Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and am writing this purely for fun.
A/N: Thanks for all the support, it's much appreciated! Hope you like.
*Edit: As I've admitted to reviewers, I only have a vague idea as of now as to where I'm going with this, so feel free to pm me with suggestions - I'll consider them!
And thank you, anonymous reviewers, you're appreciated, too.
Chapter 2
"Why it's simply impassible!"
"Why, don't you mean impossible?"
"No, I do mean impassible. (chuckles) Nothing's impossible!"
- Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures In Wonderland
°° In Wonderland °°
He wakes to the sound of laughter.
"Oi," a gruff voice says, and the sharp kick to his side makes Harry start, his eyes snapping open and his muscles tensing as his brain switches from sleep-induced fog to high alert.
Have they discovered us? he wonders, his hand going to the wand under his pillow. But there is no wand, or even a pillow - his nails scrape only a cold, hard street; Harry lifts his head from the filthy cobblestones, dazed.
This isn't the Room of Requirement, he thinks, blinking owlishly. Rather than the large spacious room that has been home to him for the past year or so, Harry appears to have woken up in...in a city...?
He hears rumbling cars and the loud buzz of many voices at once, is assaulted by the light of the bright blue sky overhead, and a low, confused sound escapes his lips.
But how...?
The pungent stench of tobacco and some other unpleasant odor mingle together and fill his nose with the most terrible smell, and his mind clears a little as he squints up at the pug-faced man and giggling women who loom over him.
The man is scowling down at Harry, who is now struggling to sit up, a dark pipe held between his lips.
"A tramp, are you?" he sneers.
Harry ignores him; he is far more interested in his new surroundings. His mind...his mind feels...sluggish, as though weighed down by some force of which he is ignorant. He's sure he's forgetting something...
He looks around at the old-fashioned cars, at the women with their neat dresses and coats, and the men, with their wool suits and parted hairstyles and caps. They bustle down the narrow streets, seemingly without a care in the world - as if the most terrible dark wizard in history is not out and about and ruining lives...
...Why does that thought leave him so cold?
He feels as though he has gone mad.
He sits there, minutely, on the pavement, just beside a rather expensive-looking restaurant, as the man, who is apparently of some stature, glares disapprovingly down at him and the women continue to giggle at what he assumes is his ragged appearance. Harry cannot find it within himself to care.
He's too busy trying to understand what he's stumbled into, now, his brain moving terribly slow as he attempts to put the pieces together. He - he thinks he might be in London - but a very different London, one in which the people dress in a manner reminiscent of the early nineteenth century and move with a lightness that Harry, after struggling to survive for over a year, finds wrong.
"Well, get on, go," the man is ordering, taking the pipe from his lips. Harry stares at him, his mind far away.
"What?" he asks absently.
"I said get on," the man hisses, prompting Harry to wonder what he could have possibly done to cause a stranger to look at him in such a way. "I'll not have ragged little tramps loitering around my favorite restaurant. It's bad for business. Now go!"
Tramp? Harry wonders, as the stranger attempts to shoo him away. He feels he should be offended, but honestly his mind is too far away right now for the man's words to have any effect.
He is missing something, and it is bothering him, the strange lag of his thoughts. He feels like an addict just after the high, when it all comes crashing down...Blinking rapidly, Harry tries to recall what led him to this place - the pavement of a rather retro-looking London - but when he closes his eyes, nothing comes to mind.
I must remember something, he thinks, through the rather heavy haze. I can't stay here...Hogwarts. I must return to Hogwarts.
Ron and Hermione and Ginny need him. He is the leader of Hogwarts's resistance, the only thing stopping Voldemort from taking the castle, Harry's home. He must find his way back there as soon as possible...
Just as Harry resolves to do this, he becomes aware of an odd tugging sensation from somewhere deep within him. It is faint, but insistent, and, now that he notices it, rather difficult to ignore. His scar throbs with pain.
"Never leave me, Harry."
Harry grimaces, befuddled. There is an odd chill snaking up his spine at the words, spoken so softly - and with such desperation, like a child seeking assurance from his parents when afraid...
The pain spikes, and Harry presses a dirty palm to his scar with a hiss. In his mind he sees, as clear as a photo, a young man on his knees before him, his hair dark and his face drawn, and his gray eyes bright and filled with - filled with -
Remembrance slams into Harry with the force of a bulleting train, and he hunches over, a strangled gasp escaping his lips.
"Boy?" the man ventures, but Harry isn't listening. He climbs to his feet on shaking legs, dimly aware of something clutched in his left hand, and stumbles down the street, ignoring the man's calls.
His limbs still ache terribly, but he forces himself to go on, driven by the need to move. The tugging sensation has grown stronger; however, it is nothing to the tidal wave his memories have brought crashing down upon him, suffocating him, freezing the air in his lungs and spearing mercilessly through his heart.
The numbness - the blissful ignorance - has been ripped away with the recollection of Tom Riddle's stormy eyes, dark with despair and hunger, bright with hope and -
Harry staggers into a very narrow, very dark alleyway, ignoring the disgusted looks shot his way. There is a garbage heap further down, and the moment he collapses down next to it, the last of his disorientation fades and Harry Potter bursts into tears, his palms pressed to his eyes and his fingers digging into his scalp as he is assaulted with wave after wave of realization and loss and hopelessness - and pain.
And it is the worst thing he has ever experienced, sitting there, his mind filled with the smiling faces of those he loves, those he cherishes, those he will never see in this world, again. Harry sits there and sobs pitifully, thinking he understands now, why people end their lives rather than face this - this misery, this all-consuming agony that seems ready to tear him apart.
With Sirius's death, there had been rage - rage at Voldemort and Bellatrix and Dumbledore and himself.
With Dumbledore's death there had been sorrow, a sense of futility.
Harry thought himself familiar with all these things. But they assault him now with a greater magnitude than he is prepared for, and as his body trembles uncontrollably he wishes he were with them, with Ron and Hermione and Ginny and all the others who have died for him - The Chosen One - The Boy Who Lived -
And the hate comes roaring back, consuming him - Harry feels as though he's about to explode with the force of it, with the strength of his rage.
He hates Hermione for sacrificing herself - hates Ron for sticking by him when the others had lost hope - hates Ginny for humming softly in the morning and carding her fingers tenderly through his hair, for whispering to him of their future together when it all got to be too much, for loving him -
And it is at the thought of her, with her flaming red hair and her bright grin, that Harry nearly breaks.
Nearly.
Eventually...eventually...his body stops trembling. His legs unfold. His eyes dry.
He looks up at the afternoon sky.
"I believe in you, Harry," Ginny'd said to him, one spring day long ago.
"Why?" he'd asked.
"Because I love you," she'd answered, kissing his scar. "And love is the greatest magic. Ron and Hermione and I - we'll be there for you, Harry. We'll always be with you, wherever you go. What's power in comparison?"
With those words settling in his heart, Harry breathes.
He imagines that day as it was, on the grounds of Hogwarts, Ginny sitting beside him underneath the shade of a tree by the lake, the sweet scent of freshly risen flowers in his nostrils, her voice soft in his ear, her hair tickling his cheek. Perhaps his love had not shriveled and died.
"We'll always be with you, wherever you go."
You're with me, Harry thinks, clutching his chest. You're with me. Please stay. I can't do this alone.
He must...he must defeat Voldemort. He must return to Hogwarts, and give his loved ones proper burials.
He must save those who remain.
His shoulders almost sag at the weight of the knowledge. Hero, Savior, Chosen One...
Harry is suddenly very tired, and it is only Ginny's words that make him stand. His legs are stiff and aching, his scar still throbbing along with that insistent tug, but Harry pays no mind to it.
He has a job to do, one last adventure before he goes to rest. Ron and Hermione won't be with him this time.
They are, he reminds himself. And Ginny, too.
And it is then, as Harry prepares to Disapparate, that he looks down and sees it: the time-turner!
It glimmers innocently by his foot, half-obscured by an empty, old-fashioned Coca-Cola bottle. Harry stoops to pick it up; it must have been the thing clutched in his hand, earlier...
He turns it this way and that way, wondering at his own stupidity. How could he have forgotten so easily about Tom Riddle and his strange, impossible time-turner? Had he been so consumed by his own misery that he'd forgotten the young Voldemort had activated it?
He kissed me, Harry remembers, his empty hand clenching into a white-knuckled fist. He told me...
What was Tom Riddle playing at? How had he gotten this time-turner, one cloaked in old magic, and activated it at his touch? Why had he saved Harry, forced him into a foreign time, crushed him to his chest and whispered of his love and his apologies - ?
What year am I in? he wonders suddenly. It is a strange thought, jarring, even for him, as a wizard -
To be able to travel back years...
Harry's breath catches. His heart leaps to his throat. He stares at the little device, his hands trembling again.
To be able travel forward years...
He could do anything. He could go back to before things got so bad, could save Ginny and Ron and Hermione and Luna and Neville and Sirius and Fred and Remus and Tonks and Dumbledore -
And James and Lily Potter, he realizes, breathing hard. He could save his parents, stop Voldemort before he even got started...
Harry's head feels terribly light all of a sudden, his chest ready to burst from excitement and exhilaration and relief, crushing relief, because everything will be alright again -
But the joyful tears turn into ones of frustration as the device remains unresponsive. It does not activate at his touch, and he doesn't have a wand to cast spells with, anymore. He studies its surface, tries to figure out how Tom Riddle got it to work, and finds nothing.
No, Harry thinks. Please.
How cruel could the universe be, to grant him such brilliant hope, only to have it just as quickly snatched away?
But no matter what he tries, nothing happens, and eventually Harry flings it at the opposite wall with all his strength, his face red with rage.
"Fuck!"
If there is a God, He must hate Harry Potter, for whatever reason. Not only has his life been reduced to shambles in the last day or so - he's stuck in the past, too. And he doesn't even have a wand!
Wonderful!
"What have I done to you?!" Harry screams at the sky. The misery of earlier has been replaced with a familiar fury, and as he stands there, teeth gritted and fists clenched, it is an effort not to let it overtake him.
Not again, he thinks, closing his eyes. I have a job to do.
And he will do it. He will find a way to go and kill Voldemort, if it takes him -
Wait.
Harry opens his eyes.
His heart begins to pump furiously again as the seed of an idea starts to sprout in his mind.
What year is it? he wonders again, picking up the time-turner. It is, predictably, unscathed. Stuffing it into his pocket, Harry pauses for a moment, considering, before rushing out of the alleyway on wobbling legs. He wipes half-heartedly at his ruined attire - jeans and a torn t-shirt, stained with dirt and blood - before searching for the nearest approachable person.
He ends up choosing an elderly man, short, thin, and wrinkled. He is reading the front page of the London newspaper, his expression relaxed, and Harry approaches the bench he's seated on with forced casualty, discreetly rubbing the redness from his eyes.
"Hello," he says softly, inwardly cringing at the hoarseness of his own voice. He sounds like he hasn't had water in days.
The man looks up, his expression surprised and vaguely suspicious.
"Afternoon," he grumbles politely, nodding once. There is a beat of silence. The old man studies Harry for a moment, eyes widening slightly, and Harry almost expects him to inquire as to why it is that he looks like he's just been violently assaulted. But the man only asks,
"Can I help you with something?"
Harry falters.
"Um," he starts awkwardly. He never has been good with people. "Could you...could you tell me the date, please, sir?"
"Oh! I suppose," the man agrees, glancing back down at the newspaper. "Let's see...ah, it is - July 3rd."
He nods at Harry. Harry swallows.
"And...and the year, sir?"
The man gives him a strange look. "1939."
Harry smiles weakly and thanks the man before quickly walking away, his eyes glued to the pavement and blood roaring in his ears.
1939.
He stops to lean against a wall, ignoring the looks he receives.
"London," Riddle had said, in his soft, urgent voice. "July 3rd, 1939. Go to Hyde Park, on Westminster. I'll be there, by the fountain. I'll be waiting for you."
Harry releases a ragged breath. Tom Riddle had sent him here for reasons yet unknown, before fading before his very eyes. Could he really be waiting for him? What does he want?
Why would he send me to his own time?
It makes no sense.
Harry's chest tightens with disappointment yet again. He had been rejuvenated by the idea of finding and killing a young Voldemort, thereby preventing every tragedy that had ever befallen him and his loved ones - but if Voldemort is already waiting for him...
Harry curses, loudly and harshly enough that several people turn, sending him appalled looks.
I don't even have a wand!
He would have to correct that, immediately.
But then he remembers he doesn't have any money, or at least any form of identification, considering his parents haven't even been born yet. Gringotts might accept blood identification - he is a Potter - but he fears taking money from the vault of a family as old as the Potters will draw unnecessary attention...
Bad things happen to wizards who meddle with time, Hermione had once said, an eternity ago, and the words send a shiver of foreboding through him.
I must be careful, Harry decides. But Voldemort...
Surely the mysterious forces of Time wouldn't punish him too harshly for disposing of the most powerful dark wizard in history? He'd be saving countless lives.
I'm not meddling with history, Harry tells himself, as he resumes walking. I'm correcting it.
Reassured, he starts to plan.
Fifteen minutes later, Harry stands across the street from a sign proclaiming Hyde Park in bold, black letters. He is agitated. On a whim, he had followed the tugging sensation, and found that, should he turn in the opposite direction of where it pointed him and begin walking, the discomfort grew - progressing from a mild ache in his chest to a maddening, full-body itch.
Harry, utterly baffled, had resisted for as long as he could, but eventually the constant itching became unbearable; after ten minutes of walking, he'd given in and turned around. The results were immediate - with each step he complied, the discomfort lessened, and he feels hardly anything now except for the faint but insistent pull and the pulsing of his scar.
Harry scowls at the sign, his face pallid with nervousness and fear. On the way here, after going over all of his memories (even the painful ones) of the past day or so, he'd concluded that Tom Riddle had somehow presented a magical contract of sorts, and Harry...Harry had foolishly fallen into it. He curses himself again upon recalling the magic that had flared in the air upon his agreement, unintentional though it was
"Just stay with me."
A shiver runs through him. Has his entirely accidental agreement bonded him to Voldemort for life? Would he feel the unbearable itch when hiding from the Dark Lord - when finally killing him?
The possibility is too horrific to dwell on.
Thinking back, Harry's not even sure why he'd responded with that word, 'okay.' He can't remember what he was thinking at the time - Tom Riddle's eyes had been so strange, gray and bright and dark with things that Harry could not - cannot - fathom.
He clenches his fists.
The Dark Lord had knelt before him in the Forbidden Forest with the face of a young man - Tom Riddle. But this Tom Riddle, though still very young, had looked tired and desperate and sad. He had begged the Boy Who Lived - his nemesis - to stay with him, for some bizarre reason.
Then he had pressed his lips to Harry's in a soft then searing kiss, and Harry - Harry had kissed back.
He wants to retch violently at the memory of it: a warm tongue exploring his mouth with unprecedented fervor, long fingers fisting in his hair, the taste of something similar to but not quite Coca-Cola.
He had kissed back, had not pushed Riddle away, and the only possible explanation Harry can summon for this is that he was not in his right mind. Indeed, how could he, Harry Potter, while perfectly sane, feel as though locking lips with young Voldemort was natural, as he had at the time?
It certainly isn't, Harry knows, and the whole incident is one he will carry to his grave - however soon that might be.
Tugging his coat tighter about himself (he lifted it from a bench), Harry takes a deep breath, gathers his Gryffindor courage, and crosses the street. He is afraid, he can admit that to himself. He hasn't brought a weapon, mainly because he wasn't able to find one, but he hopes he won't need one, anyway.
His entire decision to come here hinges entirely on the hunch that this Tom Riddle isn't out to kill him, for reasons he intends to discover, shortly. It's a risk - a big one - but Harry will take it. He needs answers.
Besides, he's no Hermione, but Harry doubts Riddle would go to all the trouble of bringing him here, after murdering a decent amount of his future self's servants, only to murder him.
It makes no sense.
And so, with much false bravado and darting green eyes, Harry throws caution to the wind and does his best to look unassuming as he strolls through the park. It's pretty outside, for once - and peaceful. There are children running about, laughing and hooting and cheering, and underneath the beaming sun, Harry finds it easy to pretend that the last year or so - full of hurting and hiding and terror - has been nothing more than a nightmare...
It will be, soon, Harry promises himself, as he spots the fountain, great and elegant at the center of the park. Soon, all of the nightmarish things he and his friends have experienced will be nothing more than that: nightmares. After today, Harry will fix everything.
I promise, he says silently, to those people forever bound to him. He starts toward the fountain, searching intently for a familiar tall, dark-haired form.
I won't fail you, this time.
But when he arrives at the fountain, pretending to admire the glittering coins scattered in the water, Harry does not see Tom Riddle. He sees an elderly couple talking quietly, a lonely-looking woman staring into the water, and a few children throwing pennies into its depths - but no Voldemort. Scowling deeply, Harry rubs at his scar. It's positively pulsing, now, but not with pain, oddly enough.
And the tugging sensation has stopped completely, is replaced with a disturbingly pleasant warmth on his insides. The scowl, despite Harry's best efforts, slips from his face. He stares into the water, his nails digging hard enough into his palms to draw blood. It seeps from between his fingers, falling to the lush green grass.
He hears a sharp intake of breath.
Turning to the source of the sound, Harry finds himself looking down into the small, thin face of a young boy, who is staring up at him with a discomfiting - familiar - sort of rapture.
Harry looks into his eyes, and stills.
"Hello," he forces out, after a pregnant pause.
The boy blinks owlishly at him, unmoving. He is a beautiful child, dark waves of hair framing a pale, round face that already shows the signs of one destined to grow up to be classically handsome. But Harry already knows what will become of that face -
"Hello," the boy returns politely, absently. His voice is high and small, his body long but very thin. He can't be more than eleven years old.
He is the Dark Lord.
Green clashes with gray. Harry's scar is pulsing now in a rapid rhythm, like a second heart. Adrenaline floods his veins, and it is a serious effort to keep still, to not stumble backwards or lunge forward and...
Shock and confusion and hatred are fighting for dominance within Harry's chest - letting out a shaky breath, he stares unblinkingly into the strange eyes of Tom Riddle and rasps,
"What are you doing here?"
Why are you eleven years old?
Riddle drops his eyes to Harry's white-knuckled fists. There is no malice in his expression, no sickening smirk on his lips, no frightening desperation -
"I was waiting for someone," he says softly, and Harry unconsciously steps back. In his mind rings the hoarse voice of that sad, desperate man in the Forbidden Forest:
"I'll be there, by the fountain. I'll be waiting for you."
He feels overwhelmed. Cheated. This is not the Tom Riddle he knows or expected, but a boy, a child - slightly younger than the one from the Pensieve, and without that hardness in his face. Harry came here for answers - an end to everything - but now he is left with more questions, more frustration, and overall a hardening resolve -
I have to kill him.
The knowledge sickens Harry, especially as the boy raises his head again, gazing at him with such fascination and...hope?... in his wide gray eyes. He wonders, his jaw clenching, if the other feels it, too - the accidental bond (both of them) that ties the two of them together.
The pleasant warmth has not faded, despite Harry's grim resolve. Blood dries on his palms as he whispers,
"Really? That's funny. I was looking for someone."
It's not funny, not funny at all, because he is about to do a terrible, terrible thing, regardless of how many people he saves in the process, regardless of who it is the boy before him will become. He feels weary, sick - he is about to kill a child -
Tom Riddle pauses, oblivious to the sudden turmoil within the other male, his hands wringing in a way Harry might've deemed nervous, were he dealing with any other being.
"Oh," Riddle says eventually, his eyes darting away in an almost...shy manner. "Have you - have you found them?"
With a heavy heart, Harry Potter answers, "Yes."
The word hangs between them, heavy, but for different reasons. As Harry resigns himself to murder (for the greater good, this is Voldemort, you must, you promised), Tom Riddle's face lights up in way he thought the Dark Lord - past and future - incapable of.
Suddenly the boy is leaning towards him, his entire body trembling with what Harry recognizes confusedly as excitement.
"I think I've found them, too," he whispers. "The person I was waiting for."
His eyes are so very bright in that moment, searching Harry's own with such intensity; Harry sees no trace of the sullen, suspicious boy from the Pensieve, no trace of the unfeeling, serpentine monster who has made his entire life a living nightmare.
It's not fair, he thinks, his jaw ticking.
After everything he's been through and witnessed and done, it's not fair that he now has to choose between saving his loved ones and the life of a seemingly innocent child...
But he's not innocent, Harry reminds himself. He's already done...some rather awful things...
"I'm glad," he whispers back, forcing a smile. He's sure Riddle will see right through it, but if anything, the boy looks more elated. Standing, he moves into Harry's personal space - he already comes up nearly to Harry's shoulder - and the other is again confused at the boy's behavior. Why does he look so...happy, staring up at him? So...relieved?
Had the boy really been expecting him?
Harry searches enthralled gray eyes, but sees no triumph or smugness there. There is instead genuine joy.
He doesn't understand it, and his puzzlement grows as Riddle raises a pale, shaking hand.
"So it is you, then," he murmurs, seemingly awed now. "Father."
And Harry, struck speechless, does nothing as Riddle throws himself at him, bony arms snaking around his torso in a surprisingly strong embrace. His brain appears to have screeched to a halt, stopped by the sudden increase of the pleasant warmth on his insides, brought on apparently by the boy's presence, and the lightness of his head.
Father. He thinks...
Harry's mouth opens and closes, his scar humming rather than throbbing, as he tries to make sense of what is happening.
I am being embraced by Voldemort, who thinks I'm his father.
How in the world has he arrived to that conclusion?
Okay, we look alike, Harry thinks, awkwardly returning the hug for reasons unknown to him. Riddle makes a startled sound, and his thin - vicelike - arms tighten around the older male. But still. I'm eighteen years old. Common sense dictates that I could not possibly be his parent. We just met a minute ago, so why would he assume...?
Is he so desperate to believe...?
Harry is unprepared for the pulse of pity he feels at the thought. Pursing his lips, he squashes it. The incredulity is giving way to resignation again; he cannot forget his resolve. He cannot forget what he stands to lose, if he doesn't follow through.
Dumbledore had once told him that love is the greatest magic, and murder the most evil crime a person could commit. What Harry is about to do is most certainly evil...but is it not for the greater good?
I'm sorry I judged you, Dumbledore, he thinks, burying his face in Tom Riddle's hair.
This is going to be hardest thing he's ever had to do.
And as he pulls back, looking into the boy's wet eyes, Harry falters. For a moment, just a moment, he considers walking away. He could start a new life in which he is no longer the Chosen One, the famed Boy Who Lived, without the weight of a world on his shoulders...he could have peace.
But by doing so, he would be failing so many people. Family, friends, people who had lived and fought and died for him - for a prophecy, for a war that, in the future, would be lost, and at such cost...
"I believe in you, Harry," Ginny says, in his mind.
Harry imagines her as she is, flaming hair and blazing eyes and brave, brave heart. He smiles falsely down at Riddle, who will one day point his wand and end the life of another such woman - the flaming, blazing, lion-hearted Lily Potter.
A plan forming in his mind, he cards his fingers tenderly through the boy's soft waves and lies, "I've come for you, Tom."
"To save me?" the boy whispers, his gray eyes so wide, so filled with hope. He is thinking of the old orphanage, probably.
"To save you," Harry agrees gently. He is speaking of an entirely different matter.
The boy lets out a shaky breath. He allows Harry to untangle himself, immediately forcing their hands together instead, and a surge of electricity assaults Harry, tingling throughout his entire body. He ignores it, though Riddle gasps, and says quietly,
"Why don't you come with me?"
Riddle pauses. He opens his mouth, looking dazed, before darting a glance behind him. Harry follows his gaze.
The other children gathered around the fountain, earlier, have wandered away towards a plump, older woman that Harry recognizes with a start as Mrs. Cole, the matron of Riddle's orphanage. Many of the other children appear to be gravitating towards her as well, meaning it's time to leave.
Shit.
If Riddle goes back to the orphanage, now, there's no telling when another opportunity to get him alone will arise, and it'll be much harder to sneak into the orphanage and kill him than to just lead him off somewhere secluded and use the Killing Curse -
Wait.
With what wand? Harry realizes suddenly. His mouth falls open as he stares down at Riddle, feeling like a complete and utter fool. How could he, a seasoned soldier, have forgotten his lack of a weapon? What would he have used, had he succeeded in getting Riddle alone? A muggle weapon?
No, Harry thinks, nauseated. Not on a child.
But then, what can he do? He had come here unarmed in the first place because he'd expected an older, cunning Riddle. One apparently...fixed on him and in the mood for a deal.
He hadn't expected a child.
Swallowing, Harry's mind races. He looks down at Riddle, who looks scared for some reason.
The expression grows sharper when Harry pulls his hand away.
"What are you -"
Harry kneels, interrupting the boy's shrill tone. "It's okay, Tom. Go with your matron, back to the orphanage."
Riddle looks betrayed. Something ugly flashes across his face, but it is gone so quickly Harry wonders if he didn't imagine it. The younger male opens his mouth, his eyes storm-colored, a barrage of words looking ready to spill out, but Harry touches his face. He forces himself to forget for a moment that this is Lord Voldemort.
"Hush," he whispers, and is oddly saddened at the way the boy stills at his touch. He wonders if this is the first time someone's touched Tom Riddle's face without the intent to hurt it.
It's not entirely your fault, he thinks. What you become.
And then he shoves that thought away.
"Don't worry, Tom. I'll come back for you, tonight. And you won't ever have to see that place - or those people - ever again."
Riddle is silent for a long time. His eyes - bright, again - pierce Harry's, whose scar sings.
Leaning into Harry's touch, he whispers, "Do you promise?"
"I promise," Harry answers, mentally going over his plans. "Look for me by midnight. I'll find you, like I did today, and we'll be together...father and son. But you have to go with your matron, first, Tom."
The lie is acrid on his tongue, but it gets the desired results; Riddle nods vigorously, clearly satisfied, if no longer overjoyed, and he hugs Harry tightly, whispering goodbye, before turning and walking away.
He joins the matron, who shoots the boy a look of stark distaste, and soon the large group is off, presumably back to the orphanage. Riddle glances back at Harry the whole time, who waves until they disappear from view.
Scar aching, Harry rubs wearily at his eyes. He is suddenly aware of a familiar itch, and he scowls upon remembering the other side effect of this new bond. The sensation grows stronger with every passing minute; after a few, Harry is growling, leaning heavily against the lip the fountain, his face red and his eyes squeezed shut.
"I won't leave you," he blurts, burying his face in his hands. "There's something I have to do..."
And, much to Harry's surprise, the itching ceases.
Lifting his head, he waits for another wave of intense discomfort, but it doesn't come.
Huh.
Well, good, Harry thinks, straightening. At least he knows for sure, now, that it's not an Unbreakable Vow he's bound by; one would hardly be so lenient.
But his relief pales in the remembrance of his task. He must kill Riddle, soon, before he gains contact with the magical world (and Harry hopes he hasn't already). For that, he needs a wand.
And for that, he needs money.
Time for a trip to Gringotts, Harry thinks with a sigh. He's going to have to take a risk. He doubts fifty years have softened the goblins any...
Shoulders sagging, he touches the time-turner in his pocket.
Tonight, Tom Riddle will die at his hand.
Harry closes his eyes.
He sees, at first, a thin boy with hope in his gaze, then a young man with sorrow in it, then a monster with hate gleaming in the depths of his bloody eyes. He sees Ron falling, and Hermione turning on her heel, and Ginny, lost amongst the chaos, her red hair (smells like apples and cinnamon, tickles his nose) a seemingly unreachable beacon in the sea of swarming Death Eaters.
He sees Sirius falling through the Veil, hears Lily Potter screaming, feels the stiff skin of Cedric Diggory's cooling body - and Luna's and Neville's and far too many others' to count. He sees death and feels pain and knows suffering.
Harry Potter opens his eyes, and feels old.
He will kill Tom Riddle, tonight. Not because it's right, he realizes that, now - but for them. Because he is selfish. Because he wants to see Hermione frown disapprovingly at him, and hear Ron laugh, and feel Ginny's kiss. He wants baby Teddy, tucked safely away with his grandmother, to grow up with the love of his parents.
No, what he's about to do is evil.
But Harry will do it, all the same.
For the greater good.
A/N: Don't expect such quick updates. I'm just currently really excited about this story.
Also, no, Tom does not go around assuming men who vaguely look like him are his father. There's a reason he gravitated towards Harry.
Constructive criticism is welcomed!