Somewhere far away, in a different world, on a different continent, in a different country, in a tent set up on an old but popular mountain trail, four wizards and a witch were sleeping. Wards kept any malicious magical creatures or muggles from stumbling into their campsite while they were unaware. Four of them were sleeping soundly, the runes for cooling kept the inside of the tent at room temperature and kept the humid, balmy Appalachian July air out of the tent and the mosquitoes and other bugs at bay.

The fifth wizard was fevered, his forehead hot to the touch and the rest of his body chilled, had anyone been awake to check him. He was twitching in his sleep, breathing unsteadily as he tossed. Thomas Malcolm Riddle IV had never dreamed before. Or rather, if he had, he never remembered them. It was one of the reasons he'd begun learning about astral projection from one of the American wizards he was travelling with, among other things. It was the closest thing to a dream he'd ever encountered outside of his visions, which his friend, Lucien, had informed him did not actually sound like dreams at all.

But when he astral projected, he set a grounding circle and had to meditate. He always started by lifting from his body, imagining his magic like a thin string. He looped it around his wrist until he felt himself bound to his physical body, a metaphysical tie, a breadcrumb trail to lead him back. Then he would drift. He'd only just begun a few weeks before so he couldn't go far, though Jorge, the wizard who had been teaching him, explained he'd be able to shift locations as though using apparition once he was more comfortable with the whole process, covering countries and oceans in moments, especially when trying to access more familiar places. For now, he was limited to his surrounding area, which given the terrain was breathtaking nonetheless. When he astral projected he tended to default to imagining himself in the clothes his physical body was in. Jorge said he'd be able to change this as well with experience, but keeping them the same helped strengthen his connection to his physical form as he learned the basics.

But TJ, as he was known by his friends and family, had not set a grounding circle. He had not meditated before he slept. And despite all this, he felt himself standing in what felt like a cave he didn't recognize, in the clothes he'd been wearing the day before, an oppressive sensation clinging to him in the worst way, humid and heavy, like breathing water, like magic squeezing down on his form, trying to compress him. He turned about, trying to see where he was, what was happening when a certainty of {This has happened} settled over him, the oppressive sense of magic shifting almost immediately to a familiar blanket, like the moment he knew what it was it shifted, changed for him, only him. The oppressiveness lessened until it was gone, like he had gills and could suddenly breathe in the water and oxygen at the same time, understanding dawning.

It was a vision. Not like any he'd ever had. He'd never had one while sleeping, let alone projecting. If anything he was always awoken by the force of them before they overtook him. His visions and their gravity fluctuated wildly with little rhyme or reason. The worst of them would send him into a fugue state, leaving him discombobulated and disconnected from his body while the overwhelming sensations drove his body to react and display whatever was channelling through him. He tended to use whatever creative medium he could physically reach- charcoal, pencils, quills, pens, paint. Before he even started at Hogwarts, he would keep a notepad or sketch pad on his nightstand because once when he was six, he'd nearly destroyed half his bedroom furniture in a frenzied state, his magic lashing out as he blindly tried to locate something to help get the vision out of him. Almost like a vision was a living breathing being, tangible, trying to claw its way out of his brain, into his hands, onto paper, or whatever it could sink itself into.

It had never bothered him, except that he knew it worried his parents and occasionally his friends when the bad ones came about. He'd always been this way and it wasn't so debilitating that he couldn't lead a mostly normal life and visions of such a severity were few and far between. He could count the number of times they'd happened to such a degree on one hand. He had lesser visions much more regularly. They were usually a thought, or feeling, overwhelming and possessing in a way that an everyday thought or feeling was not, a certainty and absolution of {This is it} that told him it was more than a passing flight of fancy. It was usually accompanied by a flash or an outburst, a quick doodle or decorative scrawl of calligraphy to make clear what it was trying to say exactly. Sometimes they lasted moments or seconds. Sometimes they took longer, minutes, but rarely longer than that.

And those he could even ignore if need be. If something important was happening, or he was taking a test, in the middle of a conversation, or whatever. He could shove the feeling to the back of his mind, stuff it down the back of his throat. If it lingered, it usually meant it was at least a little important, to be put off but not forgotten and he could uncork it later, though if left corked eventually it would explode, pouring out of him in a raving maddening foam.

Some of the lesser visions would even fade, gone from his mind and throat and twitchy fingers like a fanciful notion that had already been deemed insignificant. He wondered if maybe it went to someone else for them to have, but when he'd asked Trewlaney about this, she had scoffed and told him that that wasn't how seeing the future worked. Nor did she think him capable of seeing the past. TJ had learned not to argue with the witch, their powers very different, like water and oil.

He gathered the blanket of knowledge around him like a familiar quilt, comforting. It hummed in response- if he treated his visions with kindness, they responded in kind. He'd learned that when he was young. If he was afraid, they were afraid. If he fought, they would fight back.

Breathing, living, alive. Flowing and unstoppable. His visions had claws to match his serpent's fangs, Morgan had once said. She was not wrong. They would sink into his skin and grip him tightly until he had run the course of the vision.

So instead he turned slowly, taking in the room. He heard shuffling and turned to see his father, his bag over his shoulder, standing in front of an archway with an ethereal glow cast around him, leaving his father dark and silhouetted. Runes were carved and glowing a faint blue on the archway- an otherworldly wind whipped through the room, tugging them closer.

{This has happened.}

Whispers, crooning, and TJ felt a shiver go up his spine, the light filling the room. While he usually did not allow worry or fear to intrude on his emotions during a vision, lest they turn and fight him, he felt worry claw up his throat. Something dark and horrifying lay through the portal that was opening, a sense of freefalling and hopelessness and despair.

He could hear screaming, unaware that it was himself, because one moment he could feel them- his loved ones, like little strings tied to his body, linking him and his existence to them, his mother, his father, his sister, his niece, his closest friends and loved ones.

His father was gone. The string untethered. Lost at sea.

{This has happened. This is done. This cannot be stopped.}

Red eyes latching onto him and he felt something whip out, catching his ankle- he let himself go limp as his body was thrown to the uneven ground, a rough terrain of dirt and overgrown roots, waiting for the vision to drop its anger and power in response to his own. Instead, it became more predatory, dragging him violently towards the archway and TJ's instincts roared to life, thrashing against the hold on him, whipping around to his stomach and grappling at the roots, nails scrambling for purchase. Not magic, a hand, holding him down, a hand over his mouth, suffocating, dragging him down into the darkness with his father, like tar, like quicksand, filling his mouth, red eyes in the dark, the magic horrible and dead and dying- the air putrid and smelling of death and decay- rancid and sickening on his tongue, he was going to be sick, sick, sick, dead-

Someone was roaring his name and he sat up fast enough his face slammed into Lucien's who began swearing up a storm- the other three, the Americans were also there around his cot and he just barely managed to push past them when he felt bile force its way up the back of his throat and he fell to his knees, retching. Someone was rubbing their hand on his back, what little was still in his stomach from dinner on the floor, dry heaving when he couldn't get anything else up.

He could feel it, still there, thrumming. {This isn't the end.} It screamed, it tossed, shivering on his back. Needing to be seen. The maliciousness was gone though, the red eyes were gone, the warmth of a familiar quilt was back on his shoulder again.

He tossed his head up, frenzied as the vision, his magic thrumming in time with it, heartbeats, finder taps, pulses, breaths suspended, bated, like his father hung, frozen in time and ice ran through his veins. He spotted a tea cup Lucien had left by his cot and lunged for it- the American used teabags (bloody barbarians), but he and Lucien still insisted on loose leaves. Tea leaves were not his preferred method, but if his sketchbook or a writing utensil were not available, he was able to use them. Blinders on he could see his sketchbook but the pencil usually in the holder was missing, so the leaves would have to do. He forced himself to swallow the stale tea, almost accidentally drinking some of the dregs, and then grabbed the closest thing he could- his sketchbook. He upturned the almost empty cup and twisted it clockwise once, twice, thrice- drawing his father back to him, the vision back to him, sunwise. Reeling the nibble in steadily, {do not lose him}.

His sketchbook or at least the first dozen or so pages would be ruined when he looked at them later, stained, unable to be saved because it wasn't just tea that had been dumped onto it, but the remnants of a powerful vision. He searched the leaves, grey eyes unfocusing, helping him see the broader strokes of whatever remained of the vision. He still felt sick, could taste blood on his lips, but he'd sort it out later. Lucien was yelling at him, grabbing his shoulders, but TJ ignored him, consumed by the magic wrapped tightly around him, tight enough he could barely breathe.

The thrumming settled, less chaotic, the vision out of him, in the cup, where he could cradle it, twisting the cup clockwise, sunwise. {Bring him home.}

There!

{What is yet to come.}

A snake sat coiled at the end of a tunnel, a sun, a fire, carved from the negative space of the leaves around it, the snake defensive but untouched by the fire. He felt the cup fall from his hands, tasted the blood more clearly in his mouth. If this had been for anyone but his father, or maybe his sister and niece, he would have been worried by it- a snake at the end of a tunnel, blocking the intended from the sun, would have been a warning, an omen, but his father was the lord of snakes, he was the bloody King of Snakes, and he felt a sob rattle out of him, his body shaking with relief. If he'd been standing, he would have fallen to his knees, but he was already kneeling on the ground from where he'd fallen earlier, so instead he sank into Lucien's side, this friend's arms wrapping around him, trying to ground him.

{He was not safe. But he would be. He would come home.}


A/N: Warning, this is not a how-to-guide on Astral Projection, I Do Not Know How to Astral Project, this is my interpretation of how Astral Projection might go for a wizard with TJ's talents in the HP world.

Hi. Here we meet TJ. TJ was the surprise I mentioned previously from Empathetic but realized as I was reworking certain elements of the story were going to be FAR too convoluted and not give the son of Tom Riddle the time and attention he deserved/needed, and would completely discount Morgan's equal parts due in her father's story. All because she can't astral project. That didn't seem fair.

Originally in the Empathetic story line, TJ was going to be from an entirely different world, one running simultaneously to Canon & Empathetic's Tom, who did not have a son, but appearing much later in the story (about to of the way in). It was supposed to be a red herring of sorts because TJ does look a lot like Tom, making it so Tom and Harry were doubting the validity of what TJ was telling them.

Obviously I did away with all of it because it was just Too Much. So we get more TJ and a lot earlier, and having him be Tom's son in his universe gives me the ability to bring in more snippets from everyone else on Tom's home-world end. Originally Tom and the reader would be 100% in the dark as to what is happening with Morgan and the like, but this way I can actually bring in both Morgan and TJ more and make both more well-rounded. Doing so actually helped me fix a lot of questions/plot holes I had for TJ so it was just a better swap over all. Originally in Empathetic I was going to have a romantic tension between Tom and Minerva as a kind of "what if star-crossed lovers" but now that's off the table because Minnie is Monogamous with a Capital M. (Does that imply Tom is Poly? Yes. Yes it does. That man got around in his youth. This will be written out for the horny world to see in the later years of Compassion and the two in between pieces I have planned between Compassion and Empathy)

If that chapter was not abundantly clear, TJ is a Prophet. With a big P. You know how we know Trewlaney made at least a couple of prophesies that came true, and then speculation about some smaller ones and people still thought she was batshit?

TJ is supposed to be, in a similar way to his father, showing what new blood to the old family lines can result in. He has powers closer to the prophets from ancient times. While the majority of them he has no control over (think like time and space is like "HEY YOU NEED THE KNOWLEDGE FUCK OFF WITH IT HOWEVER YOU'D LIKE" and shoves it into his body) he can also kind of reach out and fish for info when asked, but he won't always find answers. He compares it to fishing- sometimes you get a bite, sometimes the line sits still. TJ channels it with art usually. He isn't bad at reading tea leaves but has less success overall with it and usually only uses tea leaves casually, but here he grabbed the first medium he saw cause he's in a blind panic. He annoyed the fuck out of Trelawney when he took her classes because they did not mesh well. The perfect example of "you got the right answer but didn't do it the way I asked you to and can't explain HOW you got the right answer!?" TJ tends to irk a lot of the other divination workers he encounters because his magic just works inherently different from theirs and it tends to lead to a clash.

You will notice a writing style shift for TJ (and other's) when I am writing from their perspective, as it's going to more align with their characters. Even though TJ is pretty chill over all (he and his father are the chill ones while Morgan and Reina and even Minnie, to some degree, are the people who will make bombs out of the lemons and then set your house on fire WITH THE LEMONS if you fuck with them), he tends to be… kind of flowery in his thoughts, like poetry or drawn out wandering trains of thought that go off track and look like they are headed nowhere until somehow you actually do end up at the destination you're supposed to be and TJ walks away and you are left wondering if he just told you the secrets of the universe, complimented you, or insulted you. It scares Tom just a little bit sometimes. Loves his kids unconditionally but is very aware both of them will at some point be stronger than him and more terrifying than him.

While Morgan has more of the Slytherin ambition, TJ lacks it entirely (he's here for a good time, not a long time dude), instead making up for it with an intense cunning and ability to read between the lines. You know the line from "It's No Longer You" from Epic the Musical; "Time I've unlocked it, I see past and future running free"? That's TJ. He learned a long time ago what the difference was between the {This has happened and cannot be changed} and the {This will happen and cannot be changed} and {This will maybe happen and could maybe be changed but be careful where you tread because you could make it all fucking worse and everyone you know and love could die.}

To be fair, the few times TJ has had a vision of the latter, he tends to just not go fucking near it. So yeah, this is my verbal dump about a character I've had for over 10 years I didn't get to write about and would love to talk about him. You'll get more Riddle Family Interludes because I want them. I was very saddened in Empathetic I couldn't find a way to work Morgan in because both of Tom's children are Chaos Gremlins and would get on with Harry like a House on Fire. Plus, they become more relevant much earlier this time around. This one is short, for which you have my apologies, but the one you had last week was fuck-off long and the one I have for next week is fock-off long and the interludes in the future will also be fuck-off long so.

Cheers.