Rating: K+ / Teens and Up Audiences (might be subject to change)
Warnings: No Archive Warning Apply (might be subject to change)
Category: M/M
Relationships: Harry Potter& Draco Malfoy , Harry Potter / Tom Riddle
Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Tom Riddle, Gellert Grindelwald, Albus Dumbledore, Black Family
Tags: Time Travel, Master of Death Harry Potter, Unspeakable Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy is So Done, Slow Burn, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, 1940s, Identity Issues, Found Family (Sort Of), Tom Riddle is Bad at Feelings, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Secret Identities, French Harry Potter- sort of, French Draco Malfoy - sort of, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), POV Alternating, Not Canon Compliant, Worldbuilding, Cross-posted of Ao3
Summary:
Harry Potter is tired of being the Master of Death.
In search of answers—and a way to sever the title's hold on him—he and Draco Malfoy travel back to the 1940s: a world of pureblood politics, dangerous magic, and a war on the horizon.
To preserve itself, the timeline imbues them into the identities of Rigel Black, a young French wizard, and his guardian, Cassian Devereaux. As they tread carefully through a fragile timeline, their sights are set on Albus Dumbledore and Gellert Grindelwald. But keeping to the plan grows harder when Harry crosses paths with Tom Riddle, a boy destined to shape the future—and who seems determined to unravel Harry's carefully constructed life.
In a time when every choice matters, Harry and Draco must balance their mission, their identities, and the growing question of what—or who—they're truly fighting for.
A/N: Thank you to my lovely beta, literary mother of my child, without you our fiction baby would be a dumpster fire.
Act I, Chapter 1
August – 1943
London
He wore tailored black slacks and a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows. The boy handed a wrapped sandwich to the last of the scruffy-looking children, his wide smile out of place amidst the grime and despair of the schoolhouse cafeteria. He'd been at this for a little over two hours, handing out food to all that gathered there.
He looked painfully out of place amidst the air of gloom and trauma that seemed to cling to the schoolhouse cafeteria like a second skin. His thick black hair was tied neatly in a low ponytail, and his pale skin was smooth, free from the hollowed features and grayish pallor that seemed to define Londoners these days.
He didn't belong here.
Tom took another slow bite of his sandwich, chewing carefully. Ham and egg. Real meat. Real eggs. The kind of food rationing had turned into a myth. The very idea of it being handed out freely was absurd—impossible, even—but here it was. And while the circumstances were strange, Tom wasn't foolish enough to reject good food when it came his way.
For now, he let himself enjoy the luxury, though his mind was already turning over questions about this boy who smiled and gave too much.
"May I sit here?"
Tom looked up sharply. The boy stood there, holding his own sandwich, his green eyes calm and strangely serene as they met Tom's through thin-rimmed glasses. Eyes narrowing, Tom did not respond.
"You seem to be the only one my age around here," the boy continued, his words slow and carefully formed, marked by a heavy French accent.
Tom nodded after a beat, more out of practicality than politeness. Drawing attention by refusing wouldn't serve him.
The boy grinned and took a seat across from him, setting his sandwich on the table. "My name is Rigel Black. What is yours?"
Tom's mind briefly snagged on the name. Black. It sounded familiar in a way that made his skin prickle. A House of Black, pureblood and prestigious, but that was impossible. The boy's clothing was entirely muggle, his demeanor open and almost carefree—qualities no scion of such a family would ever display.
"Tom Riddle," he replied finally, his tone neutral.
"Tom Riddle," The Muggle-Black repeated, his grin widening. "London is… sad, but in a way that is beautiful, no? The… uh, circonstances? are bad, but the people—they are good, is it not so?" His words lilted lightly, inviting conversation.
Tom didn't rise to the bait. "The people are pathetic. The city is dead."
He laughs softly "The people… pathetic? Maybe, I do not know. I am foreign. But they survive. That is not—uh, not small. You survive, too. Maybe… we are alike, yes?"
"We are not alike." Tom replies. How could they be, when Tom was far superior.
Muggle-Black tilted his head thoughtfully. "It is poetic, what you say, though I do not know. I am foreign."
Tom said nothing, but he didn't seem to mind the silence.
"I see a kindred spirit in you," The Muggle-Black said at last, his voice soft but steady. "We should be friends."
Tom scoffed at that. "Not likely, Black."
"Call me Rigel."
"No." Tom stood, brushing off his hands as he walked away, leaving Black sitting alone at the bench.
...
The days passed, and against his will, Tom learned far more about the Muggle-Black than he cared to. The boy seemed to have firmly attached himself to Tom's person, spending every spare moment outside the school talking to him about one thing or another, despite Tom's consistently unfriendly countenance.
Tom knew it would be simple enough to put an end to it. A well-timed accident or a minor disruption to his routine would rid him of the boy, Rigel's persistent presence. But practicality stayed his hand. For one, Tom wasn't about to put his only reliable source of proper food out of commission. And two—though he hated to admit it—Rigel was the first person in a long time who didn't feel… transient.
People flickered in and out of Tom's life with ease, present one moment then gone the instant they ceased to serve a purpose. He had learned to notice them only when he needed something and to discard them just as easily when their usefulness ran dry. Rigel, however, wasn't deterred by Tom's short answers or his sharp silences. If anything, the boy seemed genuinely determined to be near him.
So, he tolerated him.
It could be worse, he supposed. Rigel was undeniably nice to look at, his features sharp and aristocratic in a way that hinted at better breeding than his surroundings suggested. Despite his slow, often disjointed English and heavy French accent—not to mention an irritating penchant for using French words mid-sentence—Rigel Black was clearly well-educated and intelligent.
And for all his persistent chatter, Rigel didn't crowd Tom the way others might have. His presence was steady, soothing even. As much as Tom hated to admit it, there was something calming about the boy. Tom, who was often restless and prone to brooding, found his thoughts clearing when Rigel was around. If Rigel Black were a body of water, he'd be a freshwater lake—placid, reflective, and maddeningly serene. Constant. A quiet, steady presence that gave Tom's mind something else to fixate on, something that wasn't ambition or anger.
But even as Tom begrudgingly admitted this to himself, another thought lingered at the edge of his mind, one he refused to entertain for long. Perhaps he tolerated Rigel because, for the first time, someone had decided to stay.
...
There was something off about Rigel Black.
Normally, Tom would be at his usual Sunday spot, and Rigel would be on the bench next to him, talking about whatever caught his fancy, no regard for Tom's personal space whatsoever.
However, today after completing his self afflicted task of distributing food, Rigel did not immediately stroll over to Tom for the to head to their Sunday haunt, no today Rigel was standing in an alley. With a strange man.
Tom watched from the shadows of the alley. Rigel was standing stiffly, his usual calm and open expression replaced by something sharp, almost dangerous. Across from him stood a man, his dark cloak obscuring any distinguishing features, his presence somehow larger than it should have been in the narrow space.
"-no right! You had no right!" Rigel's voice was low, but anger trembled beneath the words. His fist was clenched around an envelope, his knuckles white.
Tom blinked. He had never seen Rigel angry before, not like this. The warmth and calm that usually defined him were gone, replaced by something sharp-edged and brittle.
The man smirked, his voice smooth but with a faint, unplaceable accent. "Just thought I'd help things along. You were taking your sweet time, playing saint to a city and all."
"I am not a child. I do not need you… interfering" Rigel snapped, his tone colder than Tom had ever heard it. "We agreed I'd handle it on this side."
The man tilted his head, clearly unimpressed. "Do not think I don't see what you're doing. You can't help yourself, can you? Prancing around with-"
"I have a plan," Rigel interrupted, his voice tight.
The man laughed softly, the sound low and mocking. "Do you now?" He leaned closer, his words too quiet for Tom to catch fully. Whatever he said made Rigel stiffen further, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.
"Don't be stubborn, Haz," the man said finally, his voice turning almost lazy. He nudged the envelope in Rigel's hand. "This would make everything easier. I'll come calling tomorrow. Be ready for me." With that, he turned and disappeared into the dim light of the alley.
Tom's ears pricked at the nickname. Haz. A strange name, too familiar. It didn't fit the boy who called himself Rigel Black.
Rigel stood there for a moment, his head bowed as though gathering himself. Then, with a grim expression, he slipped the envelope into his pocket and walked past Tom's hiding spot, oblivious to the eyes following him.
Tom stayed where he was, his mind churning. Rigel Black— or Haz?—was an enigma. For all his talk, for all his openness, Tom realized suddenly how little he truly knew about him.
And that would have to change.
Resolved to get more out of Rigel later, Tom headed back to the orphanage, his mind turning over the strange encounter in the alley. He'd have his answers soon enough.
At least, that was the plan.
The next day came, but Rigel did not.
At first, Tom dismissed it as a fluke. Surely the boy would appear the following day, smiling that insufferable smile and inserting himself into Tom's space as though he belonged there. But when Rigel failed to show up again, unease began to creep in, subtle and unwelcome.
The days dragged on in Rigel's absence, and Tom found himself bristling at the smallest things. The sandwiches didn't taste the same, the volunteers lacked Rigel's effortless charm, and the schoolhouse felt colder without him. It was ridiculous, of course. Tom Riddle did not miss people. He certainly did not miss a talkative French boy who clung to him like a burr.
But then why did it feel like something important was gone?
...
...
"Don't stress. You look good." A pause. Then, softer. "You always do."
Harry huffed, smoothing down his shirt as he tugged on his robes. "Your flattery is useless. I'm still mad at you.
Draco sighed, throwing his head back dramatically from where he was lounging on their bed, his hands clasped behind his head like he hadn't a care in the world. "I will not apologise for acting in the best interest of our mission."
"And springing this on me is in the best interest of our mission?" Harry shot back, scowling at him through the mirror.
Draco sniffed, utterly unbothered. "You'll find that it is. Now, if you'd take a moment to pull your head out of your arse, you'd see this is the opening we've been looking for."
Harry turned sharply, crossing his arms. "And what's that supposed to mean?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Honestly, Harry, you didn't think this through, did you? You've always been impulsive, but moving to London and disrupting our plans was plain stupid."
"Those people are suffering. They need my help."
Draco sat up now, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His expression was no longer amused. "Saviour Potter, I forgot. Keep telling yourself that's why you pushed our schedule up by months. That's definitely the reason you set up a soup kitchen in the middle of the biggest anchor in this bloody timeline."
Harry glared, his jaw tight. "I don't like that tone."
"I'll take any damn tone I please," Draco shot back, rising from the bed in a fluid motion. "We're supposed to preserve the timeline as much as we can. That means staying away from any anchors, not attaching yourself to a key figure like Riddle."
"I'm not attached" Harry's voice was sharp, his hands balling into fists at his sides.
Draco barked a short, humorless laugh. "Liar."
Harry's cheeks flushed, and he looked away. "You think you know me so well."
"I do know you, Potter," Draco hissed, stepping closer. His silver eyes bored into Harry's, cold and relentless. "Better than you know yourself. And that's why I'm telling you now—you need to stop whatever this is before it changes the course of events. Or worse, traps us here."
"I'm not—" Harry started, but Draco held up a hand.
"Save it." He reached for the letter on the desk and shoved it into Harry's hand. "You'll have plenty of time to brood on the way. Now, come on. Your family's waiting."
Harry stared down at the letter, the Black family crest glaring up at him like a taunt.
"You're coming with me?"
"Of course I am," Draco said, as if the answer was obvious. He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Someone has to make sure you don't completely cock this up."
...
"Chin up, Haz, it's only the Floo," Draco smirked, catching the flicker of discomfort on Harry's face.
"Couldn't we have just apparated there?" Harry muttered, shifting uneasily where he stood.
Draco pinched the bridge of his nose, the picture of exaggerated patience. "I keep forgetting you completely lack manners. It's considered rude to apparate into someone's residence if you're not already familiar with them. Besides, Black wards are nasty, we'll Splinch if they haven't added us yet, and that's the best case scenario"
Harry blinked. "Oh…"
"Yes, oh," Draco snarked, sarcasm dripping from his tongue. "If you're going to continue embodying a son of Black, you're going to have to try a little harder. Tap into Rigel Black's consciousness and push it to the forefront. You can't be Harry there—they'll eat you alive."
Harry nodded, swallowing hard. "Right."
Draco studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze softening ever so slightly. "Relax," he said, his voice quieter now. "You'll be fine. Just remember- first impressions matter, we don't need them on our side but it'll help if we can go to them for help if the need arises. I trust you can handle it"
He reached out and gripped Harry's hand firmly, his touch steadying as they stepped into the fireplace together.
"12, Grimmauld Place."
The flames roared to life, and Harry braced himself against the sudden pull. He couldn't help but glance at Draco as the world blurred and twisted around them. For all his snark, Draco's grip didn't waver, grounding him in the way he always did.
The emerald flames roared to life, spilling the two figures into the room with all the precision and poise of high-society purebloods. Dusting off their robes with a practiced flick of their hands, they stepped onto the polished marble floor as though they owned it.
At least, that's how it had to look.
Just before the Floo deposited them, Harry closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply through the nerves threatening to choke him. He could feel Draco's—no, Cassian's—steadying presence beside him, radiating calm and confidence. He needed that. He needed to be Rigel.
Rigel.
Harry drew the name to the surface of his mind, letting it wrap around him like a cloak. Memories that weren't his own stirred—Rigel's childhood summers in the south of France, his lessons in deportment, the relentless expectations of his family. The way Rigel could smile without showing his teeth, a careful gesture of polite interest that revealed nothing.
When the flames spat them out into the room, Rigel Black was already in control. Harry was still there, somewhere underneath, but Rigel stood taller, moved smoother, and carried the weight of the Black name like it was his birthright.
Rigel, inclined his head ever so slightly, his silver gaze sweeping the room in calculated appraisal.
The Floo room was immaculate, of course. Gilded frames adorned the walls, holding austere family portraits with eyes that followed their every move. The Blacks' crest was inlaid in the floor at their feet, shining with meticulous care. Heavy velvet curtains draped the windows, allowing only muted light to filter in, casting the room in shades of gold and shadow.
Rigel's—his—shoulders straightened as his gaze swept the room. He couldn't afford to falter here.
"Ah, Rigel, Mr. Devereaux," a smooth voice greeted, drawing their attention.
Arcturus Black stood in front of them, his expression one of polite indifference, though his dark eyes gleamed with sharp calculation. His wife, Melania, was beside him gracefully, her hands clasped in front of her. Her gaze was cool and assessing, the faintest hint of a smile playing at her lips.
"Welcome to Grimmauld Place," Lord Black continued, his voice rich and commanding. He gestured broadly to the room. "It's long overdue, this meeting of our family's branches."
Rigel inclined his head in a gesture that was just the right amount of deferential. "Thank you for having us," he said, his voice smooth and steady, the heaviness of his accent not taking away from his eloquence- he could not afford for it to,
"Indeed," Cassian added, his tone lighter but no less refined. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you both."
Melania's sharp gaze flicked over them, taking in every detail of their appearance. "A pleasure, certainly," she said, her words slow and deliberate. "You look well, Rigel. Your mother writes that you've taken to life in Britain quite seamlessly."
Harry resisted the urge to shift under her scrutiny. He let Rigel's persona guide him instead. "It's been an… adaptation, but one I welcome. London possesses character."
Melania's smile sharpened. "Character, indeed."
Arcturus stepped forward, his attention shifting to Cassian. "And you, Mr. Devereaux. How fortunate for Rigel to have such a capable guardian. I trust your travels have treated you well?"
"Exceptionally," Cassian replied smoothly, his tone holding just the faintest edge of pride. "Rigel and I make an excellent team. I ensure he stays on the right path, and he ensures my life is never dull."
Melania let out a light laugh at that, though it was more practiced than natural. "How charming. We've arranged for tea in the drawing room. I trust you'll indulge us—it's not often we have the chance to host family from abroad."
"Of course," Rigel replied smoothly, stepping aside as Cassian gestured for Melania to lead the way.
The drawing room was as grand as expected, though its charm lay in its richness rather than its warmth. The Blacks' wealth was evident in every polished surface and gilded edge, from the silver tea set glinting on the low table to the intricate embroidery of the velvet cushions.
Rigel surveyed the room, each step measured and deliberate as they moved to take their seats, the house-elf silently pouring tea for the four, its head bowed demurely.
Melania, ever poised, reached for her cup first, her smile soft but present. " It's such a pleasure to have you both here. Family is the root of our strength, after all, and I've always believed in staying connected to every branch of it."
"As have we," Cassian replied easily, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Rigel and I both looked forward to this meeting. It's long overdue."
Arcturus gave a slow nod of agreement. "Indeed. A strong family is built on strong bonds." His gaze shifted to Rigel, his tone carrying the weight of expectation but also pride. "We're glad you've joined us, Rigel."
Rigel inclined his head, careful to let just enough gratitude touch his expression. "It's an honor, truly. I look forward to learning everything I can."
Melania's gaze softened further. "So, your Mr. Devereaux and your mother tell me you'll be starting Hogwarts with your cousins this year? Alphard and Cygnus, in their seventh year."
Rigel nodded, his lips curving in a faint smile. "Ah… the twins. I remember them—they visited often when we lived in Nice. We got along."
" Splendid" Melania replied with a pleased nod. "It's always better when family is close in spirit as well as proximity."
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, warm but searching. "And I must say, Rigel, your English has improved remarkably. Your mother mentioned how diligently you've been working on it."
Rigel gave a small smile. "Thank you, cousin. It's important we… communicate well. Especially now that we'll be living together for the future." His accent thickened slightly and his tongue stumbled briefly over the unfamiliar phrasing, but he pressed on, forcing himself to stay calm. Rigel hated these moments, though he'd never show it.
Melania exchanged a quick look with Arcturus, both of them nodding in quiet approval. "You're settling in well, then," Arcturus said, his voice lighter now. "That's good to hear."
Cassian leaned back in his chair, his ease a stark contrast to Rigel's careful composure. "He's adapted faster than I expected. I'll admit, I may have nudged him here and there, but Rigel's always been quick to rise to a challenge."
Rigel smiled faintly, his hands steady on his teacup.
The conversation turned lighter after that, drifting into idle chatter about London and family connections. By the time the tea grew cold, a house-elf had been instructed to show them to Rigel's room.
The room was spacious and elegantly furnished, every detail speaking to the Blacks' wealth and influence. As the door clicked shut behind them, Harry reached forward, yanking himself to the forefront with a sharp tug. His vision blurred momentarily, and he blinked owlishly as he slipped on his glasses.
A wide grin split his face as he turned to Cassian. "I did good, yeah?"
Cassian blinked, his gaze growing distant as Draco surfaced, sharp and assessing.
The taller man gave a small nod, his voice thoughtful. "I see the transition is getting easier for you." With a quiet hum, he conjured a notepad and pen.
Harry smiled fondly at the smooth, practiced motion, barely managing to smother a snicker at the muggle tools Draco had inexplicably grown fond of. For all his pureblood pretensions, Draco loved his pens and notepads like they were wands in their own right.
"Do you experience any discomfort or nausea when you transition?" Draco asked without looking up, his pen moving in neat, precise strokes.
"No, not anymore."
"Okay, flex all your muscles—no, Harry, not like that. Be serious. I want to make sure you have full faculty over your body."
Harry rolled his eyes but complied, used to Draco's meticulous routines. "Okay, good. Does anywhere feel stiff?"
"No," Harry replied, shaking his head.
This wasn't the first time they'd gone through this routine, and he knew it wouldn't be the last. Draco insisted on evaluating them after every transition between themselves and their timeline personas, citing the magic as very experimental . Harry could hardly argue—this entire mission was precariously perched on Draco's research, after all.
That was the official reason, anyway.
Harry glanced at the furrow of Draco's brow as he scribbled something down, the faintest smudge of ink on his fingers. It wasn't like Draco to pursue anything this doggedly unless it served a purpose. Except this time, Harry had a nagging suspicion that the research was only part of it. The rest—the sheer amount of time Draco had poured into this, the endless notes, the sleepless nights—felt personal in a way Harry wasn't sure he could articulate.
Draco had always been like that when it came to him. He'd never said it outright—he probably never would—but Harry had learned to recognize the signs.
Draco glanced up, one brow raised. "Well?"
Harry blinked, realizing he'd been staring. "What?"
"I asked if you were paying attention. Obviously not." Draco clicked his pen irritably. "If you're done daydreaming, we can move on."
Harry huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Right. Lead the way, Professor."
"It's actually Magister in Experimental Spellcraft,"Draco corrected smoothly, his voice dripping with mock gravity.
Harry rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. "Oh you swot "
Draco's mild stinging hex hit Harry square on the arm, and he shot him a glare.
"Really?" Harry muttered, rubbing the spot.
Draco smirked, utterly unrepentant. "Right, this is where I leave you. Please do not bring any untoward attention to yourself—and do not go back to Muggle London. You know I'll know if you do."
Harry opened his mouth to retort, but Draco held up a hand, cutting him off smoothly.
"We don't need the Lord and Lady Black wondering why you spend so much time with Muggles. And before you say anything, the house-elves you've employed will keep things running well enough without you." His silver gaze was sharp, daring Harry to argue.
Harry sighed, crossing his arms but saying nothing.
"Good. Make use of their library, and do try not to disrupt our schedule any further, yes?" Draco straightened his robes with a practiced precision, His silver gaze flicked to Harry, sharp and assessing. "Loathe as I am to leave you to your own devices after your little stunt in Muggle London, I've got more pressing matters. My Portkey leaves tonight, and I'll need time at the inn to get some proper work done before I'm whisked off to Bulgaria."
Harry nodded, his fingers twitching at his side as he resisted the urge to say more.
"Be safe. I'll be waiting," Harry said after a moment, his voice softer now, the teasing edge gone.
Draco's gaze flicked to him, and for a brief second, the sharpness in his expression softened. "I will."
A/N: Hey there, this is my first time writing, ever. and I've been working on this for a long while, updates would not be far in between but I cannot promise consistency, this is not a write-as-I-go fic. I've planned everything out, but I am prone to burst of inspiration so there might be some minor updates, I'll let you know if there are.
Tell me what you think! I'd love to know.