Eat your young.
there’s something tragic about you.
“I’m starvin’, darlin’,
Let me put my lips to somethin’
Let me wrap my teeth around the world.”
“Skinnin’ the children for a war drum
Put in front of the table, sellin’ bombs and guns
It’s quicker and easier to eat your young.”
Chapter One: Eat Your Young
The world was changing, that much was certain. The constant ebb and flow of the tides egged on to rage higher and higher by the moon’s condescending grin. A constant ringing enveloped the world, reverberating through its desolate cities and wrecked cathedrals with the caution of air raid sirens, ushering people to their caskets.
It was wartime on the magical and muggle fronts. This ancient and towering castle had seen its fair share of orphans come and go, their existence whispering through the halls briefly like the ghosts that haunt them. Only for some to never return come September 1st.
Due to the current events, the story falling from Harry’s lips was easily believed as it rang through Headmaster Dippet’s office. The frail-looking old man cast a pained pity on the even frailer-looking fifteen-year-old sitting before him. Poor Harry Evans– a war orphan from a raized town along the coast near Manchester. A boy who’d lost his entire life to the indiscriminate bombings.
“So your studies were based at home?” Professor Dumbledore asked, his expression mostly neutral despite the sparking suspicion flinting to life in his blue eyes. Harry tried not to shift under the gaze; it’d already been so jarring confronting the fifty-years-younger face of his old Headmaster. Especially after the cold treatment he’d given Harry in his real timeline. Something about the man’s gaze reminded him of his primary school teachers, the ones who’d look at his gaunt sharp features and immediately peg him as some sort of delinquent; their opinions often fed by the fights Dudley pulled him into and the negative mistruths Aunt Petunia slandered him with throughout his childhood.
“That’s right, sir,” Harry responded. Unable to meet the man’s gaze, he fixed his eyes on the ground, hoping his discomfort would be written off as mourning.
“Well, given the circumstances, I don’t see why you wouldn’t be able to join us here at Hogwarts, Mr. Evans,” Dippet tells him kindly, smiling sympathetically at the boy across from him. The expression caused something in Harry to cringe back, curl inward, and pace restlessly in his chest. He’d seen that smile too many times, a sympathy that couldn’t be empathized. A sorrow that wasn’t Harry’s own and a foreign mourning that stirred an urn’s ashes.
“Thank you, Headmaster.” Spoken with a weak smile, Harry was comforted by the fact that the Headmaster had bought the load of bullshit he’d just sold him. He felt a little guilty, though everything he said wasn’t exactly a lie. His entire family had been wiped out in a war, just not this one. Besides, Harry had a goal in being here, a reason for his deceit.
He was going to kill Tom Riddle.
Being sent back in time meant that his original timeline had splintered. Harry knew that even if Tom Riddle was killed here and now, his present would remain the same. The past can never truly be changed, so Harry would ensure that this timeline at least wouldn’t have to bear the weight of another Dark Lord. At least, that’s what Death had whispered to him on that white platform in Limbo. With the shrieking cries of Voldemort’s soul fragment weeping beneath a bench, Harry had been given an ultimatum.
Return to his present and possibly see tomorrow.
Or ensure the future of a different timeline.
Harry had been certain at the time that had he lived to the next day, his life after would be nothing but torment, as it had been for seventeen years prior. He’d still be trapped in that role, with that body and the labels that accompanied it. The Girl Who Lived, Harriet Potter, the sole survivor of the killing curse and Savior of Wizarding Britain.
He couldn’t do it. Everything in him knew that even after the war was won, he could never live his life how he wanted. He’d also known that were he to actually die, the rest of them would be able to end the war, and they’d get to live out their lives however they saw fit.
So here he was, sitting in a creaky chair with a deflated cushion, in the warm, familiar walls of Hogwarts pre-battle… in 1942.
“We’ll have you sorted with the first years, as it is one of our most sacred ceremonies and can be quite exciting for the first time,” Dippet tells him while they head down from his office to prepare for the Welcome Feast. “From there, your house’s prefect will guide you around the castle and to your classes. They will ensure that our curriculum lines up with your original studies with minimal overlap.” Harry wasn’t a fan of the idea that someone would be surveying his every move for the first few months, but he could deal with it. There were nuances of this era that escaped Harry’s scope of understanding, cultural differences that had died out by the time he’d been born that he urgently needed to become accustomed to. Besides, he’d need to lay low for a while to establish his position here for minimal suspicion.
The hallways were quiet, with no one wandering about save for a few professors flitting from their classrooms to the Great Hall and the occasional ghost shifting in and out of sight. It’s not hard for Harry to fake wonderment at the castle’s interior, most of it was honest admiration. Even if all of the faces he’d encountered here were different, even if the clothing was out of style and the products in Diagon Alley were all vastly inconsistent with his time, this castle echoed the very same visage that reflected his home for the past six years of his life. Some of the portraits were foreign to him, but the hum of magical energy dancing around the hallways sang the same melody from his memories. The last time he’d seen these halls, they were a hollow skeleton with frantic students rushing about. Fear and dread mingling with the usually warm magic undertone, the castle had been ready to fall to pieces, what was once a fortress of safety turned out to be a casket waiting to be closed had Harry not walked into the Forbidden Forest to accept his death.
And if his eyes got a little misty, that was his business and no one else’s.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Headmaster Dippet asks with a warm smile and a deep breath, appreciating even the distinct smell of the corridors. “I’ll never forget the first time I stepped foot in this castle.” The look in his eye was a distant thing, dancing around like ghosts as he fell back into his reverie of memories. “Now, don’t be frightened about being sorted. It’s a simple process, but sometimes our sorter can be a little invasive. So if he says anything unsavory regarding your past or what you’ve gone through, I beg your pardon on his behalf.” The man apologizes sincerely, shooting Harry a knowing gaze as he enters the Great Hall. There was something ethereal about Headmaster Dippet, something that seemed a little disconnected as if he were constantly traversing another plane of their existence. It was a little unsettling to witness and reminded Harry briefly of Luna Lovegood. However, despite her constantly drifting mind, she was always sharp and saw everything happening around her mostly for what it was.
In contrast, Dippet seemed as though he would miss important details no matter how big simply because he was lost in his thoughts. Which might prove to be a blessing for Harry. His ability to remain in Hogwarts until he’s able to complete his mission depends solely on the Headmaster’s faith in him as an innocent little war orphan seeking asylum within these walls.
Headmaster Dippet instructed Harry to wait in the hall alongside Dumbledore who was waiting to greet the first years, as was customary for the Deputy Headmaster. For a moment all was silent between the two, with nothing but the soft shuffling from inside the Great Hall to fill the space between their shoulders. Surely the rest of the students year two and up were filing into their respective tables, while the first years were crossing the Black Lake in their little boats for the scenic view of their new home.
Harry almost wished he’d been taken back to being a first-year, just to experience the trip again.
“So, Mr. Evans, which house are you hoping to find a home in?” Dumbledore asked as a means to strike up conversation, he had a pleasant smile on his lips, though it didn’t exactly reach his eyes. Harry kept his gaze diverted to the many wonders of the castle, eyes trailing up the portraits as an excuse not to look at the man.
“I’m not sure,” Harry settled on this answer, hoping that Dumbledore wouldn’t press him for too much information. “I think I’d be happy with any of them.” He answered, which was mostly the truth. Over the years Harry had confronted a lot of his affronts to the other houses and realized that realistically it doesn’t matter which house you’re placed in, so long as you can make it a home.
“A wise answer,” Dumbledore hummed, chin tilting up to gaze at the portraits high in the stairwells. “I came from Gryffindor, a noble and brave house, lions are fierce protectors, you know.” The man said, laying on the wise grandfather act a little thick for Harry’s taste. The man had amused Harry in his younger years, but as Harry got older, he began to understand the undertones that Dumbledore carried with him. The suspicion and judgment he held for others now come off as distasteful since Harry has dealt with the man’s constant string of shenanigans. He wasn’t an impressionable child anymore, so any hope Dumbledore had of winning him over in this timeline to spill his guts and secrets was quickly extinguished. Quick to affiliate people by their stereotypes and unable to separate the character from their associated qualities, Dumbledore may as well have handed him a recruitment flier then and there.
As much as Harry ached to see the maroon warmth of the Gryffindor common room, he wouldn’t be staying alongside the pride of lions this year. No, he had a goal, which meant he had to dive head-first into the pit of vipers.
When the first years started hesitantly ascending the staircase, Dumbledore greeted them with a warm smile and began the introductory speech. With Dumbledore’s speech registering somewhere in Harry’s mind, his eyes roved over the crowd before him, drinking in the fresh round faces of the first years. Most of them looked quite overwhelmed, while some carried a haughty air that reminded Harry of a particular weasel. One shocking fact about the group was that it was incredibly small. The number of first years was only a fraction of the class Harry was familiar with. He’d had roughly two hundred kids enter Hogwarts with him on that first September away from Little Whinging. But standing before him were probably only thirty kids, all with deep-set eye sockets and purple eye bags, each face staring back up at him seemed older than they were.
A lump formed in Harry’s throat as he realized a lot of these kids probably lost their friends to the war, maybe even their families. And perhaps this year would be the last time Harry would see their faces.
They all looked shockingly aware of this possibility.
Then, the doors behind Harry were opened so he stepped aside to allow the children to view the Great Hall. Gasps of astonishment rang among the group as they stepped out under the illusion of the night sky. With wisps of Lumos charms floating about leisurely to simulate stars or fireflies, it was enchanting to witness even the hundredth time around.
Per Headmaster Dippet’s instructions, Harry waited back by the entrance door for the children to be sorted. His gaze scanned the tables, easily picking them out due to the color coding of each house. His eyes trailed over the green and silver tables, unknowingly holding his breath as he searched for a particular face among the crowd. Even when the number of students had dwindled so drastically due to the war, Harry still couldn’t spot his target. So he watched as one of the quickest Sorting Ceremonies he’d ever witnessed passed in the blink of an eye. And as the last few students were being called up, anxiety began to bubble and brew in his stomach like an unattended cauldron. He hadn’t had to sit before everyone under that ridiculous hat since he was eleven, but he’d been in the public eye since he first entered the Wixen World, surely this couldn’t be as bad as participating in the Triwizard Tournament.
The memory of that ridiculous inter-school competition brought with it a well of mourning. A sour taste of acid curled around in his throat briefly, bit back by the tight clench of his jaw as he tried to swallow it. The image of Cedric’s body thumping stiffly to the ground beside him haunted his waking dreams, and that hissed-out command from the fleshy fetus cradled in Pettigrew’s arms lingers along his skin like a frigid air. Curling his hands into fists, Harry tried once more to look over the Slytherin table for the perpetrator of his ire. Hatred boiled in him like a torrential tide. He’d have to hold onto this feeling, right up until he can see the life drain from Voldemort’s young gaze. He had been fueled by this hatred for the past four years or so, like a threat lingering under his skin and wriggling about. Headmaster Dumbledore had attributed the hatred to his and Voldemort’s link, that what he was feeling had been the result of the self-loathing that Voldemort had felt that ultimately began spilling over onto him.
“Evans, Harry!” Dumbledore’s voice broke him from his reverie, his eyes snapped forward to the man standing beside the stool with the hat in hand. He was the last one standing in the hall, all of the first years having been successfully sorted. Trying to remain composed, Harry made his way under the bewitched night sky, highlighting stars and fluffy clouds obscuring the glow of the moon. His footsteps echoed as people whispered back and forth to each other, he felt like he was walking straight up to greet his own coffin.
The stool was cold when he sat on it, indicating that Dumbledore may have called him a couple of times while he was lost in his loathing. Thankfully he’d grown since he was eleven, so when the hat was placed on his head it didn’t obscure his eyes. The folds shifted, creating a squeak of leather and fabric as the hat opened his mouth to speak.
“Ah, an interesting one you are…” The hat prattled on, mumbling nearly incoherently as it sifted through his qualities and memories. Harry heard the familiar whispers of Ambition, Power, and Greatness, along with Bravery and an afterthought of Chivalry mixed in. Harry had had plenty of conversations with the old scrap of fabric, so he felt like he knew exactly what the hat was planning based on its mumbling.
The hat had always wanted to put him in Slytherin.
Harry’s eyes trailed over the Slytherin table, he had a better view now that he was at the front of the hall and everyone was focused on him. This time, it wasn’t hard for him to locate the person he’d been searching for previously.
There sat Tom Riddle, amidst a sea of snobby-looking Purebloods who showed little interest in Harry. His eyes narrowed as he settled on watching Tom’s Profile. The young man was just as handsome as Harry remembered from the diary, with sharp cheekbones and perfectly curled brown hair, he was particularly stunning to look at amidst the sea of pinched faces. Swallowing thickly around the lump that had yet to leave his throat, he made eye contact with the youthful visage of the man who killed his parents, the boy whose future was dripping with innocent acrid blood. Their eyes met, and Tom’s cool expression tilted minutely into a curiosity that left Harry’s stomach burning. His expression had been droll and bored, his shoulders and back straight to retain a semblance of attention until he met Harry’s gaze. And then those dark brown eyes narrowed and his pink lips tilted up at the corners into a mockery of a pleasant smile.
It made Harry’s blood boil.
“SLYTHERIN—“
This was it. Harry thought. This was the moment he was going to change everything. When Tom Riddle’s blood wet the stones of Hogwarts, the world would finally know peace.
“Azkaban.” The hat’s declaration brought Harry’s thoughts to a screeching halt. His eyes grew wide behind his glasses, and Dumbledore’s hand froze on its way to retrieve the object from Harry’s head.
“He’s here for blood!” The hat continued, spitting each word loud and clear for the entire hall to hear. “Protect the students! He brings devastation wherever he goes!” Harry’s heart sank into his stomach as he ripped the hat off his head. The hat continued shouting, however, urging Headmaster Dippet to call in the Aurors to take Harry away. The entire hall grew quiet as a graveyard, each student staring owlishly up at him as he shoved the hat into Dumbledore’s hands. He turned back to look at Headmaster Dippet, his heart hammering away in his chest.
Dippet, however, was not watching him as if he were a danger to society, no, instead the man was gazing at Harry with that same pitying expression. A knowing glint glazed over his old milky eyes, it seemed this was what he’d feared would happen once Harry sat at the stool to be sorted.
“Go on over to the Slytherin table, Mr. Evans.” The man encouraged him like he was coaxing a small animal. Harry’s eyebrows shot up as he took in the man’s calm demeanor. Had he not heard what the hat said? Did he misunderstand the hat’s warning?
He wasn’t sure what the reason was, but he decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Nodding stiffly, the boy began his walk to the gallows as his robes changed to accommodate his new house colors.
As his footsteps echoed in the quiet of the hall, he could feel the curious gazes, the burning interest drilling holes into his body as he shrunk in on himself. This feeling felt achingly familiar.
He’d planned to walk to the end of the table, to sit near the first years, and to escape the watchful eyes around him. Harry had wanted to float under the radar, to raise little suspicion. It seemed like no matter what, the world had its eyes on him in every timeline. As his feet thudded dully in his rush to an open seat, a long leg struck out to obscure his path, and then a tall figure was standing from the table to tower over him.
“Tom Riddle,” The voice that greeted him curled around him like a cloak, weighing on his shoulders as he once again met the gaze of his parent’s young murderer. “We’ve room here.” Something about facing the younger version of the man who’d annually tried to kill him set his nerves on fire. And the sharp intrigue in the boy’s eyes made something in Harry snarl and lash against his rib cage like an animal. The people who’d been sitting around Tom all gawked at Harry like he was some obscure creature who’d lurched at them from a dark alley. Tom cleared his throat primly, and in a wave, the students shifted to accommodate room for the newcomer. The area of the Slytherin table was spacious, with the main group offering lots of elbow room to one another, unlike the crammed Gryffindor table that Harry remembered– Which is probably a result of the dwindling student body, but also the space that was either consciously or subconsciously granted to accommodate one Tom Riddle.
Harry did not want to sit.
But at this point, the eyes of everyone in the hall were blowing him to pieces with their intensity. So without sparing another look at the serpentine boy proffering him a seat among his ranks, Harry sat at the newly opened space for him.
Dread weighed heavy in his gut as Tom sat back down, the magic coming off him in waves and impeding on the gap between their shoulders felt suffocating. The hair on Harry’s nape stood on end as his subconscious recognized the presence of a familiar predator.
Headmaster Dippet grabbed the students’ attention once more, saving Harry from a few of their ravenously curious gazes as he too trained his eyes on the frail old man standing at the pedestal. Harry’s ears were ringing, accompanied by the thumping of his heart; it was nearly impossible to register what the flighty old man was saying. Up until food bloomed to life on the table before Harry, he’d heard nothing but TV static buzzing in his ears as the weight of Tom’s magical presence pressed in on him from his right side.
“So, Evans, was it?” Drolled a curious voice across from Harry. Elegant and high, Harry’s eyes snapped across the table to see a remarkably familiar pale face, with silvery blue eyes and long platinum hair. He didn’t need a family tree to know that this person was Abraxas Malfoy.
“Yeah,” Harry responded with a frown. “Just Harry is fine.” He told them; because hearing his mother’s maiden name dropped out of the blue was a little jarring. He wished he’d thought about that before introducing himself to Headmaster Dippet.
“How plebeian.” Mocked a tittering voice to the left of Abraxas. Sneering back at Harry from across the table was a girl with a dark complexion and tight ringlet curls. With a sharp gaze that penetrated Harry’s skin while shining her sharp teeth behind full pretty lips. Her sharp face shook Harry with a pained familiarity. She looked just like her son, after all.
Sitting across from him was Walburga Black.
“Evans,” She says as if wanting to taste it on her tongue. “Muggle, isn’t it?” She smirked sharply, primly taking a sip from her mug of pumpkin juice. Harry’s stomach churned and he grits his teeth against the monster clawing its way up his throat. “Sure sounds like a dirty last name.”
“At least it isn’t on both sides of my family tree.” He retorts calmly, cutting off a piece of whatever meat he’d carelessly thrown onto his plate and putting it in his mouth.
Someone else within the group laughed, sharp and amused. “Feisty,” they say, drawing Harry’s gaze around Tom’s right shoulder to a figure leaning against the table to eye the burning space between Harry and Walburga. “We’ve got ourselves a feral one this year.” The boy staring at Harry had a short clean cut of brown hair, dark eyes, and a large build. He’s roguishly handsome but not necessarily elegantly beautiful like the others around the table.
“Mind the food hanging from your mouth, Nott,” Tom advises without even glancing at the boy beside him. Nott sinks back into place and wipes his mouth with a napkin somewhat obediently.
“It is Muggle though, isn’t it?” Asks a new voice across from Nott. Harry’s eyes feel tired with how sluggishly his gaze finds its way to a smaller boy with blue eyes and neatly trimmed dark hair.
At this point Harry is exhausted, the constant push of Tom’s magic bearing down on his shoulders, the onslaught of rude comments and questions, and that familiar suspicious gaze glaring down at him from the Professor’s Table have been draining him from the moment he sat down.
“Yes,” He finally tells them. “It’s Muggle.”
“Where were you studying before?” Abraxas asks with a raised brow.
“At home.” He replies without looking up from his meal.
“Aren’t you a mudblood, though? How could you have been studying?” Walburga asks with a high laugh as if the idea was absolutely preposterous. Harry’s teeth feel like they’re going to splinter with the harsh clench of his jaw.
“My mother was a half-blood.” He lies effortlessly, trying to hide his ire in the chalice of pumpkin juice set before him.
“Surely a squib, then?” She hums, eyes like daggers as she tries goading Harry on. “Why is it that you’ve suddenly decided to join us this year? Was she not able to teach you more than first-year charms?”
Harry’s fingers dug so hard into the metal chalice that he left little dents. With barely controlled anger, he set the cup down and leveled her with as calm a stare as he could muster.
“My parents are dead.”
The table around him quiets just a bit, and the gravity of his blatant comment settles into them. Abraxas has the decency to cast his gaze down at his plate and look embarrassed, Walburga’s grin falls. Instead, she fixes him with an irritated sneer, clearly uncomfortable about any guilt she feels.
“The war has produced a lot of orphans,” Tom speaks up for the first time on his shoulder. Up until now, the boy had merely been a quiet spectator to Harry’s torment; which was pretty in character for baby Voldemort. “It’s sad to hear, but you’ll fit in well here, at least.”
Harry didn’t know what was more unsettling, the fact that Tom’s idea of a pep-talk was telling Harry that he’ll fit in with the other orphans or that he was giving Harry a pep-talk to begin with. What's worse is that this was the man who made him an orphan, the man who’d simultaneously ripped his family away and tossed him out into the spotlight to dance around like a monkey in a cage.
Hatred reared its ugly head and Harry wisely dipped his gaze back down to his plate to avoid murdering Tom in front of everyone and incriminating himself right then and there.
“Great,” He spits, staring down at the remnants of his meal on his plate.
Maybe what he’d told Dumbledore was a lie. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to make this house a home.