Chapter 1
Chapter One:
It’s a split second of a decision. One moment, Harry is skimming over The Daily Prophet, the next he’s in the year of 1981, gazing down at the weeping infant form of his younger self nestled in a crib.
Voldemort is nowhere in sight, while Harry's mother lies lifeless nearby on the carpet, her crimson hair splayed around her like a radiant halo. If Harry was a boy untouched by the ravages of war, he believes tears might have welled up. Yet, in his current state, all that occupies him is disappointment.
With a tilt of his head, Harry lifts the baby version of himself from the crib and cradles him against his hip and chest. He tenderly nuzzles at the infant's hairline, nosing over the fresh lightning bolt scar, soothing him with a gentle hush.
"Are you bored?" Harry murmurs. "I know I am."
Since the war concluded, Harry has grappled with a persistent sense of restlessness. He had grown accustomed to conflict, to hurtling straight into danger, to adopting the instincts of a creature in the wild. Hermione and Ron have spent the past six months attempting to civilize him, for lack of a more fitting term, but their efforts have proven futile. Now immortal, Harry exists beyond the reach of death. There is no room for domestication — for him to be civil — in his eternal state.
“Where should I take us?” Harry inquires. Raising the infant higher to meet his gaze, he peers into the depths of his watery green eyes. "Where can we find excitement?"
It's a query to which Harry already holds the answer.
He dresses little Harry into snug clothing, disregarding his discontented sounds. With a swift transition, Harry propels them back further into the past. Time manipulation has become second nature to him, almost as effortless as drawing breath. Merely by fixating on a specific moment and location, Harry can transport himself anywhere, at any time.
They materialize in one of the narrow passageways of Diagon Alley. Harry exhales, observing his breath swirl in the cold air. The season is winter. Snowflakes are descending from the heavens, draping the earth in a pristine white cover. Exiting the narrow passageway, Harry is greeted by surroundings adorned in festive decorations for Christmas, with wizards and witches of all ages bustling about.
Snow crunches beneath Harry's converse as he strides down Diagon Alley. He runs his tongue over his lips, moistening them, savoring the taste of the air like a serpent. It's the year of 1947, a mere twelve days before Christmas. Harry adjusts the infant version of himself higher against his chest, casting a wandless heating charm to ward off the chilly air. He contemplates his choices, strolling past a group of young, giggling witches, when a profound instinct compels him to come to a standstill.
Blinking, Harry notices a tiny snowflake melting on the outer lens of his glasses. He glances to his right, where he discerns Abraxas Malfoy stationed outside Knockturn Alley, accompanied by Tom Riddle.
Harry blinks again, unhurried and soft, as Tom catches him staring, grey eyes bright in the daylight. He ponders whether Tom can sense the fragment of his soul, where it resides within the lightning bolt scar on little Harry's temple. And if he can, what about the resonance that lingers within Harry himself? It’s a persistent echo that continues despite the horcrux no longer being there.
Together, the three of them could almost constitute a complete individual. Harry finds this notion rather amusing.
Suppressing the urge to smile, Harry restrains himself as Tom approaches, leaving a perplexed Abraxas behind. Tom's eyes gleam with calculation, his mouth forming a charming and polite curve. "Hello," he greets, his voice low and deceptively soft as he gazes deeply into Harry’s eyes. "I apologize for my rudeness, but have we met—“
Harry apparates on the spot with a sharp crack, and lands just outside of Gringotts. He enters the bank with a purpose. There are adjustments to be made to his family tree to ensure that he and the infant (whom Harry really should rename) can reside in the past without arousing suspicion.
(Tom can wait.)
Operating as the Master of Death smooths out business dealings. Gutter, a typical goblin with the usual mindset, swiftly agrees to assist after a gentle touch of Harry's magic and a promise of a substantial payment. In Gutter’s office, the Potter family tree undergoes alterations. Harry runs his fingers over the thick parchment resting on the goblin’s desk, tracing the intricate lines painted in blood that shape the roots and branches of a tree. There, beneath Linfred of Stinchcombe, lies Hardwin Potter, accompanied by six siblings and Harry Potter himself. He is repositioned as a descendant of a distant line, while the infant, now named Evan, is designated as his son. A connection leads from him to Evan, linking them both to Tom Riddle.
It's unfortunate, yet not entirely surprising. After all, Harry and Evan serve as Tom's Horcruxes, albeit at different points in time.
Expressing gratitude to Gutter, Harry departs, leaving behind a weighty pouch filled with galleons. He allows a fussy Evan to bury his face into the crook of his neck as they step back out into the cold. Sensing it's time for lunch, Harry scans his surroundings. Discovering a welcoming café just a stone's throw from Flourish and Blotts, he slips inside, greeted by the delightful aromas of tea, coffee, and sweet delights. Choosing a secluded table in the corner, Harry settles in with Evan and places an order for the both of them.
Lunch is spent gently spoon feeding an apple crumble cake to Evan, though the little one still somehow manages to get a few crumbs in his hair. The waitstaff shower Harry with compliments on the adorable child, to which he responds with a slightly awkward smile. It's a strange situation—Harry and Evan are the same person. Adjusting his mindset will take some time.
Snowfall ceases as they depart the café. Holding Evan's tiny hand, Harry lets him toddle alongside him in the snow, between the bustling witches and wizards. The infant babbles, his nose and cheeks flushed pink, stumbling, prompting Harry to steady him.
"Mama," Evan utters in that soft, babyish tone, prompting Harry to kneel down instantly. Uncertain of how to respond, Harry opts to adjust Evan's woolly hat, ensuring his ears are properly covered. He's not Evan's mother. Nor his father.
"Mama," Evan repeats, wrinkling his nose and drawing closer. His small hands press against Harry's cheeks, fingers slipping beneath Harry's glasses.
"Yeah," Harry exhales softly. "I know." He possesses his mothers'—their mothers'—eyes. Offering a smile he hopes is comforting, Harry captures Evan's wrists, delicately guiding them away. Perhaps abducting Evan and traveling to 1947 might not have been the wisest decision after all, Harry muses. Yet, impulsiveness has always been his modus operandi. Lifting Evan and settling him on his hip, Harry halts, sensing a pull beneath his sternum. Yielding to the sensation, he glances over his shoulder.
Tom Riddle emerges out of the Magical Menagerie, straightening out the lapels of his long coat. His gaze, burning with curiosity and hunger, fixes on Harry as if he were a creature to be studied from another realm. Tom tilts his head, the action crow-like and Harry remembers why he ventured here. Restlessness has never been his ally, but this... well, understanding Tom has always come naturally to him.
Playing coy, Harry lowers his head. Aware of Tom's penchant for a chase, he nuzzles his nose into Evan's hair and vanishes with a swift apparition.
1275 words//unedited.