Making Waves
The battlefield was chaos.
The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and charred flesh, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. Spells arced across the open space in a deadly cascade of colour—blinding flashes of green, red, and blue illuminating the wreckage left in their wake. The ground beneath was scorched and uneven, cratered where explosions had struck. The screams of the injured, the guttural shouts of spellcasters, and the panicked cries of the dying filled the night, an eerie symphony of destruction.
Buildings stood in ruin, half-collapsed or entirely reduced to rubble. Some still burned, black smoke curling towards the sky, thick and suffocating. Bodies—some moving, some deathly still—littered the dirt.
And in the midst of it all stood Lord Voldemort.
He was a grotesque figure, otherworldly and monstrous, his form illuminated in brief flashes by the curses raining down around him. He no longer resembled a man—his skin was a sickly, almost translucent grey, stretched too tightly over sharp bones. His face was a twisted mockery of what it had once been, a flattened slit where a nose should be, nostrils flaring as he surveyed the carnage with satisfaction. His mouth was a thin, cruel line, lips almost non-existent, stretched over jagged, yellowed teeth. And his eyes—those horrible, burning crimson eyes—shone with unholy delight as he moved like a spectre through the battlefield, his long-fingered hands lazily flicking his wand, sending spell after spell without effort.
He was enjoying himself.
He revelled in the suffering.
And then, he saw them.
Two figures amidst the destruction—out of place, young, unscarred by battle.
Voldemort’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in his gaze. Recognition. And then, amusement.
A flick of his wand sent a particularly vicious curse towards a fleeing Auror, who barely managed to deflect it, their shield shattering on impact. Voldemort didn’t bother to follow up. His attention was elsewhere.
With the slow, deliberate movements of a man who knew he had already won, he lifted his wand, his voice smooth and almost indulgent, yet carrying effortlessly across the battlefield.
“How merciful I am today,” he mused, his tone laced with mockery. “Surrender, and I shall spare the children.”
The fighting faltered.
Harry’s breath stilled. He felt Tom tense beside him, rigid like a statue carved from stone.
Aurors hesitated. Even the Death Eaters momentarily paused, their movements uncertain.
Voldemort smiled.
It was a sharp, thin thing, stretching his unnatural face into something even more monstrous.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. His robes, midnight black and utterly still despite the wind whipping through the battlefield, made him seem like a wraith, a shadow that had simply peeled away from the darkness.
And then, Voldemort’s eyes locked onto Tom.
Something flashed across his expression, subtle yet unmistakable. A flicker of intrigue. A narrowing of those slitted, red eyes. His gaze swept over Tom, taking in his features, his stature, his presence—evaluating, calculating.
“How curious,” Voldemort murmured, his voice dipping to something lower, quieter.
The battlefield, the war, the destruction—all of it became background noise as the Dark Lord studied him.
“You look like a mockery of me.”
Tom didn’t react. His face remained a mask of cold indifference, but there was tension coiled beneath the surface.
Voldemort stepped closer, tilting his head ever so slightly, as if inspecting something beneath a microscope.
“You are nothing,” he continued, his voice smooth, almost lazy. “An imitation. A failed one, at that.”
His lips curled, the expression filled with disdain.
“Pathetic.”
A slow, dark feeling unfurled in Tom’s chest.
Disgust.
Not at the insult. Not at the mockery. But at the man before him.
Voldemort was wrong.
This—this—was the person he had once become?
Tom had always prided himself on his control, his composure, his intelligence. He had built himself into something untouchable, something great. He had never harmed without purpose. Magic was superior, yes, but it was meant to be wielded with finesse.
Voldemort… Voldemort was chaos incarnate. He was destruction for the sake of destruction. He was brutality, mindless and unchecked.
He enjoyed it.
And Tom—Tom had never considered himself good, had never seen himself as anything but ruthless when necessary…
But whereas once he may have been indifferent he felt his stomach coil in unease.
Voldemort smirked.
“But perhaps,” he mused, “you are not entirely useless.”
Before Tom could react, Voldemort moved.
A surge of magic, quick as a viper’s strike, lashed out towards him.
Tom barely had time to shift before—
A golden barrier snapped into place between them.
The spell struck it with an ear splitting crack, sending a shockwave through the ground, rattling debris.
Harry.
He had stepped in front of him, wand raised, face carved from stone. His green eyes burned, a storm of fury within them.
Voldemort’s amusement darkened.
“You dare,” he hissed.
He flicked his wand, and green light surged towards Harry.
Tom moved.
Instinct took over before thought.
His own magic roared to life, deflecting the Killing Curse with a calculated twist of his wand. The force of it sent him stumbling, but he didn’t stop, his heart hammering.
Voldemort’s gaze snapped to him, something new sparking in those blood-red eyes.
And then—
A scream.
Tom’s breath hitched.
A child—a girl, no older than eight—ran, cowering behind the wreckage of a cart. Her small frame trembled, her hands clutched tightly to her chest, her face streaked with dirt and blood.
And suddenly—
He was in Wool’s Orphanage.
Hiding.
The walls shook as bombs fell outside, the air thick with dust. The cries of children filled the dark. The smell of damp and filth clung to his skin. He curled into himself, gripping his arms, pressing himself into the corner as if he could disappear entirely—
His chest tightened.
The memory fractured.
A split second of hesitation—
“Tom!”
Harry’s voice snapped him back.
Voldemort was moving.
He barely had time to register the wand raised towards him before—
Harry lunged, grabbing him by the arm and yanking them both backwards.
The world spun.
Voldemort’s enraged snarl was the last thing he heard before—
A loud crack.
Aurors Apparated onto the battlefield.
Voldemort stilled.
A heartbeat. A fraction of a moment.
Then, with a single flick of his wrist, his followers disappeared in a swirl of black smoke.
And Voldemort himself—
He hesitated, his red eyes flickering over Tom one last time, before vanishing into the night.
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The moment Voldemort disappeared, the battlefield seemed to exhale.
The screams of the dying, the crackle of fires, the whimpers of the injured—they all came rushing back, the world slamming into focus with brutal clarity.
Tom barely had a second to catch his breath before Aurors surrounded them.
There were six of them, dressed in dark, battle-worn robes, wands raised and eyes sharp. Their Polish accents were thick, their words clipped and rapid, demanding explanations.
Harry raised his hands in surrender, his breaths still uneven. “We’re—we’re not—” He stopped, shook his head, tried again. “We’re not with them.”
One of the Aurors, a stocky man with a scar across his jaw, narrowed his eyes. “You were with the Dark Lord.”
“No—”
“They are children,” a woman snapped, her pale blue eyes flicking between them. “Look at them. No masks, no marks. They are not his.”
“They are not ours, either.”
Harry, still trying to steady himself, forced his words out. “We were—we were trying to get to England.”
The Aurors exchanged glances, still wary but slightly less hostile. The woman—who seemed to be in charge—studied them carefully before speaking.
“You are British?”
Harry nodded quickly.
Tom, silent until now, straightened his shoulders. “Yes.” His voice was smooth, unwavering, perfectly controlled. “We are trying to get to England our parents sent us.”
Another shared glance between the Aurors.
Then, the woman turned sharply to one of the men. “Portkey. Priority clearance. Now.”
Tom blinked.
Just like that?
The man hesitated. “Are we sure they—”
“Now,” she repeated firmly. “We do not keep children in war zones.”
Within moments, a silver coin was placed in Harry’s hand, another in Tom’s.
A sharp, swirling pull yanked them forward—
And the battlefield vanished.
They landed hard.
Tom staggered, catching himself against a smooth, wooden desk. The air was different—sterile, quiet, no scent of smoke or blood.
The Ministry.
A pair of British officials stood waiting, expressions weary but not unkind. Behind them, the grand entrance hall of the British Ministry of Magic stretched into polished marble and soft candlelight, a stark contrast to the wreckage they had left behind.
Harry barely had time to adjust before the older official—tall, grey-haired, robes slightly rumpled—spoke.
“You were found in Poland?”
Tom, once again, took the lead. “We were trying to flee here.”
The official’s gaze lingered on him, assessing. “And yet, you ended up in a battle.”
Harry tensed. “Not on purpose.”
A pause. Then, a sigh.
“Right,” the man muttered. “We’ll need your details. You’ll be assigned temporary accommodations while we process your information.” His gaze swept over them, lingering on Harry’s still-bleeding temple. “Medical first.”
They were led down a corridor, the floors lined with plush carpeting, the walls adorned with floating golden lanterns.
It felt… surreal.
Less than an hour ago, they had stood in the centre of a battlefield, Voldemort’s eyes locked onto them, death a single spell away.
Now, they were in the Ministry, safe, under warm lighting and polite bureaucracy.
It didn’t feel real.
Tom didn’t like it.
He followed in silence as they were ushered into the medical wing—a bright, sterile space with crisp white sheets and soft-glowing sconces. He ignored the medi witch’s fussing, the diagnostic spells flickering over his skin.
Harry, however, sat stiffly on the edge of his assigned cot, fingers curled into the blanket, his knuckles white.
They were left alone minutes later.
And then, like a string snapping—
Harry exploded.
“You froze.”
Tom, who had been adjusting his sleeves, barely glanced up before Harry was standing, eyes blazing with fury.
“You just stood there,” Harry snapped, voice raw, ragged with frustration. “You didn’t move, you didn’t fight, you didn’t do anything—he could have killed you.”
Tom’s jaw tightened. “I had it under control.”
Harry let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. “You had nothing under control! You just stood there like an idiot while he—”
“I was handling it,” Tom interrupted coldly. “You are the one who acted recklessly—”
“Recklessly?” Harry’s voice rose. “I saved you!”
Tom’s expression darkened. “And who got us into that mess in the first place?”
Harry’s hands curled into fists.
“Don’t,” he said sharply. “Don’t you dare—”
“Oh, I dare,” Tom cut in, voice laced with irritation. “If not for your carelessness with the Portkey—”
“We were running out of time!”
“We could have waited—”
“We could have died,” Harry snapped.
The room crackled with tension, the air thick with it.
They were both breathing heavily, glaring at each other, neither willing to back down.
Then, finally—
Harry let out a sharp breath, raking a hand through his hair. “We’re never going back, are we?”
Tom stilled.
The words hung between them.
There was no fixing this.
No reversing it.
For Tom it was easy he had been dead stuck in a state of nothing. But for Harry? He had left behind everything—his time, his people, his life.
And he could never return.
Tom hadn’t allowed himself to think about it before. Hadn’t let the weight of it settle in.
But now, standing here, the Ministry’s lights too bright, Harry’s frustration still thick in the air—
He realised it.
Harry exhaled, running a hand down his face. “Strangely, though,” he muttered, half to himself, “it’s not… the worst thing.”
Tom blinked.
He frowned, but…
Somewhere, deep down, a part of him agreed.
It was different.
Not better. Not worse.
Just—different.
He had opportunity here. A blank slate. A chance to build something new.
After a long pause, he turned to Harry.
“How do you even stand me?”
Harry looked at him for a moment before shaking his head, an almost wry smile tugging at his lips.
“The Voldemort I knew?” he said, voice quieter now. “Hated him. This Voldemort? Hate him too.” His gaze lingered on Tom, something more thoughtful in his expression. “But Thomas Avery?” He shrugged. “He’s alright.”
Tom said nothing.
Something settled in his chest.
It wasn’t acceptance, exactly, but it wasn’t rejection, either.
Then, after a moment—
“I didn’t like him,” Tom admitted, surprising himself. “Voldemort.”
Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Tom hesitated. “And the girl—”
“That’s Voldemort,” Harry said, voice sharp, decisive. “He’s a monster.” He exhaled sharply. “If you’re even thinking of—”
“I’m not.” The words left Tom’s mouth before he could second-guess them. They felt too easy. Too natural. He frowned. “I don’t… like it.”
Harry’s gaze changed.
Something clicked behind his eyes.
“You’re whole,” Harry realised.
Tom tensed, but Harry kept going.
“The Voldemort I knew—he made Horcruxes. He split his soul.” His expression darkened. “He was inhuman.”
Tom swallowed.
“But now…” Harry said, voice quieter, more certain. “You’re whole.”
A pause.
And then—
Tom realised it, too.
And maybe, just maybe—
The universe had given them both a second chance.
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The Ministry of Magic was everything Harry had imagined, and yet, nothing like he expected. As soon as they stepped into the office, Harry’s breath hitched—everything here was polished to perfection. The dark wood panelling gleamed under the artificial lighting, and the gold-edged documents seemed to shimmer with authority. It was almost intimidating, as though the very walls could speak of secrets better left unspoken. Despite the overwhelming aura of power, however, Harry felt a quiet unease crawl down his spine.
The woman who greeted them was tall, with sharply defined features and eyes that seemed far too knowing for anyone her age. She was unbothered by the fact that she was speaking to two boys who were no more than sixteen, yet standing in front of her with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a handful of papers to prove who they were. Dorea Potter’s presence was commanding, almost unsettling. When her sharp gaze fell on them, Harry couldn’t help but feel the weight of her scrutiny. And god what a shock it was when she introduced herself - This woman would have been his grandmother but that was past harry now he was an evans and he had to remember that.
Dorea didn’t waste any time. Her eyes skimmed over the papers she’d pulled from a folder before her, jotting notes with brisk efficiency. "Right," she said without looking up, her voice calm but authoritative. "Let’s start with your ages."
Harry could feel Tom’s eyes on him as Dorea set down her quill and glanced at them, waiting for an answer. Tom spoke first, his voice cool, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “Sixteen,” he said without hesitation.
Harry echoed the same, though his voice was less steady. “Sixteen.”
Dorea looked at them with an expression that Harry could not quite place. It wasn’t suspicion—more like the keen interest of someone who saw through the surface. After a brief moment, she wrote something down. “Very well. Harrison Evans, Thomas Avery. Sixteen years old.” "Though I will note down a trip to the infirmary for 16 year olds you both are quite malnourished and look rather young." At this harry pushed down his indignation he was only slightly short and yh being starved and living of minimal rations most his life except Hogwarts could do that to someone. Though he did notice that toms eye twitched also seemingly put off. And oh Tom had grown up in an orphanage he probably experienced the same thing especially with the both of them having been de aged to their past 16yr old selves.
Dorea’s pen moved again, scribbling notes so quickly that Harry had trouble following the trail of ink. The whole situation felt surreal to him—their lives reduced to a series of checked boxes and formalities. Harry shifted his weight uncomfortably, glancing over at Tom. He looked so unfazed, so indifferent to the process, that it only made Harry feel more out of place.
Dorea then glanced back at them. "Your place of origin?" she asked, her pen pausing just above the parchment.
“Poland,” Tom replied smoothly, his words sliding out with an air of confidence. “We attended the Polish Magic Institute for the Young.”
Harry glanced nervously at Tom, wondering if that sounded too far-fetched. He knew about the school—it had been a lesser-known magical institution, but it was real enough. Still, the way Tom said it sounded so rehearsed, so perfect. Harry couldn’t help but feel a bit of awe at Tom’s ability to sell these lies.
Dorea’s gaze flicked to her papers, her brow furrowing slightly. She didn’t question it out loud, but Harry could sense that she was making a mental note of it. “The Polish Magic Institute for the Young,” she repeated, jotting it down. “It was destroyed not long ago, wasn’t it?”
Tom nodded without missing a beat. “Yes. We—” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “We lost everything. Our parents—”
"Yes," Harry interrupted, swallowing hard as he turned to face Dorea. “Our parents are dead. We were close family friends.”
The words stung. Harry wasn’t lying, but the weight of saying it out loud—of admitting that his parents were gone in this timeline as well—felt like a punch to the gut. He looked away, hoping Dorea wouldn’t notice the crack in his composure. His thoughts swirled back to his parents, his mother’s face, but he pushed it down.
Dorea was silent for a moment, processing their response. Harry couldn’t see her emotions, but he knew she was thinking. She was always thinking. The air felt thick with her appraisal, as though she was weighing them against some invisible standard. Finally, she broke the silence.
“This is a rare situation,” Dorea said, her voice cool but with a touch of something else—something Harry couldn’t quite define. “But the Ministry can handle it. We’ll place you under guardianship until we find a suitable family to take you in.”
Harry exhaled quietly, the tension in his chest easing just a little. They wouldn’t be left to fend for themselves, not yet. But what would it mean to live with a stranger? To belong to someone else, even temporarily? A part of him wanted to fight against the idea, but another part—perhaps the part that was truly lost in this new world—was thankful for the security.
Dorea continued, her tone efficient. “In the meantime, you’ll be registered for Hogwarts, and you’ll meet with Professor Dumbledore. He’ll assess your magical levels, make sure you’re ready to start. You’ll be tested, naturally, to see where you stand in your schooling.”
The mention of Dumbledore made Harry’s pulse race. He knew of the man’s reputation, but this wasn’t how he’d imagined meeting him—not under these circumstances. He’d spent years learning about Dumbledore, hearing stories from his parents, from the Order, from others who had known him. But this Dumbledore wasn’t the one Harry had grown up hearing about. This was someone different—someone who would view Harry as a stranger, a child he needed to control. That thought made Harry feel like an outsider in his own life.
Dorea paused, catching Harry’s momentary lapse of focus. “Once you’re settled, we’ll ensure any other needs are taken care of. Clothing, food, housing—anything that the Ministry hasn’t already covered. We’ll handle it.” She was already flipping through the papers, moving on to the next part of their meeting.
The next part of their meeting felt like a blur to Harry. He could hardly pay attention to Dorea as she explained their provisions—food, clothes, and the vague idea of some sort of magical family that might take them in. All Harry could think about was what came next. He trusted Tom to remember the important parts. Though What would they do?
They were led down a long hallway, their footsteps echoing off the polished marble floors, and Harry couldn’t help but feel the weight of the moment. He had a strange sense of being led into something, something bigger than he could understand.
It wasn’t until they stepped outside that the true chaos began.
The moment they emerged from the Ministry building, the atmosphere changed. The bright sunlight hit Harry’s eyes, but it didn’t make him feel any warmer. A crowd had gathered, swarming around them with cameras flashing, microphones shoved in their faces. Reporters shouted questions. The air was thick with noise, with unwanted attention. Harry’s stomach churned.
Dorea’s sharp voice cut through the noise. “Stay close,” she barked, pulling Harry toward her.
Harry glanced at Tom, his eyes wide with panic. He could feel the eyes of dozens of strangers on them, their whispers swirling through the air like an insidious fog.
“Why are they—?” Harry started, but Dorea didn’t let him finish.
“They’re making a circus out of you,” she snapped, clearly struggling to keep her composure. “Your faces—your faces are everywhere. The Daily Prophet has already published an article. ‘Two young heroes who confronted the Dark Lord, seeking refuge in Britain.’”
She sounded almost bitter as she jerked her head toward a nearby wall. The front page of The Daily Prophet was plastered on it - with their faces, the headline reading: “Brave Boys Defy Dark Lord—Seeking Refuge.”
Tom studied the paper for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he looked at Harry. “Well,” he said flatly, “I suppose we’re famous now.”
Harry felt an uncomfortable jolt in his chest. Fame had never been something he’d asked for—especially not in this world, not like this.
“We need to change plans,” Dorea said, her voice sharp as she grabbed their arms and yanked them toward a side street. “Finding a family willing to take you in will be a hell of a lot harder now. Everyone wants the fame, the glory. They want to say they took in the kids who defied the Dark Lord.”
Her voice was heavy with irritation, and Harry couldn’t blame her. But as they moved through the crowd, Harry couldn’t help but feel sorry for Dorea. This wasn’t the life she had chosen. She wasn’t here for any of this, and yet, she had to handle the fallout of their sudden notoriety.
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They were eventually ushered into a private room at the Ministry—a room so extravagant that Harry wondered if they were being treated like royalty or criminals. It was quiet here, in stark contrast to the chaos outside.
Dorea’s eyes were still burning with frustration when the door opened to reveal Harold Minchum, the Minister of Magic himself. He was a tall, thin man, with a smile so wide that it seemed unnatural, his posture radiating overcompensated enthusiasm.
“Ah! Harrison Evans, Thomas Avery,” Minchum said, his voice dripping with forced warmth as he shook their hands. “It is such an honour to meet you both. Britain is fortunate to have such heroes seeking refuge here.”
Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. Minchum’s enthusiasm was clearly more for the public relations opportunity than genuine kindness.
Dorea’s disapproval was evident, though she remained silent. Harry couldn’t blame her.
He tuned out the rest of what the man said not caring to listen. It was only when the minster clapped his hands with a "I best be off to let you settle in." did he come back and judging by Doreas slight twitch it seems he wasn't the only one who had tuned the minister out.
Dorea then with the man gone set to work arranging more mundane details— pyjamas, toiletries and enhanced security to ensure no reporters get in. Harry sat quietly, trying to sort through everything. The weight of it all was starting to feel unbearable.
And then, once Dorea left them alone, Tom turned to Harry with an almost smug expression. “Looks like we’re famous now,” he said, voice dripping with irony.
Harry sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t ask for this. All I wanted was to keep a low profile.”
Tom laughed softly, the sound dark and amused. “Well, life doesn’t always work out the way you want it.”
It wasn’t long before Harry found himself thinking of something else—the conversation with Dorea earlier. Something had been bothering him. It wasn’t just the fame or the press. It was Dumbledore.
Harry looked at Tom. “What about Dumbledore? What if he recognises you? What if he questions your connection to Voldemort?”
Tom’s expression tightened, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “He won’t expose me,” he said flatly. “He kept Voldemort’s identity a secret for years. If he reveals who I really am now, it’ll be a political disaster. A child who opposed Voldemort? Dumbledore can’t afford to reject us.”
Harry blinked, absorbing Tom’s words. The relief that washed over him was almost immediate. He hadn’t considered it that way.
“Well,” Harry said with a small laugh, “this is all ridiculously unconventional.”
Tom grinned, leaning back in his chair. “Your luck is ridiculously unconventional.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Harry, despite everything, couldn’t help but smile back.