," he replied hollowly.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
The torturous, maddening week continued up until the sixth day, one day before Dumbledore's visit. Tom had to be warned about it — there was no excuse Harry could use to justify his reluctance to share the news any longer.
He didn't want to see happiness on Tom's face once he learned he was likely to be taken in by the most powerful and respected wizard in the world. He didn't want to watch him being artificially perfect, trying to produce a good impression. It was all very illogical and frustrating, and Harry was disgusted with himself so thoroughly that he started to avoid Tom even more vigorously, too ashamed to acknowledge his own confusion and endless mistakes.
He finished reading Dumbledore's letter with confirmation and put it away, sorting through the guardianship papers slowly. A small strange noise made him snap his head up, and he saw Tom standing in the room, staring at him with horrified, utterly betrayed look on his face.
"You are giving me away," Tom whispered. "You are sending me back to the orphanage."
"No!" Harry stood up, making a few steps towards him before stopping hesitantly. "No," he said again. "I would never do that. You won't go back to the orphanage, never. I swear to you."
The horror faded from Tom's eyes somewhat but he remained unnaturally still and tense.
"Then what are you doing?" he said through gritted teeth. "Why are you looking through those papers?"
How could he even know what they were from the distance?
But it didn't matter. He had to tell him now.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment, urging for the frustrated burning to go away. Then he looked at Tom calmly.
"In Gringotts, you told me that you would like to access more opportunities. That an average wizard like me, and a half-blood at that, won't be able to offer anything important to you."
Tom dropped his gaze, his features tightening, and Harry almost gaped when he realised what it was. Guilt.
"Yes," Tom uttered. "But I didn't mean—"
"I've found a wizard who could agree to teach you. He's the Head of Transfiguration Department in Hogwarts and one day, he's very likely to become a Headmaster. He's also one of the strongest wizards in the world, so he could teach you everything you need to know."
Tom's eyes narrowed, his face gaining a suspicious look.
"If he will simply teach me, why are you looking through my papers?"
"I didn't say he will "simply" teach you. If tomorrow goes well and you get along with him, I will…" Harry paused, breathed in again. "I will transfer custody over to him."
If possible, Tom became even more still. His face went white as sheet, and the ocean of raging emotions in his eyes was so confounding that Harry barely forced himself not to break eye contact.
He honestly couldn't tell what Tom was thinking. It could be anything from joy to terror, from fury to relief and gleefulness.
"His name is Albus Dumbledore," Harry said, just to fill the strange, ringing silence. "He has his flaws but he can give you what you need."
"And you?" Tom's voice sounded blank and he still hadn't moved, resembling a frozen sculpture.
"What about me?" Harry's lips twitched in an ironic smile. "You told me that I cannot offer you what you need. And if that's how you feel, then you also can't offer me what I need. I want to have a family. I know you despise this notion, your words in Gringotts have made it more than clear once again. So if everything goes according to the plan, you will be joining Dumbledore, getting what you want, and I'll be doing the same, just on my own—" Harry didn't know what ugliness prompted him say the next words, but they flew out of his mouth before he could stop himself. "…seeking another family."
And just like that, Tom's mask of blankness shattered. Madness and darkness that flared in his eyes were so intense that Harry shuddered, feeling a strong surge of enraged magic filling the room, burning the air in its fury.
"No!" Tom growled, his voice barely human. Then he flung himself at him, destroying the distance between them faster than Harry could imagine was possible. Tom's hands wrapped around his waist, fingers digging into his skin even through clothes, vicious and violent.
"You are mine!" Tom snarled at him. "I am your family!"
This wasn't an embrace, exactly. It was a possessive, suffocating hold, and Harry was too astonished to fight against it.
Tom's grip tightened even further, his eyes burning fervently, with no trace of sanity in them.
"You will not give me away," he hissed. "I won't let you!"
Harry shook his head slightly, shaky and breathless, something bright and joyful growing in his chest, pushing away the echo of wariness towards Tom's drastic reaction.
He was a fool. Three years with Tom and he still failed to treat him like he would any other child. Children said things they didn't mean. They were often dismissive and embarrassed of their family — Ron was a good example of it, and yet it never meant that they really felt nothing.
Despite everything, Harry continued to hold Tom to higher standards just because of who he had been once, and it was unacceptable. It was unforgivable.
And he'd gone as far as dragging Dumbledore into it, so sure he was failing… His behaviour had only shaken Tom's rationality, judging from the barely coherent, crazed glint in his eyes.
Merlin. He was an utter idiot.
Harry lowered himself to his knees, finally wrapping his hands around Tom in return, stroking his hair in an achingly familiar gesture.
"I thought this was what you wanted," he murmured quietly. "It wasn't supposed to be a punishment. At least not entirely. Not consciously. I thought it would make you happy."
Tom buried his head in Harry's shoulder, his body still shaking with adrenaline, and Harry hugged him tighter.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Of course you don't have to go if you don't want to. I didn't think that with a choice like this, you might choose to stay with me. I made a mistake, I can see it now. It's just—" Harry hesitated, words suddenly foreign on his tongue. "I love you," he said finally. "And your words hurt me. That's not an excuse, I know, but I don't want you to have any doubts about whether you're wanted or not. I love you. That won't change."
Tom said nothing, but his hands hooked around Harry's neck in an unmovable grip and stayed there.
Harry didn't know how much time had passed. He kept stroking Tom's hair, murmuring meaningless comforting words, and he could sense Tom absorb them all. He still didn't move, though, so eventually, Harry raised them both off the floor, feeling how Tom's hold only tightened further around his neck as he refused to let go.
Carrying him wasn't easy — despite his age and overall thinness, Tom was very tall, but Harry still managed to get them to his room. Carefully, he tried to put Tom on the bed, but the bruising grip only grew stronger. Grunting in surprise, Harry finally gave in and crawled into bed himself, with Tom holding on to him as a stubborn leech.
Tom had never hugged him before, and now that he did, he didn't seem willing to let go ever again. He shifted a little, pressing his face into Harry's chest this time, and Harry continued to hold him back, never ceasing his slow, soothing movements.
He didn't notice when he fell asleep.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
Harry startled himself awake with a vague feeling that he was sleeping through something important. Tom was gone and he quickly left the bed, too, a disturbing premonition of something bad happening filling his every cell with tension.
As soon as he approached the stairs, he heard Tom's voice — or rather, a low, threatening hiss that reminded him more of a parseltongue.
"If you dare to try and change his mind, I will make you regret it. I will ruin your life and I will never let you have a moment of peace — you will be sorry for ever deciding to take me in as your student. I am the heir of Slytherin. I will have connections the moment I step into Hogwarts, and I won't stop until I turn the entire world against you."
Oh no. Don't let it be Dumbledore. Let it be a Muggle. A postman who had come to their house by accident. Just not Dumbledore, not…
It was Dumbledore. And the look in his eyes was identical to the one he'd worn in the orphanage, in those memories.
Maybe some things were destined to stay the same.
Five minutes later, Dumbledore was gone, sending him an inscrutable gaze as he was leaving. Tom looked flushed, but there was a satisfied glint in his eyes that stayed there even when he approached Harry.
"You shouldn't have done that," Harry said with a sigh, but his reproach was belied by his treacherous hand stretching out to ruffle Tom's hair affectionately. To his surprise, Tom didn't step away — on the contrary, he moved closer.
"I didn't like him," he said. "He was too smug and overbearing. He tried to manipulate me as soon as he saw me and I wasn't going to let him separate us."
"He wouldn't have pushed if you refused to go with him. He's in a position of power in Hogwarts and for you to alienate him, to threaten him so directly… it wasn't smart. You are usually more subtle."
Tom's jaw tightened.
"I don't need him," he said stubbornly. "And he refused to leave even when I told him that his assistance wasn't needed. He wanted to take me from you, I could see it."
"I wouldn't let him," Harry murmured, his mind racing in an attempt to understand Tom's uncharacteristic display of emotions.
Tom had never been this careless with alienating people, especially useful ones. Even in the past, when he had met Dumbledore in the orphanage, he had slipped just a few times — he still tried to keep up the perfect façade and he was much less prepared than now.
It was strange. It didn't fit the behaviour of Tom Riddle Harry knew, both versions of him. And then his outburst yesterday… Something was going differently. Contrary to Harry's previous worries, he was indeed achieving something, and he could only hope that it was for the better.
"Seems like it's the two of us again," he said, smiling, and Tom stepped even closer to him, looking transfixed. "How about going to Diagon Alley? We still need to get your things – and your wand, of course. I know how much you've been waiting for it… Mr. Slytherin."
Tom glowed, appearing so genuinely happy that Harry couldn't believe he could ever doubt his capacity to feel.
His Tom wasn't the Tom Riddle of his time. His Tom was different. It was high time he stopped making the mistake of confusing them.
Buying books, cauldron, and other ingredients was easy. Choosing clothes and a possible pet took them ages.
Harry waited patiently as Tom tried one robe after another, studying his reflection critically before discarding them and demanding to be brought more.
"They are all black," Harry complained finally. "They are identical. "Plain robes, black, two sets" — how do you think they could differ?"
Tom sent him an amused glance.
"If you can't see the difference between them, you're beyond saving," he noted. Harry rolled his eyes. He would never understand Tom's obsession with clothes — all these robes did look the same. Certainly not worth spending more than an hour on trying them all out.
Madam Malkin looked very young and enthusiastic, and Harry watched her for a while, torn between the feelings of nostalgia and a hope that this time, the future would be brighter for them all.
At some point, Tom nodded at one of the robes and began to talk quickly, pointing at the sleeves and the hems. Madam Malkin was nodding in turn, serious and business-like, and soon, she and Tom disappeared behind one of the doors, still engaged in conversation that sounded too boring for Harry to withstand it.
With a sigh, he dropped himself onto one of the armchairs, lifting his head to stare at the ceiling. He thought of his younger, naïve self, going to the Diagon Alley for the first time. He thought of how masterfully he was led to believe that Slytherin was the root of all evil, and how meeting the equally naïve and haughty Draco Malfoy played into Dumbledore's hands so perfectly.
He'd made many mistakes, just like Dumbledore, just like Snape and his parents… just like Voldemort.
Maybe this time, he would be able to save them all.
When Tom finally returned, another hour and a half had passed. Harry loathed the idea of even glancing at one more robe, but he still looked over Tom's chosen clothes.
His everyday robes looked slick and elegant, made of fabric that Harry didn't recognise. While they were mostly black, they were fitted expertly with green and silver. The pattern was delicate enough not to appear jarring but it also unmistakably drew attention, separating its owner from others. Which was what Tom was evidently going for.
His winter robe was made of a strange colour, something between black and dark green, and Harry shook his head despairingly.
"You do know that rules are created for a reason?" he asked mildly. "I doubt Hogwarts would make exceptions for you."
Tom raised his eyebrow.
"And why not?" he wondered silkily. "Considering who I a—"
"This is getting old," Harry warned. "You won't be able to use your status every time you want to break the rules."
"I'm sure the boy won't have any troubles," Madam Malkin interfered, smiling at Tom encouragingly. "The colours are hardly distinct and Headmaster Dippet understands the students' need to stand out."
Tom sent him a smug look and Harry rolled his eyes again. He could bet she didn't say it to all her clients. Nevertheless, he paid for the robes, and they finally left the shop, with Harry swearing silently that he wouldn't be caught dead there in the nearest years. This trip was more than enough.
"Have you decided about pets?" he asked.
"Yes," Tom gripped his hand harder. "I would like to purchase an owl. I want to be able to write to you."
Harry wanted to remind him of Hogwarts' Owlerly, but something in him stopped the words from escaping.
Taking care of the pet would be good for Tom. Hedwig had been a huge comfort for him, and even knowing how it all ended, Harry would have still not traded even one moment of time with her. She was his only companion during endless, hot summers at Dursleys, and no matter how many years passed, he was certain she would stay in his memory.
At least Tom didn't insist on buying a snake.
To Harry's surprise, the pet shop had different kinds of birds, not only owls. Tom, naturally, was immediately drawn to rarer kinds, observing them shrewdly.
"This one," he said finally, pointing at the large, black-and-silver bird with strange but intelligent eyes. It let out a muffled noise, staring at him just as intently.
"Good choice!" A man Harry didn't know rushed to their side, grinning. "It's a northern goshawk, the magical kind of it. Dangerous birds but very loyal to those they acknowledge as masters."
"Oh, I'm sure we will get along," Tom said softly, but there was something about his expression — something cold and lethal, that sent an unpleasant shiver down Harry's spine. He studied Tom carefully, trying to understand what was going on in his head, but nothing he could think of explained such reaction.
With an effort, he shook off the bad feeling. Perhaps Tom simply enjoyed finding something else that would distinguish him from others.
The northern goshawk attacked Tom as soon as it was let out of its cage. Just as instantly, Tom wrapped his hand around its neck, squeezing it in a warning. They stared at each other, Tom's hand bleeding, the goshawk trying to bulk silently. Finally, it abandoned its attempts, tilting its head in a completely human way.
"Are you sure you are going to buy him?" the man asked worriedly. "This one is quite aggressive. Maybe I should have warned you—"
"Yes," Harry said coldly. "Maybe you should have."
Heavy silence hung between them, broken only by goshawk's new sound, this time melodic.
Tom was emanating icy superiority as he let the bird jump on his shoulder, patting its dark feathers slowly.
"We will take it," he said. The man tried to smile, his eyes darting between Harry and Tom nervously.
Thank Merlin they only had a wand left to buy.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
When Tom touched the first several wands experimentally, his avid expression began to change. There was doubt, then annoyance, then confusion. Finally, after rejecting yet another wand, he turned to send a frown in Harry's direction.
"None of them can compare to your wand," he remarked. "I believe yours fits me best. It feels warm, familiar."
Ollivander's face grew intrigued and he extended his hand towards Harry.
"May I take a look at your wand, please? Sometimes, family members have similar cores. It might help us determine—"
"We are not related," Harry replied automatically, anxiety hissing itself awake in his stomach.
This wasn't good. With Ollivander's stunning memory, he would immediately realise that Harry possessed a wand that was supposed to be lying on one of his shelves.
But refusing or pretending to be an idiot who had forgotten his wand at home would be equally suspicious. Maybe even more so, considering how Tom's eyes already sharpened on him, watching his every move.
Reluctantly, Harry took out his wand, offering it to Ollivander. He knew his smile was unpleasant, warning in its sharpness, and Ollivander furrowed his brows in puzzlement before his eyes fell on the wand and widened.
After what seemed like forever, he glanced up again, with inscrutable look on his face.
"Interesting," was all he said. Tension slowly bled out of Harry's body but he remained alert, ready to use some more extreme measures if Ollivander chose to talk. "I think I know what wand will fit you best, Mr. Slytherin."
The moment Tom touched the yew wand, a shudder rolled through him visibly, making his eyes flash in hungry anticipation.
"Yes," he said breathlessly. "This one is mine. I can feel it."
Ollivander hummed thoughtfully, watching them both yet saying nothing.
"Phoenix feather as the core," he commented, his voice subdued. "The feather of the same bird that the wand of your guardian possesses."
"Are such things rare?" Tom asked.
"Among non-relatives? Extremely so."
There was a wild flare of something possessive in Tom's eyes as he stared at him, but it was gone quickly, veiled behind a more neutral gaze.
They left the shop without talking much, both focused on their own thoughts. When Harry looked back, he saw Ollivander watching them leave through the glass, looking grave and contemplating.
Perhaps they should avoid this side of the Diagon Alley from now on.
THTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTHTH
That night, Harry woke up from the feeling of someone's hands wrapping around his back. Bewildered and dazed from sleep, he craned his neck, blinking when he saw Tom hugging him.
"Sleep," Tom ordered, tightening his hold.
"Are you all right? Did you have a nightmare?"
"No."
"Then why—"
"Sleep," Tom repeated insistently, a breath of magic touching his order. Harry wanted to be annoyed but his mind was already succumbing, purring at the strange and unexpected feeling of comfort that enveloped him.
This time, he decided to obey without arguing.
