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James Creevey was an enigma and a deliberately annoying one at that. He had a uniquely muggle way of speaking, a uniquely muggle last name, but a strange scar on his forehead that couldn’t be anything but magical and a shaky knowledge of most all magical topics that are natural to anyone who’s grown up around magic. Considering all of these factors, it’s no surprise his Slytherin housemates were about to strangle him. Of course, that’s mostly intentional on Harry’s part.
He didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was doing back in time, and his two-week long freak out in muggle London did nothing to help, but he knew that going to the one place he knew anything about in the 1940s was the only way to find any information. So back to Hogwarts it was, as an adult in both the wizarding and muggle world. There was surprisingly issue with Harry infiltrating the school, with World War 2 going on Hogwarts had been losing and gaining non-pureblood students, so with no fuss and only a slightly awkward pause where he gave the first two names that came to mind and smushed them together, he was sorted for the second time. Which led him to his current situation and an increasing mental exhaustion.
If he was going to be stuck in Slytherin house, as an eighteen-year-old Seventh Year with a now active soulmate mark, in 1944 of all years, he was going to get his time’s worth out of it. So shortly after his introduction to the house by a quiet, tall prefect girl in the common room, he’d gotten acquainted with some of his housemates. Namely by being shoved harshly to the side.
“Creevey? What kind of a name is that?” jeered a boy with dark hair, the one who’d presumably pushed Harry. He had noble features and an upturned nose, but then again, most prejudiced Slytherins Harry’d met had the same exact look to them.
“Mine, thanks.”
“You a mudblood?” the same boy spat, literally spitting next to Harry’s foot after he said the word.
Rather than thinking out a response, Harry casually pulled out his wand.
“Depends, really. What’s more humiliating, getting beat by a muggleborn or getting beat because you can’t recognize pureblood from not?” While Harry didn’t look much like a pureblood, he did look like a Potter, who were purebloods which is what really mattered with his bluff.
But the boy neither called nor fell for his bluff, pulling his own wand out with a red face. Before he could even cast a spell, Harry had disarmed him. In front of the still filled common room. As soon as he realized that he had very publicly humiliated someone, as well as absolutely botched his chances of being able to lay low, he hastily put his wand away and gave a smile to his beaten opponent that he hoped wasn’t as awkward as he felt.
“Hope that answered your questions.” He called over his shoulder as he started to make his way out of the common room, back to the halls. He didn’t feel like trying to find out if the dorms were located in the same place as they were in Gryffindor and he’d honestly rather sleep outside than deal with the inevitable backlash from his actions.
Just as he was almost out, he heard a concerned “Are you alright, Mulciber?” from the last voice he wanted to hear.
But of course, his arm was aching, it was 1944, and Tom Riddle was acting like the model student he was. Fantastic, he thought, as the door swung shut behind him. This wasn’t at all going to go wrong.
The next couple of days passed in a blur, with several packages arriving for James Creevey which included things like clothing, books, cauldrons, and other necessities that Harry wished would stay away just a bit longer. Because with those, came the return of homework from his professors, followed by the creation of expectations, both of which Harry had decidedly not missed about Hogwarts after his year on the run. Of course, the first class that actually forced Harry to have to try to meet those expectations was Potions.
It was the Slytherins with the Ravenclaws that day, with Harry sitting with a small Ravenclaw boy and avoiding any sort of contact with his housemates. Everything seemed perfect, minus the now ever-present ache in his bandaged left forearm, until Professor Slughorn walked right up to where he was sitting.
“Ah, Creevey! Glad to see you’ve been settling in, class hasn’t been the same without you,” the man said with a wink. “But I don’t want to push you too far too soon, the last thing any of us need is a nasty explosion. So why don’t you work with someone else while you’re still getting caught up, hm?” He raised his voice to get another students attention, “Tom, my boy!” and of course, the demon in question moved his head up from three desks away from where Harry’s sitting.
“Yes, professor?”
“Would you mind working with Mr. Creevey over here? The boy could use a skilled brewer while he’s still trying to get his footing.” The man beamed at Riddle and Harry somehow felt more uncomfortable seeing that look when he’s not on the receiving end of it.
“Of course, sir. It would be my pleasure.” Riddle sent Harry a boyish, completely innocent grin.
Because of course he would.
Harry let his chair scrape on the ground as he moves over, hoping the sound from that hid his own quiet groan, as he trudged over to sit with his new partner. By the time he’s moved three desks over, Riddle’s sleeves are neatly rolled up, exposing an equally neatly wrapped right forearm. He took a deep breath, focusing on the sensation of his own, much sloppier, bandage in an attempt to reassure himself. He caught sight of Riddle’s patented “gentle and welcoming smile” become just the slightest bit brittle, so he just gritted his teeth and pulled up his sleeves to force his nerves to calm down. After another quick exhale of breath, he gave Riddle a thumbs up with his right hand. He got a quiet laugh as a response.
“Did you wrap your arm yourself? Careful not to get it caught on anything,” he paused, then shot Harry another smile. “If you want, I can do all the brewing myself so you don’t have to strain yourself just yet. If you wouldn’t mind grabbing the ingredients, Creevey, we can call it even at that.”
Anything that got him away from Riddle, even for a few seconds, was something Harry would do without complaint. It was rather funny, in a way that wasn’t funny at all, that Riddle managed to inspire two opposite sides of the spectrum of reactions to being around one’s soulmate. Harry managed to juggle both sides of his feelings admirably well for the rest of class, staying as far away and saying as little as he could get away with while also being at the same desk and being an active participant. If the smile and casual wave he got from Riddle walking past him during dinner was any indicator, he somehow hadn’t managed to make the younger boy completely loathe him in their brief time together.
Which would have made Harry’s life significantly easier, but maybe even Tom Riddle’s already shriveled heart may have a soft spot for its matching half. He’s unable to shake the amusement that thought gave him for the rest of dinner and even once he toppled into his bed without another look at any of the other boys he snorts into his pillow when the thought resurfaces. Despite that lingering thought, he was able to fall asleep almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
The next morning, Harry made use of the same strategy he had been using all year so far. He was up before any of the other boys but chose to stay in bed until all of them were gone. It’d be a lot more awkward for all parties involved if any of them were trying to make polite conversation with the surly transfer student, so he took one for the team and stayed in his warm covers for a while longer. Once the last of them had left, the door shutting firmly behind them, he sat up, stretched, and pulled back his curtains. From what glimpse he got in the mirror, with his messier bed head, baggy grey shirt, and visible soulmark, he looked like the Dursley’s worst nightmare. Which coincidentally, was also his housemate’s worst nightmare at the moment, he thought to himself with a grin.
He reached for his bag on the ground and grabbed his bandage to toss on his bed. He threw off his dirty clothes bit by bit, then reached for a clean robe. Before that, he reached for the shirt Mrs. Weasley gave him for his eighteenth birthday and threw it off. He took a deep breath, a habit he got into after realizing the difference the first time he tried it on, then haphazardly threw his robes on over his head. He rolled his sleeves up to adjust his robes better, only to jolt as the bathroom door suddenly swung out. Tom Riddle walked out and blinked at Harry, the only sign that he was surprised by seeing the other out of his bed before breakfast. His eyes darted to Harry’s forearm, which was bare and out to the open. In the second it took Tom’s eyes to register the neat script and widen appropriately, Harry had lunged for the bandage on the bed and run out of the room. While the damage had been done, he could always just avoid Tom at every chance he had and never let him catch him off guard again, he thought as he darted out of the common room, electing to go hide in the library rather than go to breakfast. He was fairly certain Tom didn’t even think Harry knew where the library was, which made it all the better a hiding spot. He needed time to freak out quietly, time to think and plan, and time to make sure that he wouldn’t slip up again. Starting to internally address Riddle by his first name after he saw Harry’s mark was a landmine Harry didn’t even want to acknowledge, let alone deal with. So he tossed it out of his mind and headed to the library at a slightly more frantic pace.
Unfortunately, avoiding Tom could only work so well when the two were in the same year, therefore in most of the same classes, and were living in the same room. He was rather proud he almost made it two days without contact, before Riddle sent all his boys upstairs. He felt alarm bells go off in his head as he counted them one head short. Those alarm bells evolved to sirens when he heard the quietest throat clearing he’d ever heard in his life come from behind him. His eyes quickly darted to both sides but seeing the common room empty. Of course, he planned this, he thought with a mental sigh.
“Creevey?” The voice was calm, arguably pleasant, but Harry felt like he was a very small animal trapped with a predator.
Nevertheless, he turned to meet his soulmate head on, looking him in the eye for the first time since he’d been sent back in time.
“Can I help you, Riddle?” He was proud that his voice didn’t waver, that it was almost calm as Tom’s. He then immediately threw out the thought that their behavior was in any way similar.
Riddle huffed, actually huffed, before shooting Harry a look.
“I know we don’t know each other too well, Creevey, and I know that it was rude of me to, no matter how unintentionally, even get a glimpse of your mark. But the fact of the matter is, though I couldn’t make out the words, I know my writing.”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit. Shit.
“I’d certainly hope you would, after years of seeing it.” So much for an unwavering voice, he thought with increasing bitterness.
By the narrowing of Riddle’s eyes, he wasn’t too impressed with Harry’s retort either. He reached into his bag and pulled out a sheet of blank parchment and tore it in half, without breaking eye contact. He handed one half to Harry, then handed him a quill seconds before Harry could even think to use his lack of quill as an excuse. He watched Riddle write something down carefully, before turning and scribbling something on his own half. The two of them locked eyes again after finishing, before handing their respective halves of parchment over.
Harry looked down at his, which read ‘Hello James Creevey, My name is Tom Riddle’. Even unintentional, the bastard was echoing his own words. Which reminded him, which, if any, horcruxes were around? Was that a whole new nightmare for him to have to deal with? A loud laugh broke him out of his thoughts, which caused Harry to jerk his head over. Evidently, Tom had finished reading his own note to him, which stated ‘Can I go to bed now?’ and had apparently gotten a kick out of it. He raised his head and brought the note up for Harry to see, with a surprisingly innocent grin on his face.
“The writing, your writing, it matches.”
Harry thought about it, then decided to just help Tom with the digging of Harry’s own personal grave.
“So does yours. But you already knew that.”
From the grin that was still on Tom’s face, the admittance from Harry’s own mouth was greatly appreciated.
“So,” Tom began, looking at Harry like he was the answer to a lifelong puzzle.
“So.” Harry stated, looking at Tom like he was an issue of the Daily Prophet.
That seemed to get Tom’s smile to drop slightly, finally.
“What is it?” He said, sounding innocently confused like he had no idea why Harry would possibly find fault in this situation.
“This doesn’t change much of anything. We’re still in school, you still have Head Boy duties taking up your time, and your friends are still really shitty racists that I don’t want to be anywhere near.”
That caused the grin to drop completely.
“The people I hang out with have changed a lot from first year. Yes, they still have a long way to go, but they’ve gotten a lot more progressive, I promise. Besides, their views aren’t mine. Believe me, I’m nothing like what you’ve seen from them.” He gave Harry what he probably thought was a reassuring, honest smile.
But it was more like the smile he gave a much younger Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, so Harry didn’t trust a single muscle of it.
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard something like that. Actually, my mom’s best friend told her the same thing. Of course, he ending up calling her a slur and leading his murderer to me and my now dead parents, who certainly had the same views as him and as your friends. But like you said, you don’t have the same views as them so I’m sure I’ll be just fine.”
From the expression on Riddle’s face, he had managed to say the one thing that was nowhere near any of the expected responses. Good. But to his credit, Riddle recovered remarkably quickly.
“I’m sorry about what happened to your parents, I really am. But, you can’t just pass judgment on someone you barely even know. Will you try to get to know me? Just give me one chance, you never have to talk to me again after that.” Somehow, Harry doubted that.
But again, against his best judgment, he let Riddle keep talking.
“Fine, I’ll give you one chance.”
Tom’s face lit up again like he had been given the whole world by those words. He gestured to the couches in the empty common room. The two of them would be able to talk completely alone for the rest of the night if he had his way. Which Harry was, unfortunately, letting him have.
The two of them headed over to the couches, each choosing to take an entire couch to themselves rather than sitting together. Or rather, Harry took an entire couch to himself and gave Tom a look and took up more space until he got the hint.
“So, where are you from?” Tom asked, looking completely innocent.
“Devon,” Harry answers. It was the last place he was before being sent into the past.
“Favorite color?” He asked before Tom can ask anything else.
“Green,” he says with a smile, letting it widen at Harry’s muttered “of course”.
“What’s your favorite subject?”
“Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Harry answers immediately.
“Mine too,” Tom says, looking incredibly pleased.
“Really? I would’ve thought it was Potions.” Harry said plainly, knowing full well it wasn’t.
Surprisingly, Tom’s face scrunched up slightly, showing the most genuine emotion Harry had really seen in this whole talk.
“I prefer my classes to be taught by someone other than a walrus, personally.” He said with an air of mock tired disdain.
Harry couldn’t help but let out a sudden laugh at that, startling Tom as much as it startled Harry himself. Tom looked incredibly pleased with having coaxed laughter out of Harry and did his best to hear it again. Their short line of genuine questioning was immediately cut short in favor of making the other laugh with increasingly specific humor, ultimately culminating in a mediocre Dumbledore impression from Harry that still had the pair doubled over on how accurate his actual words were to the source.
Tom was the first to recover, running a hair through his hair and grinning over at Harry. Not even thinking, Harry grinned back before letting out a long yawn and leaning back into the couch.
Tom took a shaky breath, before resuming his line of questioning.
“Is it okay if I call you James?”
Harry blinks tiredly for a minute before realizing exactly what Tom’s asking.
“Sure, why not?”
“Alright then, James. What are the words you have on your arm? Can you tell me?”
The smile on Harry’s face and the sleep in his eyes disappears. He looks at his wrist, then at Tom, like he’s seeing them both for the first time. Then, like it’s no big deal, he peels off the bandages and then says for the second time the last words Tom would expect.
“They say ‘Avada Kedavra’, Tom.” He said in a deadpan, smacking the grin off Tom’s face in an instant.
Harry looks over at Tom after that, while Tom stares at the ground, looking ashen.
“Well, g’night then.” With that, Harry turns over on the couch with his back to Tom and is asleep in seconds.
Tom doesn’t look up, not for several minutes. When he finally raises his head, his expression is neutral and he walks over to where Creevey is and just takes him in. For his own soulmate to have the killing curse written on his wrist is puzzling, troubling, and utterly infuriating. From the precious little time he’s had alone with James, the other boy’s done nothing to get on his bad side, nothing to suggest he is currently against having Tom as a soulmate, minus that unfortunate stumble with their fellow Slytherins. They’ve met at a young enough age that Tom has plenty of time to get to know his soulmate and ensure that he’s there to stay, but yet. The words are still written in both their arms; opposite arms for identical halves. They each hold the other’s very soul within their own, according to the stories the wizarding world had on the subject. But Tom’s own phrasing cut his train of thought.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ring he received from his mother’s family. Infused with his soul from the murders of his father and his father’s family. Three murders, with the same curse that was on his soulmate’s wrist. The words didn’t have to be those that were said to that soulmate. He looked at the ring, watching the way it looked in the light of the dying fire before drawing his attention back to Creevey. He put his hand nearby the boy’s tense looking face, ready to pull it away at the slightest indication he was still awake. But when all he received was hot air that matched with the rise and fall of James’ chest, he reached for his soulmate’s right hand. The arm that bore his own writing stood out starkly on Creevey’s skin, calling attention to it by everyone who saw it. Tom reached for his ring finger and gently slid his most recent horcrux onto his soulmate’s finger. Almost instantly, James’ face relaxed and the breathing pattern he exhibited seemed that much more at ease. Tom smiled in relief, it was rather fitting that the boy who metaphorically held a part of his soul would now physically carry around a reminder. Whether immediately, or by the time the two graduated, he would have James nearby at all times to protect all parts of his soul from anyone who would stand against him. Tom ran a hand through his soulmate’s hair, enjoying every bit of the boy, from his mystifying scar to his unruly hair, that he was able to see. Fate was truly on his side, he concluded, to give such a willing carrier of his soul Tom’s words.