Chapter 6. Tea

"AH!" Harry yelped and scrambled away from Dumbledore, heart pounding. Back pressed to the corner and clutching the bedsheets to his chest, he cried, "Don't do that!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Dumbledore exclaimed, holding his hands up soothingly as he backed away from the bed, "I just—Your eyes! I was concerned."

As the professor stared at him in awe, Harry scrubbed frantically at his itchy eyes. "I'm—I'm okay!" It didn't sound convincing to him. "I can explain!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! I mean... Kinda? I mean—Look, it started when Hermione—that's my friend—got a Time-Turner to get to extra classes, but then we needed to use it to free my godfather who was put in Azkaban for killing a bunch of Muggles but he didn't actually do it, but anyway, it worked and we freed Sirius and Buckbeak and no one saw us when we went back in time and it all went okay."

Dumbledore blinked as Harry drew a breath.

"But then, I was by the lake and Hermione gave the Time-Turner to Ron—that's my other friend— who gave it to me and I was looking at it when Draco," his voice suddenly dripped with contempt, "decided to be an absolute git and Expelliarmus the Time-Turner into my face and it exploded and I got a bunch of sand in my eyes and, anyway, now I'm here and my eyes glow when I sleep and I think I saw the past when I touched Riddle and I keep seeing my friends crying at my bedside in the hospital wing and it fucking hurts to see them hurting and if anyone can fix this, it'd be you!"

Dumbledore continued to blink at him.

Harry winced. "Sorry. I shouldn't have sworn at you."

The professor's mouth opened. And then closed. And then opened again.

"...I think we need tea."

Harry watched from where he was perched on a wobbly stool as a flow of water streamed out of Dumbledore's wand and into a kettle. Flames burst to life as the man placed the kettle onto an old-timey stove.

"I find a nice green tea to be very calming," Dumbledore said merrily. It was the first time he'd spoken since his surprising declaration upstairs. He waved his wand and one of the many cabinet doors flew open. Several tins floated out and over to the older wizard. "Do you have a tea preference, Harry?"

"Er, not really."

Dumbledore grabbed one of the tins out of the air and flicked his wand. The other tins shot back into the cabinet and the doors shut with a slam. "Wonderful! Green tea it is then."

The two wizards were silent as they waited for the water to reach the right temperature. Harry rocked back and forth on the stool as something to do; one of the stool legs was a touch too short. After a moment, Dumbledore checked the water and let out a small, "A-ha!" before he began bustling about making the tea. He paused and spoke.

"Harry, my boy."

Harry immediately halted in his rocking and looked up. "Yeah?"

"Would you mind fetching the sugar from the cabinet?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Sure thing."

Harry hopped off the stool and immediately had to duck as two teacups flew through the air towards the professor. Bemused as to why Dumbledore couldn't just summon the sugar, Harry shook his head and turned to begin rifling through the cabinets. When he happened to glance over at Dumbledore a moment later, the man was busy unscrewing a large glass bottle of an amber liquid. He poured a very generous portion into his teacup.

Oh.

Not wanting to be caught spying, Harry quickly turned back to the cabinets. After the fourth one, he finally found the sugar jar. "Here we are, sir!"

Harry barely missed the glass bottle vanishing into nothing.

"Superb, Harry! Would you be so kind as to bring it into the dining room? I'll be along with our tea in just a moment."

Harry nodded and made his way toward the dining room, nodding and mumbling hello to the portraits in the hallway on his way. By the time he was seated, Dumbledore burst into the room with the two teacups floating behind him.

When they settled onto the table with small clinks, Harry reached for one only for Dumbledore to clear his throat, "Ah, I'm sorry, that teacup would be mine. The other is yours."

Harry took the other teacup.

With that Dumbledore settled into the chair opposite Harry, took a rather large sip of his tea, and sighed. "Okay," the man clasped his hands together. "Firstly, I would like to apologize for scaring you," Dumbledore began.

"It's okay," Harry reassured him.

"That's very kind of you, Harry, thank you," the professor smiled. "Secondly, I'd like to make sure that you are okay. Truly."

"I'm fine, really," Harry said sincerely. "I mean, my eyes keep getting itchy after I sleep, but I'm kinda getting used to it!"

Dumbledore frowned. "Ah, yes, about that. I just have a couple of clarifying questions about what you told me upstairs. Is that alright?"

Harry nodded slowly. "That's fine."

"Perfect," the man said. "I was wondering if you could elaborate on what a Time-Turner is."

What? "What'd you mean?" Harry asked, confused.

"Well, it seemed rather central to your story and I'm afraid I have never heard the term before."

"But..." Harry's voice trailed off. Oh god. This wasn't good. "A Time-Turner is a little hourglass," he said numbly, "You, I dunno, turn it, and it takes you back in time."

"Oh dear," Dumbledore said gravely, "I was worried you were going to say that." When Harry just sat there, the professor tilted his head to the side. "Harry?" he asked softly. "Did you travel in time?"

Harry just looked at him and nodded.

"What year did you come from?"

"1994," he whispered.

Dumbledore leaned back heavily into his chair. "Merlin's pants," he breathed.

Harry grimaced before leaning forward. "But you can help me, right?"

The professor anxiously smoothed down his mustache, "Oh, Harry, I'm not sure I can."

"But... You're Professor Dumbledore!" Harry cried, "What do you mean you can't?"

"Time magic is very dangerous, Harry, and while there apparently are some practical applications in your time, as far as the witches and wizards of my era are aware, time magic is purely theoretical," he explained sympathetically. "You need to remember, it is 1941 right now. You traveled fifty-three years into the past. A lot can change in fifty-three years, including and especially our understanding of magic."

"So there's nothing we can do?" he murmured.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry."

The two wizards sat there in silence. Harry stared unseeingly into his tea.

"Drink it," Dumbledore said kindly after a moment. "It will help."

His movements were mechanical as Harry took a sip. He couldn't believe this. He was... Stuck. Stuck in 1941.

"I have another question," Dumbledore said after a lengthy pause.

"Uh-huh."

"You said that you keep seeing your friends crying at your bedside. Could you tell me any more? What do you see?"

The curious look on Dumbledore's face strongly reminded Harry of Riddle, which made him gasp as he realized—"Wait! There's something important you need to know, it's about—!"

"Is it about the future?" Dumbledore interrupted.

"Yes!"

"You cannot tell me," he said seriously.

Harry's mouth dropped open. "What?!" he exclaimed incredulously.

"Too much knowledge of the future can be a very dangerous thing, Harry," Dumbledore proclaimed. "I'm not sure how much you know about the happenings of things 50 years in the past but whatever you do know, you cannot tell anyone. The smallest thing can cause massive changes. The fact that you are still here, still alive, is incredibly significant. For all we know, you may have already altered the future irreparably."

"But, sir—!"

"I know," Dumbledore said with a pained look. "I know it's hard but it really is important."

"I..." Harry's face screwed up with frustration before he sighed. "Okay," he relented. "If you say so."

"Good," the man said. "Now please, you were going to tell me about seeing your friends?"

Resignation curdled in his stomach as Harry began to robotically recount his dreams to Dumbledore. The more he shared, the more his voice shook and the farther Dumbledore's eyes grew. Harry couldn't help the tears from falling when he finally spat out "—and I think they might be real!"

The professor was staring unseeingly into the distance with an expression of immense concentration; he seemed unaware of Harry's tears. "Interesting," he breathed.

Harry swallowed past the lump in his throat. "Sir, could it be real?"

"I'm not sure," the man mused softly, "But perhaps... It's strange though, it would imply your consciousness is drifting between two bodies..." Dumbledore's eyes were still far away. "You said you saw the past when you touched Tom?" he asked absently.

Harry nodded, "Yeah. I saw him break his nose learning how to fly."

The statement jolted Dumbledore out of his contemplations; he stared hard at Harry. "Truly? You saw that?"

"...Yeah."

"Interesting," he repeated, eyes once again drifting.

"...Sir?"

"Hm?"

"Can I go?" Harry's voice was small; he didn't like this new Dumbledore right now. He swiped at some of the tears on his cheeks.

A flash of immense guilt crossed the professor's face. "Yes, of course," the man rushed to assure him, "I shouldn't have pried so much. Do you want anything to eat before you go? We never did have dinner."

"Er, no, thanks. I'm not hungry." He just wanted to sleep. "I'm gonna..." He stood.

Dumbledore stood too, "Before you go," he said, almost desperately, "Would you like some Dreamless Sleep potion? Maybe that could help? Would you like to try?"

Harry felt a sudden surge of affection for the anxious man. "Yessir, I'd like to try."

"Go on up to your room then, I'll bring it right up."

Nodding, Harry gave him a weak smile and started for his room. As he ignored the curious looks of the portraits in the hall, he tried not to think about what would happen if the Dreamless Sleep didn't work; he tried not to think about anything.

He failed.

Tom fucking hated his room.

It was ugly with its white, cinder block walls and its grey slate floors, and it was tiny, his iron bedstead shoved into the corner to make room for his shabby wardrobe and his rickety desk and chair. Its ugliness was only made worse by the fluorescent lighting coming from the perpetually flickering lightbulb above him. The threadbare rug tossed onto the floor did nothing to brighten the bleakness or stop the cold from seeping into his feet.

If he'd been an optimist (which he was decidedly not) Tom might have been tempted to say that he at least had a window. Considering he'd gotten used to ceiling-to-floor windows that allowed him to peer into the mysterious depths of a magical lake, however, his 60-centimeter by 90-centimeter window overseeing a Muggle street alley didn't quite hold up.

But at least it's mine, Tom thought as he stood in the doorway, backpack slung over one shoulder and trunk in one hand. The other boys had to share. Tom shut the door behind him, smirking some. One of the many perks to being a monster.

It was almost a shame he wouldn't be able to take advantage of such perks this summer. If all went to plan, he needn't be around Wool's save for meals. Last summer, Mr. Dawson had all but promised Tom a job at Flourish and Blotts the moment he turned fourteen. Tom intended to hold him to that promise. Besides the opportunity to earn some money, working at Flourish and Blotts would provide him with access to an incredible collection of texts. More importantly, however, the bookstore was across from the archives of the Magical Historical Society of Britain. He could spend his lunch breaks and evenings pouring through the old records for anything related to Salazar Slytherin and his descendants.

There had to be a reason why he could speak the noble language of snakes. There had to be. Tom was the most powerful student to darken the halls of Hogwarts in decades, if not longer and he spoke Parseltongue? He had to be related to Slytherin. It was just a matter of finding the proof. And he would. What he couldn't find in the Hogwarts library he was sure to find in the best-kept archives in Magical Britain.

Tom allowed a rare bout of optimism to wash over him as he slid his trunk under his bed. Between searching for his connection to Salazar Slytherin and figuring out Harry Evans, this summer was bound to be better than the last.

It was like the beautiful journal was calling to him or something.

When Harry had woken, refreshed after a night free of paralysis and crying friends, he had rifled through his backpack to find a fresh pair of robes, only to take out the journal Riddle had given him.

The journal really was gorgeous, all smooth, black leather, and crisp, heavy paper. He was now stroking the spine of the exquisite thing, sitting cross-legged on his bed. It had been difficult, changing while holding the book in his hand, but he managed. The leather was just so soothing; he could pet it forever.

Or, he thought, even better... He could write in it.

Immediately, the thought of who would write back broke whatever spell had come over him and he chucked the journal across the room with a yelp.

What the hell had that been?

He scowled as the thought dawned on him. What were the odds that Riddle had charmed the book to make him want to write in it?

With an angry huff, Harry pushed himself off the bed and strode over to the stupid journal. He had some things to write to a certain bastard.

Harry dipped the quill he'd borrowed from an overeager Dumbledore into a well filled with black ink.

"Did you fucking enchant this journal to make me write in it?" he scrawled onto the page of the spelled journal. He watched as the ink shone on the paper before it was sucked into nothingness. He placed one of the many books scattered along the dining room table onto the corner of the page he'd written on to keep the journal open as he angrily bit off a bite of his toast. If he had to wait all day for a response from Riddle, he would.

He had just finished off his breakfast when green ink oozed out of the page.

"If I did, it must've worked."

Harry's jaw clenched and he picked up his quill, loading it again before writing, "Not funny, bastard."

"Agree to disagree. So what if I did enchant it?"

"Beyond being CREEPY?" Harry wrote, "Why couldn't you just take my word that I would write?"

A minute passed before Riddle's reply came.

"Considering I had to track you down hours before we would both be leaving Hogwarts for several months, I figured I should play it safe."

"Why do you even care if I write in this or not?" Harry scribbled back aggressively. Inkblots stained the page before disappearing along with the words.

"It's not like I've got anyone else to talk to," Riddle wrote. "Have you ever met a Muggle, Harry?"

"Yes." Harry could tell where this was going and immediately wrote, "They're not all bad."

"The ones at the orphanage are. It doesn't help that everyone's stressed about the war."

Harry's hand faltered and he hesitated as he realized that the Muggle World War must be raging in England right now. He finally wrote, "That sucks."

"Yeah. But it's fine. I'm going to get a job in Diagon Alley this summer and then I won't have to deal with them."

That was a thought. Harry didn't have any money and he'd feel bad taking too much of Dumbledore's charity. Perhaps he should get a job as well.

"That's a good idea. Where?"

"Flourish and Blotts," came Riddle's reply. After a moment, more green ink seeped out of the page. "How weird is Dumbledore's house? Let me guess, it's drowning in books and weird knick-knacks."

Harry found himself smiling a little in spite of himself. "So, so many books!" he wrote. "AND," he added, "He has a fountain of BLOOD."

"That makes sense," Riddle wrote, shocking Harry. "He recently published a revolutionary paper on the 12 uses of dragon blood."

As Harry wrote, "Oh, I didn't know that," Riddle began sketching a truly awful-looking dragon.

"What else does he have?"

Harry's smile grew.

Later, when Harry looked down at his ink-stained hands, it was with the life-altering realization that Tom Riddle was not Voldemort. At least, Tom Riddle was not Voldemort yet.

Maybe, he thought, washing his hands off in the bathroom, if Tom Riddle had a friend, someone to keep him from hating Muggles too much, maybe he would never be Voldemort.

It was an interesting thought, he decided. A very interesting thought.