New people
The Crooked Nail wasn’t the kind of place Harry had ever imagined himself willingly stepping into. Tucked into a grimy street corner, its flickering sign barely readable through years of grime, the pub looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the day it opened. From the outside, low murmurs and the faint clinking of glasses drifted into the air, blending with the scent of damp brick and stale alcohol.
Harry clutched the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, the name Michael scrawled across it in uneven, hurried letters. When he’d first gotten the note, a surge of smug satisfaction had carried him. This’ll show Tom, he’d thought. Finally, he’ll see I’m not completely useless.
But now, staring at the dimly lit doorway, that confidence was fraying at the edges. What if Michael wasn’t even here? What if this was some elaborate setup—or worse, a waste of time? He glanced to his side at Tom, who stood straight-backed and completely unfazed, as if the dingy pub was a tea shop on Diagon Alley.
“You sure about this?” Harry muttered, keeping his voice low.
Tom didn’t even bother turning to look at him. “You’re the one who insisted on coming here,” he said coolly. “Unless you’re telling me you didn’t think this through?”
Harry scowled. “Of course I thought it through. I’m just saying it looks—dodgy.”
Tom’s lips curved in that insufferable half-smile. “You mean to say you’re hesitating. If that’s the case, I’ll go in alone.”
Before Harry could retort, Tom pushed the door open, stepping inside without a second’s hesitation. Harry followed quickly, biting back his annoyance.
The inside of the Crooked Nail was no better than its exterior. Dim, flickering lights barely illuminated the smoke-filled room, and the air was thick with the mingling stench of old beer, damp wood, and unwashed bodies. Every creak of the floorboards beneath their feet seemed to draw eyes, though most of the patrons quickly turned back to their drinks or whispered conversations.
Harry was acutely aware of how out of place they looked. His scuffed trainers and well-worn hoodie might have blended in with the dingy setting, but the sharpness of Tom’s crisp white button-down and tailored trousers might as well have screamed “upper-class git.”
Of course, Harry thought bitterly, he’d manage to look posh even in a place like this. The man just came back from the dead—couldn’t he have appeared in something ridiculous? Or naked? At least then I’d get a laugh.
Tom strode confidently toward the bar, his gaze sharp and unyielding as he addressed the grizzled man polishing glasses behind the counter. “We’re looking for Michael.”
The bartender barely glanced at him. “Who’s asking?”
“Someone with business,” Tom replied evenly.
The bartender paused, squinting at Tom for a long moment before jerking his head toward the far corner. “Over there. Don’t waste his time.”
Tom nodded curtly and headed for the indicated table without so much as a thank you. Harry followed, his nerves jangling.
Michael was broad-shouldered, his bald head catching the dim light above him. He leaned back in his chair, scarred arms crossed over his chest, his sharp eyes narrowing as they approached.
“You Michael?” Tom asked, sitting down without waiting for an invitation.
“Depends,” Michael replied, his gravelly voice carrying an edge of suspicion. “Who wants to know?”
Tom’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “Someone in need of papers.”
Michael’s gaze flicked to Harry, lingering for a beat before returning to Tom. “And why would I stick my neck out for a couple of kids?”
“Because we’re not as useless as we look,” Tom replied smoothly. “Surely there’s something you need done. Something you can’t—or won’t—do yourself.”
Michael snorted, though there was a glint of intrigue in his eyes. “Maybe. There’s a shipment I need moved. Problem is, it’s in a warehouse that’s… under watch. If you can handle it, we’ll talk about your papers.”
---
The job was every bit as bad as Harry had feared.
The warehouse sat in the middle of an industrial area, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. Rival groups patrolled the perimeter with flashlights, their beams slicing through the darkness in unpredictable patterns.
Crouched behind a stack of barrels, Harry glanced at Tom, who was surveying the scene with unnerving calm.
“We’ll take the far crate first,” Tom whispered, his voice so low Harry almost missed it. “Follow my lead. And try not to make noise.”
Harry rolled his eyes but nodded. They moved quickly, sticking to the shadows as they darted between cover. Harry’s heart pounded—not from fear, but from the rush of adrenaline. He’d faced Death Eaters, giants, even Voldemort. A few muggle guards didn’t scare him.
When they reached the crate, Harry grabbed one end while Tom took the other. It was shockingly light.
Harry raised an eyebrow at Tom. “Did you—”
Tom shot him a withering look that clearly said, *What did you expect?* Of course he’d enchanted the crate. Tom Riddle would never stoop to actual manual labour.
They were halfway back to the van when a voice rang out.
“Oi!”
Harry froze, his head snapping toward the source. A burly man was stalking toward him, his flashlight catching Harry’s face.
“Well, well,” the man drawled, his lips curling into a smirk. “What do we have here? Lost, sweetheart?”
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the strange tone in his voice. “Uh, no, I’m just—”
“Cute little thing, aren’t you?” The man stepped closer, his hand shooting out to grab Harry’s arm.
Harry tried to yank his arm free, but the man’s grip tightened. His first instinct was to reach for his wand, but he forced himself to hold back. This was a muggle, and magic was a last resort.
“I’m not alone,” Harry said sharply.
“Don’t see anyone around,” the man sneered. “Maybe you and I should—”
“Let. Him. Go.”
The man froze at the sound of Tom’s voice, which was sharp and cold as a dagger. Stepping out from the shadows, Tom’s wand was already raised, his expression dark and deadly.
The man turned, his sneer faltering. “And who’re you supposed to be?”
Tom didn’t answer. With a flick of his wand and a muttered incantation, the man’s eyes glazed over, his grip on Harry slackening as he stumbled back.
Harry stepped away, frowning. “What did you—”
“Memory Charm,” Tom said curtly. “He won’t remember a thing. Now grab the crate.”
Harry bit back a retort, grabbing the crate and following Tom back to the van.
---
By the time they returned to the Crooked Nail, Harry’s was tired and his patience was wearing thin.
Michael greeted them with a raised eyebrow. “Not bad. Thought you’d end up dead.”
“Then you underestimated us,” Tom replied evenly.
Michael snorted. “Fair enough. I’ll have your papers in a week. Names?”
“Harrison Evans,” Harry said without hesitation.
“Thomas Avery,” Tom added smoothly.
Michael nodded. “Polish citizenship. Parents were English, moved there when you were kids. Explains the lack of accents. Sound good?”
Tom nodded sharply. “That’ll do.”
“Good. Come back in a week.”
As they left, Harry shot a glance at Tom. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—how easily Tom had handled the night’s events, or how much they’d needed him to.
---
The hotel was exactly what Harry expected from the kind of place that rented by the week: cramped, uninviting, and reeking faintly of damp. The peeling wallpaper gave the room an air of neglect, and the single bed against the far wall looked like it had seen better days—decades ago.
Harry dropped his bag just inside the doorway, taking a deep breath. “Well,” he said, trying for optimism, “it’s not the worst place I’ve ever stayed.”
Tom stepped inside, his sharp gaze sweeping the room. “It’s appalling,” he muttered. He looked ready to storm back downstairs, no doubt intending to Imperius the receptionist into offering them something better—or free.
“Don’t even think about it,” Harry said quickly, stepping into his path. “We agreed: no magic unless absolutely necessary.”
Tom’s expression hardened. “This qualifies as ‘absolutely necessary.’”
“It’s fine,” Harry insisted, already pulling out the money Tom had given him earlier. “We’re staying here for the week. End of discussion.” He darted back out to the reception desk, tossing down enough notes to finalize the payment before Tom could stop him.
By the time Harry returned to the room, Tom was standing by the window, staring out at the darkened street below with an air of annoyance.
“It’s booked,” Harry said simply, shrugging off his jacket and tossing it onto the single chair in the corner.
Tom turned, arching an eyebrow. “How noble of you. Do tell me, Potter, how long do you plan to play the part of a self-sacrificing hero?”
Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the jab. “Let’s just make the best of it. It’s only for a week, and we’ll be out most of the time anyway.”
Tom didn’t respond, though his expression made it clear he wasn’t impressed. He set his wand on the rickety bedside table, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. “We’ll need proper clothes. These transfigurations will suffice for now, but they won’t hold up under scrutiny.”
Harry paused, glancing down at his own hastily transfigured shirt and jeans. He hadn’t even thought about how poorly the spell would hold if someone looked closely. “We can go shopping tomorrow,” he said, “or later in the week. There’s no rush.”
“There is,” Tom countered. “We need to blend in completely. Everything—our clothing, our accents, our behaviour—needs to be seamless.”
Harry sighed but didn’t argue. Tom had a point.
---
Later that night, the tension in the room was palpable. They’d both taken turns in the tiny bathroom—Harry first, emerging with damp hair and a faint scowl, followed by Tom, who somehow managed to look as polished as ever despite their dismal surroundings.
Now they lay in the bed, a thin blanket separating them as if it could erase the awkwardness of their forced proximity. Harry stared at the cracked ceiling, his mind racing with everything that had happened.
Michael, the documents, the warehouse job, the strange man grabbing him... it was all too much to process at once. His thoughts spiraled, one after another, until he was barely aware of the silence in the room.
“Speak up,” Tom’s voice cut through the darkness, sharp and impatient. “I can hear you thinking from here.”
Harry turned his head, blinking at him in the dim light. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Tom’s expression was unreadable, but his tone softened slightly. “What’s on your mind?”
Harry hesitated, then said, “Why did you pick Thomas Avery as your name?”
Tom smirked faintly, turning onto his side to face Harry. “Avery is a respectable name,” he said. “It’s connected to old families, with plenty of unregistered branches. No one will question it if I claim to belong to one. As for Thomas...” He paused, his smirk widening. “It’s tolerable. Close enough to my own name to suit my purposes.”
“You mean you were too lazy to stop me from calling you ‘Tom,’” Harry said, half-joking.
“Precisely,” Tom said with a glint of amusement. “I know you well enough to predict your carelessness.”
Harry rolled his eyes. “Well, I chose Harrison Evans because... well, it felt right. Evans was my mum’s name. It’s a way to remember her.”
For a moment, Tom said nothing, his sharp gaze softening almost imperceptibly. Then he nodded. “Sentimental, but fitting.”
They fell into silence again, the conversation shifting in Harry’s mind to a more pressing concern. “How are we supposed to integrate into the magical world with Polish documents?” he asked. “It’s not like the Ministry is going to hand us British citizenship just because we ask nicely.”
Tom didn’t seem fazed by the question. “The documents Michael provides will show that we were born in Poland and recently moved here. That’s all we need to craft a believable story. We’ll use a portkey to travel to Poland, then return to Britain using Ministry-regulated methods. As refugees from the war, they’ll prioritize us with minimal scrutiny.”
Harry frowned. “Was Poland even attacked?”
“Of course,” Tom said smoothly. “I know exactly how Voldemort operated during the war.”
Harry shifted to face him more fully. “But you’re not Voldemort anymore. This isn’t the same timeline. The Voldemort of this reality isn’t you.”
Tom’s expression froze for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as if Harry had struck a nerve.
Harry didn’t press further, rolling onto his side. “Goodnight, Tom,” he said softly, closing his eyes.
---
Harry’s words lingered in Tom’s mind, gnawing at him with an almost unbearable persistence.
This Voldemort isn’t you.
He stared at the ceiling, his thoughts churning. He had always thought of himself as singular, the inevitable result of his own ambition and brilliance. But Harry was right—this timeline was different. His presence, along with Harry’s, had fractured it into something new.
His wand was proof enough. It was his wand, the one he’d wielded as a boy. The Voldemort of this reality would have a different wand, a different history. They were no longer the same person.
The realization unsettled him, yet it also opened new possibilities. If he wasn’t tied to Voldemort’s fate, then he was free to forge his own path.
A better path, he thought, his lips curling into a faint smile.
But his thoughts shifted, unbidden, to Harry. When the man had grabbed him earlier, Tom’s reaction had been... unexpected. He’d wanted to rip the man apart, to make him regret ever touching Harry.
The sheer ferocity of the feeling startled him. Harry could handle himself; he was no ordinary wizard. Yet in that moment, Tom had acted instinctively, protectively, as if the boy beside him was his to shield.
It was absurd. Sentimentality had no place in his plans, yet the memory burned in his mind.
He shook his head, forcing the thought aside. For now, he would play the part of Thomas Avery, the displaced half-blood. But when the time came, he would seize the power he deserved.
“Goodnight, Harry,” Tom murmured into the quiet, his voice laced with quiet resolve.