In the rundown children's shelter, known as Wool's Orphanage, sat a young boy whose eerily intelligent eyes latched onto a rather thick book, A Small Boy and Others. A frown marred his face as his eyes traveled down page after page–not because the writing was unnecessarily convoluted for an average nine-year-old. No, he was aggravated with the author's–the main character's–personal and academic ineptitude. The passages oozed inferiority and bled with unrealistic desire, Tom couldn't stand it.

Other, more normal kids wouldn't understand his plight for another several years. This was not required by their school, after all. He just liked to read for knowledge. For power. This wasn't the only distinguishing trait between Tom and the other orphans in that miserable place. If his unnatural grace in simply flipping the 227th page of his book were anything to go by, he held himself with an air of competence. Maturity. Independence. He liked to think this was the reason he was never adopted.

It took another three pages for Tom to snap the book shut and drop it on top of his tattered copy of Only Yesterday on his desk. The book was so worn that the spine of the red cover hung as a flap, waiting for the day it would fall off entirely. Such was the case of all books from his school library. He yawned, tears gathering on the corners of his eyes which he rubbed away. Being bored to tears was not a concept that he was familiar with before.

Tom did not cry at all, that's what the nurses said and what the other children overheard. "Do you really never cry?" they would ask when he was five or so. He never laughed either, but they weren't interested in that. Curiosity is an interesting thing. Incensed, the boys with whom he shared the room declared a personal mission to pull tears from him. It must have seemed normal at the time, like a group of young boys playing around, pulling his hair, hitting him, breaking and stealing his things. They were convinced that they could make him so miserable that he'd cry. He did not.

They did inspire something else, a power that must have been bestowed to him from the heavens. Tom could make them hurt like it was nothing. And suddenly they weren't so curious about him anymore. He had laughed for the first time then, and shortly afterward, Mrs. Cole gave him his own room, Number 27. He knew then that he was different.

Different, but he could still feel cold. It was February in his room, and he could still see the puffs of his breath. He went to his wardrobe and rummaged around for an extra pair of socks. There was a spider curled up on his sock, resting, alive. He carefully brought it to his desk and picked the spider up by one thin leg. It thrashed around, but the hold of his fingers was firm. One by one, very carefully, he tore the spider's legs off, making sure it would not die from the procedure. He set it down on the corner, laying its legs around it, and pulled out the tattered red book. "Let me read to you about war," he said to the spider.

Tom raised his head from his book as a distant feeling crept upon him. As if the air was crackling, pulsing with the chimes of a clock tower somewhere, signaling the start of–of something new, he didn't know.

The thrum of energy surged in him, an urgency rising that moved him to leave his room, to peer out the age-tinted-yellow window at the end of the hall where he could see the front gates of the orphanage. A blurred shape of a man stumbled onto the threshold with the grace of a drunkard. Tom'a eyebrows raised. Impulsively, he strolled down to the entrance hall, where he spotted the man, face flushed and panting, silhouetted against the large frosted windows that opened to the empty courtyard.

This early on a snow-less February morning, the children at Wool's Orphanage preferred staying in bed, allowing him a private viewing of this new visitor.

His hair curled into an unruly black mop that hung to his eyes, his hideous glasses, fogged by the cold air, looked battle-battered, and a blindingly ridiculous red and yellow jumper hung on his thin shoulders. From the side profile, this man–boy?–seemed too young to have any business in a place like this–except maybe as an orphan himself. Tom tilted his head. The man seemed more like an orphan than someone adopting one.

He could barely hold himself together, swaying on his feet as he was. It seemed the receptionist felt the same way from the wary looks she was giving. A poor joke, yet amusing enough for Tom to continue watching the scene from afar.

The man, having caught his breath, straightened in a pathetic attempt to overwrite his first impression. He was tall. The receptionist stood a few inches shorter than him. "Er–I'm sorry for my... Abrupt entrance. I'm here to adopt someone." He rubbed his neck awkwardly.

"Do you have an appointment?"

The man's eyes widened. "Oh, I hadn't thought to… Is there maybe someone available now…?"

The receptionist nodded slowly. "I'll call up Mrs. Cole. She might be free this morning. You'd need to talk to her to get things started."

He nodded, his wild locks of hair bouncing along ridiculously. "Of course, if it speeds things up, I already know who I want."

The stranger likely didn't think he had said anything strange but Tom–and the receptionist it seemed–continued to watch him guardedly. "And who would that be?" she asked.

If he sensed the nervousness in her voice or eyes, he didn't acknowledge it. "That would be, um, a boy. Tom Riddle is his name." Tom stiffened. "Er, Tom Marvolo Riddle, he's still here, yeah?"

For a moment, Tom felt a treacherous little flutter in his chest. A feeling he hadn't needed to crush for years. The flutter was gone with his next exhale and replaced with wariness. The matron gave a jerky nod and scurried off. The man deflated any pretense of maturity once her back was turned, slumping his shoulders with a long sigh. Whoever this was, Tom certainly didn't feel he was fit to be a parent.

The man glanced sideways briefly before whipping his whole body around with so much force, he bumped into the armrest of a wooden bench. He yelped and gripped his shin. Blurted out a strangled curse, completely disregarding the presence of a child. "Bloody chairs with bloody sharp corners," he gritted. Tom watched on through unimpressed half-lidded eyes. The man glanced back at him sheepishly.

"You seem to know who I am," Tom said evenly. He had a brief horrible thought that this stranger–who was tall with black hair–could be his father.

He blinked dumbly at Tom, before darting his eyes around the room as if looking for an escape. He pursed his lips in a thin line with a bone-deep shuddering breath through his nose. And then–he straightened with determination and took a few long strides, stopping an arm's length from Tom.

The air crackled around him, and he knelt. From the position, he was a little below Tom's eye level. Tom straightened ever-so-slightly and shifted against the door frame. The foreign sensation of uneasiness arose in him, and he retaliated by staring–no, glaring challengingly right into the stranger's eyes. All trace of awkwardness bled from the man as he immediately returned Tom's intense gaze with vengeance. Light glinted briefly on those scratched-up glasses and then it became all green. Time stopped as if to allow them to finish whatever silent duel had spontaneously been issued and accepted.

He looked at Tom like he had murdered his parents. Then he gave a tight smile. "I'm Harry. Harry Potter. I'm going to adopt you." He stuck his hand out. "It's nice to meet you."

Tom found his ears working slowly as he was still rooted by the gaze and dropped his eyes to the outstretched hand. There were black streaks like ink on his fingers and a large golden wristwatch that couldn't have possibly belonged to him hung on his wrist. When the hand dropped suddenly, he realized he must have been standing there staring like a blubbering fool.

The words processed in his mind–the name–Potter. Not Riddle.

Looking back up into the round spectacles with much less challenge, Tom cleared his throat and frowned. "How do you know me?" he demanded, crossing his arms.

The man's tight smile and eyes fell. "I–I can't say," he said softly. At Tom's guarded expression, he added hastily, "But I knew you were here, and I needed to get you."

Tom narrowed his eyes. "You don't know anything about me. I've never met you before."

"That... May be true, but I know things about you. I know who your parents were, for example." He offered a hesitant smile, probably hoping to come across as trustworthy.

Tom perked at that. He'd only ever heard things from the orphanage caretakers: that his mother was a circus worker and his father had probably left her when he realized how ugly she was. Questions burned on his tongue, but before he could pry the man's head open for answers, the receptionist had returned with a small stack of papers. "Mrs. Cole will be available in a moment, but we can get the basic paperwork out of the way first if you'd like."

The man rose to his feet with a firm nod. "Yes, whatever it takes."

"A form of legal ID to get started, if you have any relation to the child, those documents may speed up the process as well... Let's see..." The receptionist flipped through the crisp pages.

Harry Potter stiffened and cursed only barely loud enough for Tom to catch. "I–er–I don't have a form of ID."

The receptionist took a few seconds to register his stammering words before snapping her head up. "I'm sorry?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I actually don't have any documents at the moment."

They blinked at him.

"Um, that is–I forgot it! I was in a hurry, you see."

She slowly nodded. "Of course, did you mean to only visit today?"

"Well, uh, I meant to do the adoption thing, application, today. I don't suppose that's possible without documents and whatnot?"

The man seemed to think any person could adopt a child without proof of anything.

The receptionist must have been waiting on a punchline with the way she was staring expectantly. When none came, her eyes widened. "N-no. That's not–that's not at all how any of this works. At all." Her brain must've been spinning some sort of explanation for this man's incompetence. She gave a nervous laugh, "We can fill out the rest first, and you can come back with your identification another day." Her eyes darted across the page in her hands. "Next is your address."

He bit his lower lip with furrowed eyebrows. "I'm actually new here. So..."

Tom closed his eyes, rubbing soothing circles on his temple. Because who would try to adopt a child without proper living arrangements? In a perfect world, no one.

The stranger seemed to realize this, from the way he slumped in defeat. "On second thought, I think I'll just visit today." As if he could manage anything more. "Thanks for your help. I'll just get that..." He gestured to the papers. "You know, to know what I should bring for next time."

She raised her eyebrows in alarm. "Next time... You're still interested in adopting...?"

The man nodded eagerly. "Of course! I'll have everything together properly next time." He held out his hand.

The receptionist's eye twitched, clearly reluctant to give this man any means of being responsible for a child. Her eyes flickered to Tom. "If you don't mind me asking, but how old are you? You see," she flipped through some pages, "Tom is nine and you'd have to be at least twenty-one years older than him to adopt, and…" she trailed off pointedly.

They both looked him up and down, undoubtedly agreeing. He's certainly too young.

Even his reaction to this new information was telling: he blinked, eyebrows scrunched, and frowned thoughtfully. And then, "That's perfect because I am thirty this year," he said, like a liar.

The receptionist grimaced but relented the papers. He folded the stack, carelessly tucking it under his arm before turning back to Tom.

At this point, Tom felt it imperative for his safety to stay far from Harry Potter's custody. His suspicious background, sudden appearance, and baseless claims that he knew his parents only set off warning bells in his head.

As though he could sense Tom's reservations, he gave a weak smile. "Well, that didn't go so well." Tom didn't roll his eyes though it was a close thing. "I promise you I'll make it happen though, but it'll take a bit of time."

He didn't feel comforted. "How do you know my parents?" he asked instead.

The man's smile froze. "I actually–I don't technically know them personally, but I know of them," he finished lamely. "For what it's worth."

It wasn't worth much. Though Tom knew he was telling the truth, he was still the embodiment of suspiciousness and incompetence at the same time. A strange but fitting combination.

The stranger squinted at Tom from head to toe before nodding decisively. He pulled his jumper off and dumped it gracelessly on Tom's head. With an unwelcome pat, he flashed a hopeful smile that Tom could see through one uncovered eye. "Just wait for me, Tom. I'll come back for you–" Tom smacked his hand away, and there was a static shock that pricked his own hand. "So take care of that jumper in the meantime." With a mischievous grin, he leaned in and whispered, "It's a special one."

Tom couldn't stop his eye roll this time. The man seemed satisfied as he turned, nodding to the receptionist, and left as abruptly as he arrived.

Tom scoffed at his retreating figure, then turned to head back to his room when the front door burst open again with a loud slam. The man stood at the doorway, chest heaving and one arm propping the door open, staring wide-eyed at Tom. He stood frozen for several seconds until the receptionist cleared her throat.

"Can I help you with anything else, sir?"

Harry Potter finally looked away from Tom. "What, um," he croaked and cleared his throat, "what is the date?"

Tom wasn't even surprised that this man didn't know something as basic as that at this point.

"February 9th, 1936."

The man stared off blankly; Tom wasn't sure if he actually heard the answer or if he just died where he stood with how pale he turned. Then he took a staggering breath and left again.

Tom shook his head before stalking back to his room. As he walked, he couldn't help but notice how the jumper seemed to emit a gentle warmth that seeped into his bones. When he looked closer, he found the red was maroon and the yellow had a glint that made it shimmer more like gold. It smelled of old books, wood, and something sweet. The scent engulfed him in a sort of embrace. Once back in his room, he fell asleep immediately, leaving the book untouched and the spider dead on his desk.

The world divided, overlapped into multiple layers and colors and sounds. Everything warped and blinked out of existence just for a second like apparition. When it all slotted back together, Ron collapsed to the floor with a gasp and could no sooner blink than catch Hermione in her own fall.

Breaths heaving, they blinked at the spot where Harry had been. "It worked?" Ron croaked, chest swelling with relief.

Hermione pursed her lips grimly. "We'll have to check–" She raised the pocket watch in front of them and flipped open the cover to display the swirling pool of a clock face. With one click of the crown, the clock glinted and turned into a mirror.

Ron smiled fondly. "Hermione, have I reminded you today how brilliant–"

"Harry!" Hermione called in relief.

The outline of their friend began focusing from within the mirror. Ron squinted at the image until he found a clear view of Harry. He looked fevered.

Ron grabbed her wrist and pulled it to his eye level, ignoring her yelp. His friend was taking short shaky breaths. "Harry? Are you alright?" Ron felt his stomach drop. "Did you–Oh Merlin, did you lose a limb in the '50s or something?"

Harry's image blinked, startled out of his panic. "Wha–Ron, what? No!" The image shook slightly. He leaned in and hissed, "It's 1936!"

Ron and Hermione exchanged horrified looks. Ron cleared his throat, "Well, I guess that means he's potty trained?"

"Ron!" they yelled.

Before you proceed, you should note that this is a series with Tom/Harry as a consensual romantic relationship at the end. This is also likely one of the slowest burns/builds, since it will probably take over 300,000 words before the relationship actually begins. Everything until that point is pre-slash, and can be read even if you don't ship Tomarry.

This part of the series covers events that occur before Tom goes to Hogwarts. Future parts will follow Tom and Harry through every year, much like the Harry Potter series by JKR. This project will likely take over two years to complete. Updates will be biweekly or monthly. I am also posting this on AO3.

For permission to make a translation, fanart, fanfics, and podfics, ask me on my Tumblr: settings/blog/wintumny.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I am not profiting from this. I do not endorse reckless Time-Travel. I have never read A Small Boy and Others or Only Yesterday.

History Note: Identification was only recently becoming a thing around this time. It is possible that you did not actually need proof of identity to adopt a child even after the Adoption Act of 1926. Still, Harry is a suspicious character, so the orphanage is gonna play it safe.