La petite mort
For the briefest flash of a second, faux-Riddle stared at Harry as if he’d thrown a bludger at his head. Then the greatest impostor of the dark lord Harry had ever seen quickly schooled his expression into something more acceptable but kept staring.
“He was acting muggle,” Harry tried to say to the old man by way of explanation. He would have added more context but he didn’t even know where to start.
The other two just kept on staring.
Harry sighed.
This would be difficult to explain without context, wouldn’t it?
Oh, yeah, he just pulled me up against his chest like he was about to kiss me. He would have totally said it but something in Harry’s gut warned him against the idea. Faux-Riddle or not, the man was a total wanker with curses. Bloody Peter Pettigrew got unceremoniously strangled to death just for thinking. Whatever. He’d just let it rest.
So Harry stared right back instead of saying anything.
The old man pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face again. Merlin, was he sweating bullets. “Dear Morgana save me,” he muttered, and then, louder, “I—I’ll figure out what to do with you, Mr. Wazlib, in just a moment. Riddle—you stay put. Neither of you leave this room.”
He left and shut the door behind him, apparently uncaring of what they did in the meantime. Harry couldn’t detect any more wordless spells at least.
Riddle (who was maybe not so faux, Harry contemplated, after something of a theory had started to form in his mind) was still looking at him with that inscrutable expression on his face.
“Shut up,” Harry said automatically. The git hadn’t said anything but he could feel the inevitable coming.
The inevitable did come. “I just want to kn—”
“Take these off,” Harry commanded, holding out his handcuffed hands to the dark lord in development.
“Absolutely not.”
“Okay,” Harry shrugged, and banished the bindings himself. He got no response from that except a visible gulp down Riddle’s throat.
Riddle had a nice throat. He had a nice face too. The wanker had a nice body as well, from what he could see. Hogwarts robes were the least form fitting thing ever, so Harry couldn’t really tell. It was actually a bloody shame the psycho was the way he was. If Riddle wasn’t a whole fucking serial killer, maybe Harry would have asked him about dancing the two person tango, so to speak. Harry was up for it at least. Man or woman, he didn't differentiate. After the divorce Harry had been liberal about who he’d taken to bed. Especially muggles. They didn’t know he was the Boy Who Lived an aimless life post 1998.
But the guy standing in front of him was a clinically insane individual and Harry would take no chances. Not even a teeny tiny one. His logical brain was vehemently agreeing with the ever-present Hermione voice. No getting it on with Tom Riddle. No matter how cute he looked when he was mad.
Harry scooted over and patted the sofa. “Sit,” he offered. “Let’s get to know each other.”
Riddle took a deep deep breath that Harry was sure was his way of convincing himself not to do anything stupid like kill an unknown student in the headmaster’s office. Then he sat down next to Harry, albeit leaving two feet of empty space in between them, and turned to face him.
Through gritted teeth, “What would you like to know?”
“Um,” Harry started.
So, have you found the Chamber of Secrets yet? Or killed anyone? How’s that wanker Abraxas Malfoy doing?
Harry and Malfoy had spent the good part of 2001 going through magical artifacts from the Malfoy estate and had come upon…correspondence…between Malfoy's grandfather and a certain T.M.R. For what reason Harry had been assigned to the Manor, he didn’t know. But by late October he and Malfoy had gotten over themselves and become good mates, really, so Harry didn’t regret anything.
“What are you doing here?” Riddle asked flatly, interrupting Harry’s reminiscing.
Now it was Harry’s turn for the words to tumble out of his mouth. “Definitely nothing you need to worry about,” he said before he could have thought of literally anything less incriminating.
Riddle just made a face at that and picked up the week’s copy of The Daily Prophet. The budding supervillain opened the bloody paper as much as it could possibly open and hid his beautiful face behind the pages.
Suddenly an idea—courtesy of the Hermione voice in his head—came to Harry. He wordlessly accio’ed the paper from Riddle, sadly getting no reaction other than a repeat of pre-baldyface clenching his fists, and took a good look at the date in the top right corner.
Friday, October 16, 1942.
October 16, 1942.
October, 1942.
1942.
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
He was in the past.
Harry let out a low whistle. “Holy shit,” he said, but not disbelievingly. This was not the most unbelievable thing that had happened to him before. Dying twice took the cake. Wizards could travel back in time but not protect themselves from death unless they were completely off their rocker like good old Voldy moldy had been.
“May I—”
“Shut the fuck up.” Harry had to think about this. This was fucking—what? What the hell? Bloody Fate.
The dangling stick had led him straight to El Dorado.
But before he could celebrate. First things first. “I’m sorry,” Harry said to Riddle, setting the paper down. He held out his hand in an attempt at reconciliation. “I don’t think you’re crazy or have muggle tendencies. My bad. It’s nice to know that you’re not an impostor. Stay safe out there.”
Riddle didn’t take his hand and just stared at him.
“Stop staring at me.”
Riddle scowled. “I’m not.”
“You know, you’re really moody,” Harry said automatically. “But I guess it makes sense.” Voldemort had been an emotional creature so of course it tracked that his body’s predecessor had been as well.
Riddle opened his mouth to say something but then the old man came back out of his room, ready to deliver the verdict on what to do with the new Harry Wazlib.
Luckily for Harry he knew just what to do.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said softly, cutting in before the old guy could get a word in edgewise. “It’s just been so difficult with the war and everything. I’ve had quite the shock.” He wasn’t even lying. The war had been bloody difficult. So what if he was referencing the one in 1998 and not Grindelwald’s? The old man didn’t need to know anything that didn't concern him.
The man’s hard stare softened. “But of course,” he said. “Your mind is muddled. We will sort you into your house, boy, and then you will get well deserved rest in the Hospital Wing.”
Harry thought that was a bit backwards. Why in Merlin’s name was he going to be sorted first and then medically examined? What kind of backwards world was this? It was like spelling out the alphabet from Z to A. Just stupid. What if the hat put him in the wrong house because of 'befuddlement'? Hermione would have had choice words about the Headmaster's decision.
But whatever. Harry didn’t really give a fuck.
He wasn't going to think too hard about the fact that he would never see Hermione or Ron again. (Their voices would live on in his head forever. Hermione's more than Ron's. Bless them both.) Or Ginny. He would miss Malfoy but would probably stop missing him once he met Abraxas. Other than that he couldn't really think of anyone he was leaving behind.
Maybe it was for for the best that he was here. The dangly stick had done its work.
Now that his theory had been validated...
...Harry had plans.