Chapter 7. Take My Hand
Harry spent a fair amount of time staring listlessly at the ceiling that first week of summer. When he wasn't, he was either feverishly exploring the house, anxiously avoiding Dumbledore, or writing to Riddle. For some reason, the deep, dull void in his chest lessened somewhat when they wrote back and forth. Come next week, however, he wouldn't even be able to do that.
"It's official. I work weekdays from 8:00 to 18:00 at Flourish and Blotts starting Monday," Tom had written.
It felt pathetic. He ached so acutely for his friends that he'd latched onto Tom fucking Riddle. It was pathetic. It also left him gasping for air sometimes as crushing guilt attacked his lungs. On those nights, his dreams were filled with his parent's betrayed faces before he eventually, inevitably ended up paralyzed in the Hogwarts hospital wing. He wished he could take Dreamless Sleep every night but Dumbledore wouldn't let him. Apparently, Dreamless Sleep was addictive.
Instead, on nights when Harry's magic swelled and the professor's sensory spells would alert the man, Dumbledore would wake Harry, wrap him in a warm, midnight-blue blanket covered with exploding stars, and make him tea.
The kindness only added to Harry's guilt.
This guilt had him balking when Dumbledore casually offered to buy Harry new robes and other clothes.
"But sir, I don't—You don't have to do that!"
"I really don't mind, my boy. Let me do this for you."
Harry had only acquiesced when Dumbledore agreed to let him ask around for a job after getting fitted for his robes, which is how he found himself as the new scooper at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. And how he found himself here now, getting bullied into giving Riddle a free scoop of his favorite ice cream.
"You're a psychopath, Riddle." He really, really was. "Who's favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla?"
Tom scowled at him. "Shut it, Evans. Vanilla is a perfectly respectable flavor to favor."
Harry rolled his eyes, spitefully scooped a truly pitiful amount of ice cream into a shallow dish, and shoved it at Riddle. "Hurry up and eat this so you can go back and—and sniff your books or whatever."
Tom's eyebrows rose. "Nice one," he deadpanned. Heat rushed into Harry's cheeks. "Anyways," he drawled, flicking his hair off his forehead, "Have you considered my suggestion?"
"Which one?" Harry asked as Riddle spooned half the scoop of ice cream into his mouth, "The one where I buy Divination books or the one where I walk around touching people to see what happens?" His voice dripped with disdain.
It was Tom's turn to roll his eyes as he sucked on the spoon. When he finished he spoke, "Well, when you say it like that it sounds psychotic—"
"It is psychotic!"
"It's really not."
"You're psychotic!"
"Jesus Evans, you sound like Mrs. Cole."
Harry's mouth opened and closed. "...Sorry."
Tom waved Harry's apologies away. "What I don't understand is your aversion to Divination. These odd visions you're having reek of it, despite being visions of the past."
Harry paused. Maybe he should at least pretend to consider Divination if only to lure Riddle away from the idea of time magic. "...Fine," he ground out. "I'll consider it."
The pleased half-smile Tom gave him was effortlessly charming. "Wonderful," he purred.
"I'm still not walking around touching people," Harry warned.
"You make it sound so lecherous, Harry," Tom grinned. "Let's compromise, hm? Take my hand."
As Riddle outstretched his hand to him with a flourish, Harry found himself flushing for some reason.
"I'm not going to—Riddle, stop."
"What's the matter, Harry?" He gestured around the store, "There's no one around to see your eyes burn."
"You're so annoying!" Harry burst out, cheeks flaming.
"You wound me," Tom said before he was lunging, hand wrapping around Harry's wrist.
The world cracked open.
It was easier to separate the golden, overlapping images of the young, present, and old Tom Riddle this time. Harry had experienced this odd, vision thingy twice since it had first happened with Tom: Once when Dumbledore had patted his hand reassuringly after a nightmare, and another when Harry had accidentally brushed his fingers against Dumbledore's as he passed the tea.
Now, Harry marveled at the thousands and thousands of golden threads of light connecting the golden Riddles. The threads glittered in the empty expanse of black nothingness, all of them constantly shifting, reminding Harry of a flowing river.
Having recently seen Dumbledore's thread-linked images, Harry was able to recognize that there were far fewer threads linking Riddle's younger self to his present self when compared to the number that Dumbledore had. Both times with Dumbledore, one of these threads had dissolved into sand when Harry reached out to them, allowing a random memory from Dumbledore's past to bloom in his mind. Because of this, Harry had taken to calling them "past threads" in his mind.
As he was presented with the vision of three Riddles now, however, he wanted to see what would happen if he touched the other threads. The "future" threads, his mind supplied.
Harry curiously reached out to one of the future threads connecting the present Riddle to the older one. Predictably, it crumbled into sand, and colors and shadows burst to life in his mind.
When the world came back together, Riddle was eagerly waiting. Harry wrenched his hand free from the boy's grip.
"What did you see?" he asked enthusiastically.
"Congratulations, you predictable prat," Harry announced, "You're going to have a pet snake."
Tom blinked. "What?"
"Honestly, I could've seen that coming even without all this." He gestured at his eyes. "God, could you be any more of a Slytherin?" Harry complained.
"Since when can you see the future?" Riddle asked accusingly.
"I don't know, this is the first time," Harry shrugged.
"And you're sure it was the future?"
"Well, I saw you talking to this snake you had draped over your shoulders and you called her 'my pet.' Have you ever done that before?"
Tom frowned. "No."
Just then, the jangle of a bell interrupted them as the door to the ice cream parlor opened.
"You should go," Harry said, snatching Riddle's unfinished dish of ice cream from him. "I'll write, okay?"
Frustration twisted the boy's features into something more primal before Tom sucked in a breath, "Fine," he snapped. "I'll be waiting."
He was. That night, the moment Harry opened his journal, Tom's writing was there.
"Tell me EXACTLY what you saw. From the minute I touched your hand until the end."
Harry sighed and began to write.
At approximately 3:00 in the morning, Albus woke to the sound of bells and thought—not for the first time—that he was in over his head. He had a time-traveler in his guest bedroom. A small, traumatized, 13-year-old time-traveler who had far too much faith in him, but a time-traveler nonetheless. Which begged the question How? How had he allowed this to happen?
Guilt, he reasoned as Albus summoned his wand and silenced the alarm. And perhaps a touch of curiosity.
Guilt was a truly powerful motivator. Who knows where the boy would've ended up had he not lied about Grindelwald killing his parents. Gellert... No. He instinctually pushed away any thoughts of Grindelwald. He had to prioritize and right now he had a 13-year-old trapped in a nightmare vision in his guest bedroom.
When Albus pushed the door open to the said guest bedroom a minute later, he was met with crackling, heavy magic, and golden light streaming from the boy's burning eyes. The boy was asleep on his side, curled into himself protectively as he stared unseeingly forward. Albus brandished his wand, pointed it at Harry, and whispered "Rennervate."
The golden light died as the boy's body flinched. After lighting the now darkened room with a quick Lumos, Albus averted his gaze to give him some privacy as Harry sat up, scrubbing at his eyes. After a while, he whispered "Thanks."
"There's no need to thank me," Albus said kindly, looking back to see the boy sitting on the edge of the bed. As he conjured up a blanket (covered in stars, of course), he gestured at the empty space next to him. "May I?"
Harry nodded and he wrapped the blanket around his shoulders.
"Sir," the boy was shaking, "You really don't have to keep doing this."
"I don't mind," he said as Albus sat next to him.
Harry looked away. "I just want them to stop."
"I know." After a moment, Albus reached out and patted the boy on the shoulder reassuringly. Harry's eyes stayed green. Interesting. He'd half-expected the boy's eyes to start glowing again. "You can take Dreamless Sleep tomorrow, hm?"
"Okay."
"Would you like—"
"They weren't there." Harry stared at his hands.
"I'm sorry?" Albus asked quietly.
"Ron and Hermione. They weren't there this time." Albus didn't reply, wanting to allow room for the boy to process. "They were talking about moving me to St. Mungo's?" Harry looked questioningly at him. "I've never heard of it."
Another piece of the puzzle clicked his Albus's mind. Harry must've grown up in the muggle world. "It's the best Magical Hospital in England."
"Oh."
When it was clear Harry wasn't going to speak again, Albus stood. "Would you like tea? Or would you like to try to sleep again?"
"I think I'm gonna try to go back to sleep," he decided.
"Alright."
As Albus took out his wand to re-cast his sensory spells, Harry reached out to stop him. "Don't. I can handle it."
Albus eyed him, "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
At the stubborn look Harry gave him, Albus sighed and lowered his wand. "If you insist, Harry."
Tom had learned young that what people chose not to say was just as important as what they did. And Harry Evans chose not to say a lot.
For example, when Tom had written, "Are you ever going to tell me why you were wearing Gryffindor robes when you appeared at Hogwarts?" three nights previously, he had not received a response from Harry. Nor had he when Tom visited him at Fortescue's the next day. Or the day after.
This, of course, only made the mystery that much more intriguing.
"You can't ignore me forever, Harry," Tom sang as he leaned against the ice cream counter and crossed his legs casually.
"Oh, I'm sorry, do you need something?" the messy-haired boy asked, feigning concern as he polished his ice cream scoop with a cloth.
"I need you to answer me."
"Ah, having a hard time picking a flavor, are we?" Harry asked, stubbornly pretending Tom hadn't spoken, "For you, I'd recommend one of our specialty flavors. Spicy blood orange is quite popular amongst our more blood-thirsty customers."
Tom had to double-take. "Excuse me? Why on earth—?"
"Oh, I assumed you were a vampire, how rude of me."
Tom bristled as Harry grinned. "Did you just imply that I'm a vampire, Evans?"
"In my defense, you are weirdly pale," Harry said, pointing the scoop at Tom, "And you've got that tall, dark, and, er, brooding thing going on."
As Harry stumbled over his words, Tom's irritation fled. "Brooding, eh?" he said slyly.
Harry rolled his eyes and stalked off.
Yes, what Harry Evans didn't say was very important.
If Tom wasn't spending enough time at the Magical Historical Society archives, well, he knew who to blame.
"I almost got it that time," Harry said, face screwed in concentration. The two of them were sitting cross-legged on the grass in Prewett Park facing each other. Harry's hands hovered directly over Tom's. "Can I...?"
"Go for it."
Harry's hands touched Tom's.
For the seventh time that afternoon, the hairs on the back of Tom's neck stood up and his fingers reflexively clenched around Harry's hands as magic surged through his body. Harry's foreign magic swirled in his gut and his own magic danced with it, overjoyed; Tom barely resisted arching his back at the intensity of it. As quickly as it'd come, though, the magic disappeared, leaving him wanting.
"I did it!" Harry's green eyes sparkled with happiness.
Tom released Harry's hands and smiled. "Yeah?"
"I kept getting drawn to the threads, but yeah!" Harry grinned.
"And? Any memories or premonitions?" he asked.
"None."
"I knew it," Tom said smugly. He grabbed his diary and his pen off the ground. "Now describe it."
They'd begun experimenting with Harry's temporal visions a week ago and made some important discoveries. Firstly, his visions required skin-to-skin contact. It didn't matter how much skin contact there was, the barest brush of skin was enough, it just mattered that it happened. Secondly, it didn't matter who initiated the skin-to-skin contact. Whether it was Harry annoyingly poking Tom's cheek or Tom smacking his hand away, the vision still occurred.
Through these visions, Harry could access the past or the future. What he accessed, though, appeared to be completely random and without any concrete timeline. When he received a memory of the past, Harry was given no indication of how long ago the memory had taken place. His premonitions of the future were similar. While Tom now knew that he would have a pet snake, successfully brew Felix Felicis (he assumed, based on Harry's description of the potion), and win a duel with "a short guy", he had no idea when exactly these things would occur.
And, as they'd just learned, Harry could also draw himself out of the vision and back to the present.
"—a chance I could block off the vision entirely!" Harry was saying excitedly.
"Perhaps," Tom indulged before saying the thing he'd had on his mind for weeks, "This still doesn't explain how you were able to bypass the ancient wards of Hogwarts."
Harry's eyes immediately flicked away from Tom's face. "Let's try it again," he said as if Tom hadn't spoken, reaching his hands out for him.
"Harry," Tom chided.
"C'mon, don't you want to know your future, Tom?" he persuaded.
Tom ignored the temptation. "You know something," he said instead.
"No, I don't," Harry lied, crossing his arms.
"Liar," Tom drawled.
Harry downright scowled at that. "So what if I know something?"
"Then I'd want you to tell me," Tom said simply. Harry would shut down if he pressed too hard.
Harry's face softened a little. "Look, I just... I don't want you to know yet, okay?"
Yet. Tom could handle yet.
"...Fine."
Harry Potter's 14th birthday came and went without much notice in 1941. In 1994, however, balloons littered the ceiling of a St. Mungo's hospital room.
It was the last week of August and Tom still hadn't discovered his connection to Slytherin. He cursed himself in the depths of the M.H.S. archives; he'd allowed himself to become too distracted by Harry Evans.
Throughout the summer he'd been tracing Slytherin's many descendants through the centuries, tracking birth certificates and marriage licenses and deeds, but he'd have been farther along by now without the distraction. Many of those descendants he'd managed to trace so far had eventually died out or left Britain altogether, forcing Tom to backtrack through the documentation. He must've had a hundred names scrawled in his journal by now.
Said journal was open next to him on the desk he was sitting at but hidden under stacks of pages. If someone were to have walked into the room, Tom himself would've been hidden too by the numerous boxes surrounding him. He was currently tracing the Gaunt family as one of Slytherin's seven granddaughters, Ignarilla Slytherin, had married a Gaunt. Even though the Gaunts were one of Tom's more promising leads, a part of him hoped he wasn't related to them. According to their more recent marriage records, the Gaunts had a bad habit of marrying their cousins. So far, the roots of their family tree up to 1875, painstakingly drawn out by Tom, were gnarled and twisted.
Tom cursed his inability to do magic as he carefully placed aside the birth records from 1875 in favor of the birth records from 1876. He would be able to locate the documents he wanted far quicker if he was able to summon them. As he couldn't, he was listlessly thumbing through the documents, scanning the pages for capital G's.
Ah, there, Tom thought lazily.
"Gaunt, Marvolo. Born April 21st, 1876 to parents Corvus Gaunt and Hyacinth Gaunt neé Gaunt," he read. And then re-read.
His breath caught in his throat.
"Gaunt, Marvolo."
"Marvolo."
He jumped to his feet, hands shaking.
He needed to talk to Charles Nott.
A/N: Sorry to anyone whose favorite ice cream flavor is vanilla, you're not a psychopath I swear.