let me go, hold me close

There is someone at his table.

He almost laughs in disbelief, it has been a while since he's been taken by surprise after all.

He walks closer to his table at the very back of the library, a recessed space whose small archway is at the end of the last wall of books. To access it he has to walk straight through the tables in the front, eighteen rows of tall shelves that part in the middle to long plush Ravenclaw blue carpet, and along the back wall of the library to his left.

In his four years here, he is the only one to have found it. (Hermione had found it in her first year, he reminiscences.) His heart pangs with the loss of his old life once more.

Another breath, he dispels the creeping memories, and focuses on the intruder. The other Lions aren't very welcoming to his weirdness so he has this private sanctuary warded. Nothing special ofcourse, nothing serious, it is Hogwarts after all, but it will not allow anyone with any harmful intentions to him to even notice the little alcove, whether he is currently occupying the space or not.

So it is not someone who wants to hurt him, or even someone his Magic considers will bother or annoy him. He is growing ever more curious, so he continues on. This is his table after all.

It is a tiny person, the first glance reveals. A firstie? Amusement overtakes curiosity. Ofcourse. A curious litte baby snake, from the color on his robes. Well, this will be easy enough. He continues forward.

The dark brown that meets his green knocks the breath out of his chest. He is unprepared, wholly, completely, utterly lost for what's in front of him. 

Tom Marvolo Riddle. Lord Voldemort.

His lungs cannot pull in enough air, his magic tightening up into a pulsing core, static crackling for one second between his fingers. He pulls them into a tight fist and calls forth every Occlumency practice he has ever had the displeasure of experiencing, an attempt to quell the rising tides of now unfamiliar emotion crashing like waves through him.

Tom fucking Riddle. The firstie encroaching into his private library table.

Lord Voldemort. His what? Future study buddy? He almost laughs out loud at the absurd thought.

Dark eyes have never let go of his own yet. He forces in a steady yet deep breath, trying to replenish the lack of oxygen since his body apparently forgot how to breathe for the last ten? fifteen? seconds.

And Tom Riddle still looks at him, stares, he has not blinked once.

"Hello, I am Harry Potter. Regular occupant of this table for the last four years, hopeful occupant for the next three. And you?"

Tom does not reply, and Harry takes that momentary pause to look at the boy beyond that intital recognition. That pensive memory that Dumbledore showed him has nothing on the real thing, in flesh and blood and Magic, Harry thinks.

Tom Riddle is a beautiful boy. But he more than beautiful, Harry decides, he oozes perfection from every single pore. And Magic. Tom Riddle in flesh and blood is perfection and Magic.

Harry thinks again of Lord Voldemort, that reptilian visage, which had been the very opposite of Tom's beautiful perfection, but that Magic had been the same.

Similar, Harry corrects himself, similar but not the same.

Lord Voldemort's Magic had made his very presence an oppressive thing.

If Dumbledore is to be believed, —and atleast about this Harry thinks he hasn't lied since he innately knows as well,— the Tom Riddle from the diary, the Prefect who kept a pet basilisk in the sewers, the boy who killed Myrtle and framed Hagrid also had an oppressive magical presence. 

Yet this Tom Riddle is a complete blank page. Not completely blank, he reminds himself, the orphanage has definitely still left its marks. This Tom Riddle is also a magical prodigy, intelligent, and most likely a little sociopath.

But even if he stole and kept trophies, even if he killed small pets that belonged to the other orphans, he is still not Lord Voldemort. He is not the Dark Lord who killed Harry parents. He is not the man who shadowed Harry entire earlier magical life in terror.

He is just a little firstie right now. Who is still holding Harry's gaze. Harry is pretty sure he has not responded to a question Harry is pretty sure he has already asked.

He clears his throat, those dark brown eyes are bright and expressive, even if his mouth shows his reluctance at answering.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle", the name is said in an expectant tone, which makes Harry both surprised and curious again. It is the least he expected from Lord Voldemort, to make him feel as he hasn't since his first year in this life. 

In that first year of this life, as he had taken breath as an infant outside of Lily Potter, he had known he was Harry Potter then, with all it entailed. Harry Potter the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, Vanquisher of He Who Must Not Be Named, the Master of Death etc etc. And looking back, it had helped that all his tiny body knew was to cry. Small cries for when the growing pains affect even his adult psyche, or when he needs food, and the real, larger more wracking cries from when he thinks about his family from another life. 

That first year was all he had needed to come to terms with his new life, he had cried for almost a whole year. That he had so abruptly calmed with the crying in the second year had worried his parents, he thinks back amusedly.

He pushes his wandering thoughts behind barriers again, mentally laughing at himself for letting even baby Voldemort tie him up in knots like this. A baby Voldemort that doesn't even know, because if he did, Harry wouldn't be standing right here, obviously.

"Tom Marvolo Riddle" he repeats, each syllable seperate, as if he says it slowly and differently enough this child will stop being who he is. "Why did you hesitate to give up your name?" The curiosity gaining hand, and he cannot think of any conceivable reason. If baby Voldie doesn't know who he is then why wait to introduce himself?

Then it hits him and he almost smacks himself. What does it matter that it is only Tom's second day, yet not even a full 24 hours at Hogwarts? He is in Slytherin with a Muggle name, ofcourse he is hesitant to give out his name. He has probably started getting bullied on the train by pureblooded bigots as soon as he pronounced the second syllabe in Riddle. He shakes his head.

"Nevermind that" he says instead, a new idea taking root. He doesn't think it through much, letting his Gryffindor bravery (foolishness chides a very Hermione-esque voice) take the lead on this.

"Don't think I've seen you at the Slytherin table ever", a non question, but he needs some confirmation that Tom is a first year without offending him if he isn't. Why didn't he pay closer attention to the sorting last night, this is gonna drive him crazy!

Tom saves him from his misery. "I am a first year, I just started at Hogwarts yesterday", the soft baby voice, the slight tilt to his head, the way his lips are beginning to hint at a curve even as his eyes drop for a second.

Shy, Harry thinks, is not an emotion I would associate with Lord Voldemort at all.

It helps displace that last bit of hesitancy he had felt at seeing the unfamiliar yet memorable face of a boy who would grow to be his prophesied enemy in another universe.

This is Tom Riddle, and he perhaps may be closer to Diary Tom than Harry truly feels comfortable with, but he is not Lord Voldemort. And perhaps, that brave (foolish) idea re-emerging, this Tom Riddle will never be Lord Voldemort.

He wants to feel again, he surprisingly finds within himself. And if Tom fucking Riddle had to be the one to do it, then so be it. 

Harry has never backed down from a challenge after all.

And remnants of the emotions he felt watching Lord Voldemorts origin story well up in him again, that sense of companionship in the loneliness of their childhood, in the lack of any love and affection and family. 

Yet, this time around, Harry had received it. He grew up with the love of James and Lily, and Padfoot and Moony in a way that he could only have described as a dream in his past life. And yet, he had really felt nothing until Tom Riddle had shown up at his library table.

And perhaps this is what he has been missing, this sense of companionship. The presence of another's suffering to compliment his own. 

"We've all been first years, dont worry too much" he says finally. "I am in Fifth year myself, a Gryffindor prefect". As if it's not obvious by his robes and badge he thinks to himself desperately. Apparently intelligent conversation of any real depth seems beyond him.

Thank Merlin Tom just nods along to that, then his eyes fall to his book once more, Introduction to Charms, Harry can tell from his own second first year. 

Harry continues on, the plan is solid and unchanging, "No one has ever really found my table before, so I have had no reason to share. However, you found it by yourself, and I consider myself a fair person, and I also understand the attractiveness of my tiny table of peace. If you don't mind sharing, we can study together. I have OWLs this year, so I will need some quiet, but I will answer any questions you have after I'm done with homework, if you'd like". He does not know how Tom will take his offer, but he's pretty sure Tom will atleast accept to sharing the table. 

He knows his table is the best. It had been Hermione's, after all.

"Ah", Tom seems to be at a loss of words for a second, and Harry revels just a bit at catching him offguard, before he powers through, "thank you very much Mr. Potter. I would appreciate it very much".

Harry is unsure if his table or his study help has been accepted but he is occupied by the other more pressing matter. "Harry" he says, a bit hesitantly, unsure how Tom will view this decrease in formality.

Tom seems to be taking it under stride. "And I am Tom, ofcourse" he says, his right hand that had been turning pages until then rising up, a small thing, pale and pretty thin, the bones of his knuckles and wrist beautiful like the rest of him yet too prominent, to Harry they remind him of his own tiny, malnourished hands in another life.

He gently reaches his own hand, large and tanned and calloused from years of Quiddich, and slowly envelops Tom's tiny hand in his own. As they touch, Harry feels his Magic almost physically relax and rush to embrace Tom as much as his hand is currently.

He feels Tom's reaction just as he knows Tom felt his own, and he reluctantly (reluctantly? what?) let's go of the boys hand. His mind is whirring again, thoughts racing uncontrollably, his reaction to their small touch, Tom's reaction to it, is unfathomable.

Lord Voldemort's touch has only caused him pain. At most he has been expecting to slightly like Tom's touch, if he had a nice warm body temp or real soft skin (which is also quite a weirdly creepy thought, he thinks). Yet, Tom's touch has affected him in a totally unexpected and even a bit unwelcoming way, he decides to himself. It's only unwelcoming because you want to touch him again to see if it makes you feel the same every time, and yet you don't want to touch fucking Lord Voldemort, do you Harry, he mocks himself.

Fortunately, he is saved from Tom's curiosity at what happened at just the perfect time. Unfortunately, it comes in the form of his stomach growling rather loudly. Tom looks at him in such surprise after that, he involuntarily chuckles at the expression.

"Couldn't eat much dinner last night, the feast was pretty loud after a whole Summer", he says lightly, even though, honestly, the Welcome feast reminds him of his old life and his old home, of his Hogwarts, too much for comfort. The sounds and smells and sights are still too much for him, but ofcourse he doesn't say that. Yet. "I was only coming here to set these" he gestures with the books in his hand he has almost forgotten he has been holding, "down and continue on to get some breakfast. I'm starving, honestly", he ends, and realizes he had forgotten that too.

He almost laughs. He had needed only one look at Tom Riddle before he forgot what he had planned, forgot he needed to eat, forgot he needed to breathe for those first few seconds. 

He reevaluates and adds, "I'm going to a secret place in Hogwarts that most of the Seventh years definitely have no idea about. I don't think you could comfortably read down there though, but if you're willing to put your book down, I can show you?"

He doesn't know what to say to Tom, except maybe he would try to keep him close and try to be as kind as he wishes Lord Voldemort could have once been once, to a child that had done him no harm. Kinder even, he vows, this Tom has seen terrible days at the orphanage, and already perhaps even a moment of terrible hatred and bigotry at Hogwarts, and he hasn't even been there a day. 

This Tom needs kindness in spades to nurture him to be more than Lord Voldemort could ever hope to be. And Harry intends to atleast attempt to provide.

Tom's eyes search him for a long moment, he says nothing, then he shuts his book, and slides it neatly into his bookbag before he moves to stand up opposite Harry.

In this life Harry is tall like his Dad and Mom. He is tanned and muscled from playing on a broom since he was literally 1, there's picture evidence. He looks pretty different from the Harry Potter he used to look like before. No scar and thus no resulting scar fame has let him style his hair like his dad does, short waves pushed back, the sides of his scalp almost showing near the ends. His fuckboy haircut, as Sirius liked to affectionately say to both him and Dad.

In this life, Tom Riddle is tiny. He is skin and bones underneath those robes, Harry can tell from the way his skin dips into every available crevice. Malnourished, there is that word again, and he breathes out slowly to dispel his frustration? Frustration at what? 

Nevertheless, he gestures to Tom who falls into step beside him and they walk out the library and to the kitchens.

Naturally, Tom is enthralled by the magic castle, so Harry takes this time to study the way his life has turned a complete 180 from the mundane way it has been since he arrived into his existence here.

He almost cannot believe his reaction to the situation but honestly he really can. He is sure that he would have tried kindness to save his Tom Riddle in the Diary had it not ended with Tom trying to kill Ginny. He is sure he would have done anything to try to show the Tom Riddle in Dumbledore's pensive kindness. He wants to show the orphan kindness, orphan to orphan. He knows what it's like to feel alone and unaccepted, especially with the ones you are forced to be around. Does he not long to be told he's not a freak? That he's special in a good way? That he's seen and understood and accepted? That he's loved?

Tom wants that too, doesn't he, why shouldn't he, yes he does. Lord Voldemort had probably not wanted any of his empathy, but Tom Ridde was not Him, and so, as Harry tilted his gaze to study Tom better, he decided yes, Tom would like that too, he is sure now. 

And ofcourse he cannot just tell Tom that, he has a full family in this life after all, but perhaps he could try to befriend this Tom and see. Who knows, maybe one day Harry could trust him with atleast a little bit of the truth. The parts that made them similar. And maybe, now into dangerous territory, maybe even the whole truth, depending on how our friendship goes.

(And if the thought of Lord Voldemort getting angry at Harry using emotional means to get closer to his younger self almost cracks Harry up, thats between him and his slightly more insane self.)