Luck?!
Tom Riddle woke slowly, the dull light of morning filtering through the thin curtains and casting faint stripes across the cramped room. Casting a quick tempus he was startled to realise he had slept for well over 13hrs. The bed beneath him was hardly adequate—too small, too firm, and with little room to stretch out—but the discomfort wasn’t what had stirred him awake. No, it was the faint awareness of Harry Potter’s presence beside him, his quiet breathing punctuating the stillness.
Sharing a bed. The indignity of it gnawed at him, though he refused to dwell on the irritation. Circumstance had dictated it, and Tom wasn’t foolish enough to waste energy railing against the unavoidable. Still, he was hyper-aware of the proximity, of the way Harry’s shoulder had brushed his at some point during the night.
Harry had shifted in his sleep, curling inward as though bracing against some invisible threat. Tom had lain still for a long while, staring at the ceiling, his mind working through the details of their situation. Now, in the quiet of morning, with Harry still asleep, he finally allowed himself a moment of reflection.
His wand.
When he had first come to, disoriented and braced for combat in the Forbidden Forest, it had been the first thing he noticed—the familiar weight of it in his pocket, as if it had never left him. It was a detail that had both surprised and satisfied him. By all accounts, his wand should have been lost, destroyed along with his old body simply not exist.
And yet, here it was.
Tom remembered how his fingers had tightened around it when he first realised it was there, the polished wood warm against his palm. Relief, coupled with curiosity, had washed over him. But he hadn’t questioned it—not then, and not now. The why or how of it didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was here, and that it worked.
The wand had always been an extension of himself, a symbol of his power and potential. Its presence now was nothing short of a gift, a reminder that, despite the absurdity of their situation, he was still in control. He was alive. He was armed. It did make him question on what consequence that would have on his counterparts self yet he pushed the troubled thought away.
Tom shifted slightly, careful not to wake Harry as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He sat there for a moment, running a hand through his hair as he surveyed the small, shabby room. The peeling wallpaper and faint scent of dampness were a far cry from the grandeur he had become accustomed to, but it was temporary - he was used to worse. Everything about this situation was temporary.
His gaze flicked back to Harry, who was beginning to stir, his brow furrowed as if he were already bracing himself for the day ahead. Tom allowed himself a small, almost imperceptible smirk.
They had little time to waste.
By the time Harry sat up, his hair sticking up at odd angles and his eyes bleary with sleep, Tom had already begun outlining their next steps.
“We need to leave Hogsmeade,” Tom said without preamble, his tone as sharp as ever.
Harry blinked, rubbing at his face. “Leave? Where would we go?”
“Anywhere but here.” Tom leaned against the window ledge, glancing out at the quiet street below. “Hogsmeade is too small, too enclosed. Two unfamiliar faces—both teenagers, no less—will stand out before long. We’ve been lucky so far, but that won’t last.”
Harry frowned, clearly reluctant. “And where do you suggest we go? We don’t have money, Tom. We barely have a plan.”
Tom’s patience thinned, but he reined it in. “We’ll acquire money. That’s our first priority. Then we’ll find somewhere less conspicuous to stay. A muggle town would be ideal for now—someplace where magic isn’t a factor.”
Harry didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t argue, either. Tom took that as a small victory.
He turned his attention back to the room, his mind already working through the details. He had been careful in Hogsmeade, using spells sparingly to avoid detection. But that kind of subtlety couldn’t last forever, especially not with someone as reckless as Harry in tow. They needed to disappear, to melt into the background until they were ready to make their move.
And, more importantly, they needed resources. Tom’s wand could only take them so far. They would need gold, identification, a place to stay—and all of it had to be acquired without drawing suspicion.
“Get dressed,” Tom said curtly, pulling his thoughts back to the present. “We’re leaving as soon as possible.”
Harry gave a low groan, muttering something under his breath, but he rose from the bed without further complaint. As he moved about the room, Tom watched him with careful detachment. The boy was stubborn, defiant, and entirely too emotional. Yet, he had potential. Not the kind of potential Tom valued, but enough to be useful. For now.
Tom slipped his wand from his pocket, turning it over in his hand. It felt as natural as breathing, the power thrumming just beneath the surface. Whatever force had brought him here he would use it to his advantage.
This world, this timeline, was his for the taking. And if Harry Potter thought he could stand in his way, he was gravely mistaken.
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Tom Riddle’s wand slipped neatly into his palm as he leaned casually against the damp brick wall of a narrow London alley. The muted cacophony of city life echoed faintly beyond its confines: the hum of passing cars, the chatter of pedestrians, and the occasional bark of a street vendor hawking their wares.
It had been almost too easy to lead Harry into thinking he had an important task. Telling him to find someone who could connect them to false documentation wasn’t entirely without merit, but it was mostly a convenient excuse to get rid of him for a few hours. Harry’s open and earnest nature was bound to attract attention—attention they couldn’t afford. If anyone noticed the boy, better it happened far from Tom’s immediate vicinity.
His own goals, on the other hand, required precision. Money. Large sums of it. And muggles, as they so often were, would unwittingly fund his ambitions.
Tom smirked faintly, drawing his wand. He’d spent the walk from the alley analysing the streets, observing the flow of people, and mentally cataloguing likely targets. Wealth practically exuded from certain individuals—businessmen in tailored suits, affluent shoppers laden with high-end bags, and the occasional tourist too distracted by the city’s splendour to notice the dangers lurking in its shadows.
And then there were the banks.
Tom’s lips curled. His aim wasn’t just petty theft—he needed enough to sustain their plans for weeks, perhaps months. A single score wouldn’t suffice. Fortunately, he had never relied on brute force when finesse would do.
Stepping out into the crowd, Tom adjusted his posture, blending seamlessly with the hurried Londoners around him. His hand brushed his wand, concealed beneath his sleeve, as he approached his first mark: a middle-aged man.
The man pocketed a thick envelope, his focus elsewhere as Tom passed close by. A murmured incantation, almost imperceptible in the noise of the street, sent the envelope slipping silently from the man’s pocket and into Tom’s waiting hand. He didn’t break stride, barely glancing at the spoils before tucking them into his coat.
It was a start.
By the time he reached the bank, he had already accumulated a respectable sum from similar manoeuvres. But the bank would be his true triumph. As he slipped inside, his sharp eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail: the tellers behind their glass partitions, and the guards stationed by the entrance.
Tom moved to an empty desk near the back of the bank, his wand concealed beneath his sleeve. With a whispered Confundus charm, he ensured the teller’s attention was drawn elsewhere. Another flick of his wand and the records of a nearby account were subtly altered, granting him access.
The process was seamless, the transaction smooth. When Tom walked out ten minutes later, his coat was considerably heavier, the weight of muggle cash a satisfying reminder of his superiority.
As the clock edged towards noon, Tom returned to the alley where he’d left Harry, his expression impassive despite the success of his morning. A brief glance at the crumpled stack of pound notes he’d amassed confirmed what he already knew—he’d exceeded his goal. It wasn’t just sufficient; it was abundant.
Now, all he had to do was endure whatever drivel Harry would undoubtedly spout about his morning of wasted effort.
When he turned the corner, however, what greeted him was far from the defeated, directionless figure he’d anticipated. Harry was leaning casually against the wall, a folded slip of paper in hand and an oddly self-satisfied look on his face.
“You’re late,” Harry said, though the teasing in his voice lacked any real heat.
Tom raised a brow, brushing off the comment as he came to stand before him. “Accomplished anything of value?”
Harry held out the slip of paper, his expression entirely too pleased for Tom’s liking. “I found someone. There’s a pub called The Crooked Nail a few streets over. We’re supposed to ask for Michael. Someone vouched for him.”
Tom took the paper, his eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the address. “And how, exactly, did you come by this?”
Harry shrugged, grinning faintly. “Just asked around. Helped someone carry a crate, and they pointed me in the right direction.”
For a moment, Tom simply stared at him. The sheer improbability of it—the audacity of the universe to bestow such luck on someone like Harry Potter—left him momentarily at a loss. In the middle of the day, in plain sight, with no magic to guide him, Harry had accomplished what Tom had been certain was a distraction task at best.
Of course, he didn’t let it show. Folding the paper neatly, he tucked it into his pocket and fixed Harry with a cool look. “Lucky,” he said curtly, though the word tasted sour on his tongue.
Harry tilted his head, as if considering his next words. “You could say that. Or maybe I’m just good at this sort of thing.”
Tom didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he turned sharply, gesturing for Harry to follow.
“Come along. We’ve wasted enough time.”
As they made their way through the bustling streets, Tom’s mind churned. It was infuriating, really, how things seemed to fall into place for Harry with such maddening ease. Luck was all it was—pure, senseless luck. But he couldn’t ignore the results.
For now, he would tolerate Harry’s ridiculous good fortune. But he couldn’t help but lament, silently and privately, that fate had seen fit to grant his unwitting ally such a maddening advantage.
Still, Tom reminded himself as they approached the pub, the weight of his newly acquired wealth a comforting anchor, this was his game. Luck could only carry Harry so far.