Chapter I
There were so many funerals to attend. That was how Harry remembered the first few hazy months after the Battle of Hogwarts.
Two years later, wizards celebrated the week of the Battle. It began with memorial speeches, which deteriorated into drunken celebrations; blurry nights of sharp laughter and heavy sobbing, mornings shot through with headache and regret. During one of those nights Ginny broke up with Harry. It was a relief.
She let him go gently, knowing she’d lost him a long time ago. She’d started losing him the night Harry had gone into the forest and died.
He couldn’t look Mrs Weasley in the eyes anymore. His visits in the Burrow had become rare. The warmth in the house he used to cherish, crave even, now only reminded him of those they’d lost.
And they’d lost so many.
It almost seemed too much, when he recited their names every night, staring blindly into the ceiling of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t forget.
He knew it was unhealthy, the way he continued to replay the events from two years ago, stuck in time while everyone he loved – everyone still alive – moved on. He played Quidditch with Ron every week and grabbed lunch with Hermione whenever she could find time in her busy work schedule as an Unspeakable, but Ron and Hermione had each other, in their grief they’d become stronger. Harry, on the other hand, found comfort only in hatred.
He cultivated the feeling like a fire, burning as bright as the eyes of the monster who was responsible for all that pain that Harry couldn’t vanish away – Mr Weasley’s hardened expression; the dark circles underneath Andromeda’s eyes; George’s humourless laugh. Everywhere Harry looked, he saw Voldemort and the scars of his countless victims.
It wasn’t enough that he was dead. How could it be?
Hermione asked Harry to meet her in the Department of Mysteries. His temper, which lately often threatened to get away from him, flared at the request, but Hermione, knowing him too well, followed up with, ‘I know what it reminds you of, Harry, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you’d want to see it’.
So there he was, staring at the door he’d dreamed of every night in his fifth year. The door Voldemort had obsessed about, the first obsession they’d shared but certainly not the last, and the reason Sirius was dead. Harry didn’t blame himself over his godfather’s death anymore. He’d been a kid, isolated and convinced that there was a weapon hidden behind the door that could thwart Voldemort’s efforts, of course he’d fallen for Voldemort’s manipulations. Time had given him perspective. There was only one person who could be blamed.
‘This way,’ Hermione led him through the circular room, choosing the next door as though at random, although Harry knew it was anything but.
Shimmering light washed over them, the gentle sound of ticking drumming a beat inside Harry’s mind. He knew this room. The diamond-sparkling jar was gone, of course, and it was less cluttered, with all the clocks they’d smashed battling the Death Eaters, but it seemed the Ministry had been putting effort into rebuilding their impressive clock collection. Clocks gleamed from every shelf and nook, winking at Harry with a promise… of something. A thought was forming in his mind when Hermione dragged him forward, forcing his attention on the well in the centre of the room.
‘That’s new,’ he commented, his gaze still flickering to a collection of Time-Turners displayed proudly on the shelf to his left. The room was so narrow he was certain he could touch one of the devices with the fingertips of his outstretched hand, if he wanted to.
‘Yes,’ said Hermione, sounding pleased with herself. ‘Do you see it?’
He focused his gaze on the well. There was something odd about the air above the well. It shimmered, its texture that of an invisible veil fluttering in the wind.
‘The veil,’ he stared at Hermione, frozen in shock. He wanted to yell at her. He didn’t need this; he didn’t want to see, to be reminded–.
‘Oh, no. Harry, no, it’s Time.’
He took a moment to collect himself. He breathed, watching the air above the well. He started seeing the discrepancies between the arc that had taken Sirius and the well. He’d thought he imagined it, but the longer he looked at the air, the more convinced he became that it shimmered gold, and in the gold, blurred images shimmered like memories in the Pensive. A tree, going through the seasons. An old man, becoming a child once more.
Red eyes, narrowed in cruel amusement.
Harry flinched, taking a step back.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Hermione asked hesitantly.
She’d expected a different reaction. He was upsetting her, he could tell. Harry called forth a smile, which felt like a weight on his face.
‘Yes, it is,’ he admitted.
‘The essence of Time,’ Hermione specified, beaming at him. ‘Everyone experiences different images, for example, I can see the sky, going from day to night, and Hogwarts, the way I saw it for the first time. I can see the three of us, happy…’ she trailed off then, and looked up at Harry with oddly shining eyes.
‘I thought,’ she continued quietly, ‘that it would bring you some peace. Knowing that they’re not only preserved in our memories.’
‘It means that he’s still in there.’ He spoke the words without thinking.
‘Oh, Harry.’
‘It feels like poison, Hermione. My hatred for him. In fifth year, when my scar hurt almost every day and in dreams I saw what he saw, felt what he felt, I worried that I was becoming just like him – evil. I was filled with so much anger. But this feels worse.’
‘You just need time. There’s nothing wrong – we all feel like this.’
‘Time won’t bring them back,’ Harry’s hands curled into fists.
‘No, it won’t,’ she said gently. ‘Nothing can bring them back, but we can remember them. We can remember their sacrifice and build a kinder world. A world that remembers, not in despair, but in hope that next time an orphaned child wouldn’t have grown up not knowing the meaning of love.’
‘Don’t pity him,’ he snapped.
‘I pity the child he used to be, not the man he chose to become.’
It still sounded an awful lot like she pitied Tom Riddle.
The air flickered in gold, like ripples in the water, and Harry saw a reflection of a Time-Turner, spinning brilliantly in Hermione’s hands. They’d saved Sirius and Buckbeak that day. Not one, but two innocent lives.
How many more could he save, he wondered, if he stopped Tom Riddle before Voldemort was born in the dark, creepy depths of his mind.
The thought was ruthless, prickly with thorns. Harry was reminded uncomfortably of Voldemort, arriving in Godric’s Hollow with the full intention of murdering a baby. It would be different – Harry had been innocent. Hardly the same could be applied to Tom Riddle.
Hermione’s warm hand, a light touch on his shoulder, dragged him out of the dark spiral of his thoughts.
‘You won’t believe me now, and yes, it’s a small consolation, but, Harry, time heals all kind of wounds,’ she made a move as though to touch his scar, then stopped. ‘We’ve been through so much together. We’ll come out of this one too.’
Yes, time indeed could heal wounds. It could stitch them back together and make whole again.
Harry smiled, feeling warmth, the kind he hadn’t felt in a long time, fill his chest. He indulged Hermione, asking her technical questions about how exactly she managed to extract the essence of Time. When she wasn’t looking, he stepped closer to the shelves, and, with reflexes of a Seeker, grabbed a Time-Turner off the shelf and pushed it deep into his pocket.
He needed to travel to 1927. He’d worked it out, so many turns of the Time-Turner his head spun when he thought about it too much. He would enter the orphanage under the pretence of a parent looking to adopt; it’d be over quickly. And everyone would be saved. His parents. Sirius. Remus. Tonks. Fred. Moody. So many others. Perhaps even Dumbledore would go on to live longer.
He wasn’t delusional. He suspected Harry, his version of Harry at least, would cease to exist. Harry with a scar on his forehead couldn’t exist. Harry with hate so dark, so thick it threatened to consume him couldn’t exist.
That was alright. He’d been ready to die for a long time now.
His hands were damp when he turned the hourglass. The more times he turned it, the faster it spun. It burnt his fingers. The heat travelled up the chain, burning his neck. He hissed but didn’t stop turning the hourglass.
A sharp crack reverberated in the narrow alleyway where he hoped he was hidden from view. Harry didn’t dare stop. He felt the glass pierce his fingers. Now his hands were not only damp, but also slick with blood. He’d lost count of the turns.
This wasn’t a good idea.
Then he was gone.
It was raining. How fitting.
Harry held up his wand, murmuring Lumos. The alleyway he’d chosen was in Knockturn Alley; he hadn’t fancied appearing on a Muggle street right outside the orphanage and getting hit by a car. Or a bomb.
Not that he could have been in such luck, to think a single Muggle bomb could have ended the life of a murderer and one of the most powerful wizards of all time.
Which brought him to why he was here.
He scrutinized the Time-Turner, coated in dry blood (how did it dry so fast?). It was broken alright. The top half of the hourglass was shattered, the sand spilling fast between Harry’s fingers. He tapped it with a Reparo. Nothing.
No matter. It wasn’t like he was planning on going back.
Hiding the Time-Turner beneath his travelling cloak, Harry stepped out of the narrow backstreet and slid into Knockturn Alley. It was just his luck that he ended appearing right next to Borgin and Burkes, which had closed a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts. Harry, in his hurry, hadn’t realized what the boarded-up shop he’d passed used to be. Presently, he cast a glance at the sinister display in the front window and almost chocked when he saw him.
There behind the counter stood Tom Marvolo Riddle, in all his grown-up glory. He wore a polite expression while talking to a customer, twirling a red quill in his long fingers as though it were a wand. An all too familiar ring set with black stone gleamed on Riddle’s right hand.
Harry was going to be sick.
His shaking hands reached for the Time-Turner, but he knew it was for nought. He’d destroyed it, and in the short time since his arrival all the sand had spilled out from the hourglass, which was now hollow.
Riddle already had two horcruxes. Diary and the ring. Who knew, maybe even three. Even if Harry hoped he could destroy the diary – how? Break into Riddle’s house? – he had no chance of getting to the ring. And if he destroyed the diary, then disappeared, what would Riddle do when he found out? How many more would he make? Harry could make it harder, impossible even, to kill Voldemort.
You’re a fool, Harry Potter, a voice in his head whispered, a voice that belonged to no one else but his constant companion, Lord Voldemort.
Now there were two.
For days, he skulked in the Leaky Cauldron, where he’d rented a room. It was a good thing he’d remembered to bring gold with him. Possibly the only good thing he’d done since leaving the Department of Mysteries.
He thought of seeking out Dumbledore, but he was immediately afraid of what that could do to the timeline. Nothing needed to change, if Harry stayed out of everyone’s way. Harry Potter would simply disappear two years after the Battle of Hogwarts, never to be seen again. It’d break his friends’ hearts. Hermione would realize what had happened. He was worried she’d blame herself. He should have left a note.
He was petrified of doing anything. He was supposed to kill Voldemort and disappear. But now, the opportunities for meddling and changing his timeline were endless.
And yet, in some way, he felt better than he’d felt in years. The nightmares had ceased. His grief lessened. He was no longer haunted by the ghosts of those he’d failed to save. He missed his friends, the Burrow, Hagrid. But it wasn’t a sharp pain like the grief he’d carried, lodged into his side, making it hard to breathe. It was dull and bearable.
What wasn’t bearable was his proximity to Borgin and Burkes. He needed to find a new place. For a long, tantalizing moment he considered Godric’s Hollow. That, however, would have been too indulgent. He would start looking tomorrow.
Tonight, he wanted to get drunk. He wanted to feel nothing.
It was a short trip from his dingy room upstairs to the bottom level of the Leaky Cauldron. With his fourth pint in hand, Harry collapsed into an empty booth, grateful for the privacy. He tugged his cloak’s hood deeper over his face for good measure.
The pub was buzzing. Harry wasn’t keeping track, but he was pretty certain it was Friday. Perhaps Saturday. The year, and of that he was sure, was 1946.
More and more witches and wizards filed through the entrance, and soon people were struggling to find a seat.
Harry’s gaze was on his now empty glass when a man sat on the opposite side of his booth.
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ the blonde man asked, already turning away from Harry.
Harry chose to ignore the intruder. Then he did a double take.
It was Malfoy. He would recognize that sneer everywhere, although he hadn’t seen it on Abraxas’ grandkid since the war started. Harry had made sure that Draco was cleared off all charges, but Lucius wasn’t so lucky. Even Harry’s kindness had its limits, and he couldn’t forget Lucius’ laughter, cold and arrogant, ringing in the cemetery while Harry’s body was on fire, under the Cruciatus curse.
‘Actually–’ he started, fully intending to tell the blonde git to sit outside for all Harry cared, anywhere but here, when another, taller figure emerged from the crowd.
Abraxas shuffled to make space so violently that his whisky splashed all over the table.
Harry froze.
Tom Riddle stopped at the front of the table holding a glass half-full of some dark liquid that, if someone deigned to ask Harry, was likely blood. His gaze flickered from Harry, who was glowering at him in none too subtle manner, to flustered Abraxas.
‘My apologies,’ said Riddle in a silky voice that made Harry’s skin crawl. ‘My friend here seems to lack manners. It’s clear that we’re interrupting a rather special celebration.’
Harry became distinctly aware of the four empty glasses, which he’d collected over the course of the evening, gathered around him like incriminating evidence.
‘Nonsense,’ Abraxas cut in, spreading his arms wide. ‘We need a table, and here’s a free table. He doesn’t need all this space.’
A smirk curled Riddle’s lips. It was precisely what Harry needed to wake up from his shock-induced stupor.
‘Don’t let me stop you. I was leaving anyway,’ he growled under his breath, and raised from his seat.
Abraxas looked relieved. Harry scooped up his glasses, feeling a little unsteady on his feet. So unsteady in fact that when he shuffled to leave he tripped. A strong grip curled around his shoulder, stopping him from falling flat on his face. When he looked up, his hood down, it was into Riddle’s unsettlingly human eyes, as dark as the wave of hatred Harry felt in that moment.
Riddle didn’t flinch, but he let go, and there was a curious expression on his face.
It was stupid, letting his emotions show so clearly, but it was better than punching Riddle there and then.
‘At least let us buy you a drink before you go,’ Riddle said, standing in Harry’s way. In one graceful motion he flicked his wrist and the glasses in Harry’s hands disappeared.
‘What did you do with them?’ Harry demanded.
Riddle arched an elegant brow at him. Harry wondered briefly if he was fast enough to take Riddle by surprise and strangle him with his bare hands.
‘I sent them back to the kitchen of course.’
Harry’s eyes narrowed at Riddle’s self-satisfied expression.
‘Abraxas,’ Riddle called, without breaking eye contact. ‘It looks like you’re out of drink as well.’
Abraxas scowled at Harry as if it was all his fault. He didn’t dare disobey, shuffling from behind the table with far more poise than Harry. Harry fought the urge to yell after Abraxas, to beg him not to leave him alone.
Alas.
‘Sit,’ Riddle offered generously, as though it’d been his table in the first place. He waited until Harry begrudgingly returned to his seat before placing himself directly opposite Harry. ‘I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Tom Riddle.’
Would Riddle remember the face of a stranger he’d once met in the Leaky Cauldron? Would he remember his name? Harry doubted it. Voldemort thought and cared too little about other people to concern himself with a stranger like Harry. He was merely an amusement, one which Riddle would quickly get bored of.
‘Harry,’ he offered.
Their knees brushed and Harry flinched so hard he knocked his knee against the table.
Riddle sipped from his drink, his eyes two dark holes emptying all that was good from the world.
‘Have I done something to offend you, Harry?’