Chapter Text
Harry rolled his eyes, ignoring the annoyed huffs of the pudgy man at table six. He twirled around, almost colliding with Leslie.
“Jesus!”
"Watch your steps, Evans,” she bit out. Blonde strands of hair had fallen out of her ponytail, sticking to her damp forehead. She was as tired as he was.
“Bloody trying,” he mumbled, balancing the two platinum trays on his hands and levitating a third one above his head in a rare display of wandless magic. Harry usually tried to keep a low profile, but that night at The Lounge had been hectic.
“Evans!” His boss shrilled, startling half the customers sitting at the back of the room. Madame Ambroise was a thin woman in her fifties, as tall and elegant as most pureblood women were. She had migrated from France twenty years ago, climbing her way up the social ladder through sheer willpower. She was now the owner of the most expensive and selective restaurant in all Britain—hostess to the richest Wizarding families and witness of so many illegal transactions she could send half of them to Azkaban for life.
Harry breathed out, trying to control his facial expressions.
You need this job, Harry.
He remembered Robards stern voice echoing in the walls of his office, a few days before sending him fifty years back in time.
“And so help me God, if you fuck up this mission because you can’t keep your temper in check, I’ll put your arse in the curb faster than you can say I’m sorry. Are we clear, Potter?”
Harry maneuvered around the elegant tables strategically set around the room, walking towards Madame Ambroise.
He couldn’t help but think that Robards had been a bit excessive in his threatening: Harry was the best Auror the DMLE had seen in years, after all. He had the numbers to back it up.
“The numbers? The numbers Potter? Your little stunt in Africa almost cost us our diplomatic relationship with their government, plus thousands of galleons in a team of Obliviators and damage repairs!”
He just couldn’t be bothered with bureaucracy, that’s all.
“Yes ma’am?”
Madame Ambroise regarded him with a look he was very familiar with, unfortunately—one of disappointment and patronizing superiority.
Make one mistake and I’ll make sure your grandkids can’t find any jobs in Magical Britain.
Bloody harpy.
Her icy blue eyes narrowed dangerously, as if she could read the thoughts going through Harry’s head.
“Put the trays down, Evans.”
Harry clenched his jaw, slowly levitating down the tray and putting it over an empty table. Just to be petty, he levitated the other two and placed them beside it.
Madame Ambroise had strict policies when it came to her employee’s use of magic, and with wandless magic more so. It was dangerous to perform spells in a rush, and easy to falter in a second of distraction.
She put the image of The Lounge above everything else, so she was very harsh with employees that didn’t meet her standards on magical proficiency. Never mind that Harry was powerful and quick on his feet: He was a mudblood with no credentials, and the fifties had proven to be very cutthroat years. It was practically impossible to get a good job without a surname or impressive scores, and even then, nepotism usually won out.
It made her very happy to remind him that he’d be on the streets without her.
“Watch yourself.”
Harry ground down his molars. The room’s easy chatter made his ears thrum, accompanied by the sound of the bartenders mixing drinks by the counter. “I’m sorry?”
“I better not see you dismissing a client again, Evans, or there will be consequences.”
Another waitress rushed past them, cheeks flushed and sweat trailing down her neck. There was a continuous cycle of movement around the restaurant, clients ordering their dishes and the waiters’ leather shoes tapping against the floor. It made his head throb.
Christ, he hated the evening shift.
Harry inhaled. “He was being unnecessarily rude.”
“I don't care if he spat on you or groped you in front of his wife,” she hissed, getting in Harry’s face. “You are an employee of The Lounge, and you will behave as such. Utter professionalism and politeness, under any circumstance. That’s what’s expected of you.”
He exhaled carefully, trying very hard to get a hold of his temper.
Groped you in front of his wife.
He suddenly realized what this was about. It was no secret that The Lounge offered a variety of other “services” for those clients rich enough to pay for them. Discreet and known for its non-disclosure charms, Madame’s Ambroise kingdom was the perfect place for prominent purebloods to indulge in their extramarital affairs.
Some had made their interest towards Harry known—unfortunately—and later made very lucrative offers to his boss. Both women and men, bigoted and privileged enough to make a fuss when their wishers were denied.
Harry had no intention of whoring himself out, no matter how bloody insistent they were about it, and he had made himself very clear. The DMLE didn’t have enough galleons in their vault to afford the Golden Boy’s extra “services,” and he wasn’t committed enough to his job to do it regardless.
Hence, Madame Ambroise’s anger.
“I’ll try to be more careful next time, ma’am.”
“There better be no next time.”
Bloody fucking bitch.
“Yes, sorry.”
She regarded him carefully, and promptly turned around, dismissing him.
“Merlin,” Harry muttered under his breath. Hugo, another waiter, looked up from the counter and patted his back sympathetically.
“Tough luck, mate.”
“Tell me about it.” He looked around, sighing in relief when he saw the woman at the other side of the room. She was talking with one of the usuals, so he knew he had a bit of time.
"Oh Mrs. Greengrass, you find yourself short of newborn babies for your monthly moon ritual? Let me see what I can do.”
That’s probably how many of those conversations went.
“Will you cover up for me, mate? Five minutes, I just need to take a breather.”
Hugo looked around, his eyes lingering on Madame Ambroise’s busy shadow. “Yeah, sure thing. Take your time.”
“Thanks,” Harry answered, smiling gratefully.
He slipped through the restaurant's back door and fished out a cigarette from his uniform's pocket.
A sigh left his lips. He'd been undercover before, but never for such a long period of time.
"And in such an unfamiliar environment," Hermione's helpful voice supplied.
It was starting to wear him down.
The small patio consisted of a two feet square space with brick flooring and an open roof. The cooks generally went back there to throw the rotten substances down the drain, so it stank. Harry leaned against the wall, taking a moment to breathe for the first time in hours. He liked the rush of The Lounge, most times: The constant movement and implicit danger kept his mind busy. It reminded him of those first months back in Auror training, when the fear of slipping up made him stay in a perpetual state of alert.
He lit up the cigarette with a quick wave of his hand, and soon a mix of tobacco and mint overrode the other unpleasant smells.
He’d been in 1953 for months, and the longer he went without seeing Hermione's furrowed brows or Ron's easy smile, the more his mood deteriorated. He dropped his head against the wall with a soft thud, looking up. The full moon brightened London’s sky, hidden behind a translucent group of clouds.
His thoughts immediately turned to Teddy.
How was he holding up? Was he taking his potions every night? Had his monthly headaches increased?
Harry missed his godson fiercely—missed his nonsensical anecdotes and the colorful drawings that decorated his fridge back at Grimmauld Place. He missed the way Teddy's eyes turned a vivid shade of green after the two of them spent some time together. When he remembered Teddy's messy nest of curls and his crooked smile, Harry felt a phantom ache pulse across his ribs.
A cloud of smoke floated into the night air.
He'd been nauseous with guilt the first times it happened.
"He adores you, Harry. Worships the ground you walk in."
Was he erasing Remus? Was it wrong, to let the kid get so attached to him, when his father wasn't there to see it happen?
The chatter coming from the restaurant was muted by the thick walls dividing the main room from the rest of the building. Harry flickered the tail of his cigarette, spraying ashes over the floor.
Andy had assured him many times that Teddy needed a male figure to look up to, and most importantly, that any kind of separation so late in his life—no matter how good Harry's intentions were—would only cause harm.
He was unworthy of the kid's unconditional love, he knew. But that didn't stop him from scooping Teddy in his arms every time he walked into Andromeda's cottage, and it didn't stop the treacherous part of Harry's heart, touch-starved and anxious to please, to beat with happiness when he became the recipient of one of Teddy's smiles.
"Will you be gone for too long, again?"
“Not if I can help it, kiddo.”
He needed to wrap things up and get back to his godson, as soon as possible.
"EVANS! GET YOUR SKINNY ARSE BACK IN HERE!"
"Merlin," he muttered under his breath. He tossed the cigarette on the floor, grounding his shoe over it. "Coming!"
The corridor was poorly lit, giving it a ghostly edge. Harry peered his head outside the kitchen door, arching an eyebrow. "I don't have a skinny arse."
Jason, the burly 6'4 monster head chef, looked him up and down. He had braided his black beard and knotted it close to his chin, so none of it ended up in a costumer's soup, as it had happened once. (Harry still remembered Madame's Ambroise icy magic settling over the row of terrified employers in the foyer.)
"See it as you like, Evans. The lady wants everyone out there. Important customers."
Harry smiled, though it lacked any real amusement. "Aren’t they always?”
Jason kept his unblinking black eyes on him, before turning away and letting out a thunderous shout. "I TOLD YOU TO KEEP THE OVEN AT 235 DEGREES, TODD!"
Todd cowered behind the stove. "Yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir."
Harry walked away, feeling sorry for the poor bloke. Most magical chefs weren't even trained in the use of ovens.
He crossed the corridor, blinking furiously when the restaurant's warm lights spilled before him. Madame Ambroise was already waiting, along with Leslie and two of the other best waiters. It was a testament to Jason's words that she didn't even scold him for taking a break, aside from her pursed lips.
"Evans, finally."
Harry made eye contact with Leslie, noticing how pale she was. He tilted his head in silent question.
Are you okay?
Leslie just tightened her jaw, slightly shaking her head. That's when he started worrying.
"I want you all to be in your best behavior. These are very important people." Her blue eyes lingered in the back of the restaurant. Harry followed her gaze, catching a flash of white blonde hair. You’ve got to be joking. "I already welcomed them, but you will serve their table for the night." That she said to Leslie, who paled even further. "Freshen up and then go up to their table. You'll stay there indefinitely, in case they wish to request something. You know the protocol."
Leslie nodded, looking dizzy. "Yes, ma'am," she whispered, backing away. Harry felt another prickle of worry wash over him.
His boss' sharp voice made him snap his eyes away from her. "Yes?"
"Evans. You'll stay close, at all times. You'll help Leslie with the orders, and maintain order in the surrounding tables."
Harry nodded, but she’d turned away already, instructing the other two blokes. When he looked back at the tables, Harry was unable to distinguish any clearer defining features.
Please, for all that is holy, don't let that be sodding fucking Malfoy. Well, Malfoy's grandfather, I guess. Even worse.
He heard Draco's retort in his head before he started walking away.
"You'd be lucky to spend a minute of your time in any of the Malfoy's presence, idiot."
In moments of weakness Harry was ashamed to admit he missed the git's ridiculous posturing.
Leslie was already out of the dressing room by the time he reached her. She'd changed her black blouse into a clean one, and brushed out her hair. It spilled down her shoulders like molten honey.
"You don't have to do this, Les."
She straightened, expression hardening. "Don't baby me, Evans. I can deal with a bunch of rich purebloods, I’ve done it a thousand times before."
Harry lifted his hands in surrender. Leslie was a tough girl who'd been dealt with a rough hand: Muggleborn father and werewolf mother, if the rumours were to be believed. She had a sharp mind and a knack for complicated charms, innovative in a field that lacked minds like hers. She didn't belong in The Lounge, enduring mistreatment and disgusting harassment for a scrape of gold.
"This is not just a bunch of rich purebloods, though," he said, aiming for a neutral tone. He tried to keep the pulse of anger at the injustice of the situation out of his face.
"Oh?" Leslie sneered. "You know them well? Have many important friends, don’t you, Evans? You’ll have to introduce me once we get to the table."
Harry’s fingers twitched. "Watch it, Thomas, I'm not your enemy.” He understood her defensiveness, but it was unnecessary, given the circumstances.
Leslie's face went blank, and her mouth snapped close. He noticed she'd put a rosy tint on her face and lips, probably on Madame Ambroise's instruction.
"Listen," he continued with a softer tone, "just don't accept any extra work. We'll leave together, and I'll walk you back to your place."
Leslie's eyes roved over his face, searching for something with scaring intensity. After a couple of seconds she let out a tired exhalation, shoulders dropped. “I can go home on my own just fine,” she grumbled.
Harry grinned, smelling defeat. “Whatever, Thomas.”
The rest of the night went off smoothly, thank Merlin.
Harry kept an eye on Leslie the whole time, making sure none of the client's hands strayed too far. He'd been horrified to realize that the blonde man sitting in the large rounded table, was, in fact, Abraxas Malfoy. It was hard to miss the startlingly white hair, the haughty posture and the subtle sneer plastered on his face.
Harry'd been able to recognize some other important names, thanks to the weeks he'd spent memorizing faces and surnames prior to the trip. All the files were still back on his flat, protected by layers and layers of wards.
He'd have to go through them again when he got home.
The Lounge emptied out at around 3:00 in the morning, and Harry and Leslie were free to make a hurried exit. Madame Ambroise wasn't pleased with either of them, so they didn't linger more than it was necessary.
Harry’s mind kept swirling around a specific train of thought during the whole way home, one that spiked his sore muscles with adrenaline. Abraxas Malfoy meant Tom Riddle, and Tom Riddle meant bad news.
He'd gone through months in the past without seeing a glimpse of the future Dark Lord, and he wanted to keep it that way.
Despite his exhaustion, Harry doubted he'd be able to fall asleep quickly. He was too wired up.
"Hey, you okay there?"
He looked sideways at Leslie, who was walking besides him. She'd put her hair into a ponytail and thrown a brown coat over her uniform. They were crossing a dark-lit alley full of scattering rats and potions' residue.
Harry twirled his wand on his hand, humming. "Yeah, it’s nothing. Don't worry."
Leslie looked at him weirdly.
"What?"
She shrugged, turning her eyes back to the damp pavement. "Nothing. I don’t know." She tried for a smile, not quite getting it. “You don’t look anywhere near as tired as you should.”
"I am tired, but your company almost makes me forget it.”
Leslie snorted, swatting his arm. “Oh, give it a rest.”
“You know, I’m starting to think you don’t value this friendship as much as I do, Les,” he said, eyes trailing away. A haggard looking man was walking towards them, tightening the edge of his black robes around his body.
The moon rays illuminated the lower half of his face, and though it lasted no more than a second, it was enough for Harry to notice the fangs. He gripped his wand, stepping forward. Leslie made a choking sound behind him.
"Careful.”
The vampire snarled.
There was a loud buzz in his ears. "You don't want to do anything stupid, mate." He unleashed a wave of controlled magic, and the vampire took a step backward. His red eyes focused on Harry's, narrowing when they put two and two together.
Green eyed devil.
Rumours flew in Knockturn Alley, and he'd heard bits and pieces here and there. Harry hadn't meant to gain a reputation in the first place, but his apartment building was near the heart of Knockturn, home of the worst scum out there. After three weeks of being preyed on and harassed every day, he'd slipped.
Harry wasn't sorry, despite Robards' monumental temper tantrum. Not if it meant he could avoid confrontations later on.
The vampire growled, before melting back into the shadows. Harry sighed and forced his heartbeat to slow down.
"Merlin," Leslie mumbled. "I hate this fucking place."
He turned towards her. She looked like she'd aged ten years over the span of a few seconds.
His lips twitched. "At least it wasn't a werewolf."
Leslie paled. "Don't remind me, arsehole."
The rest of the way home was spent in silence.
"Hey, Les?"
Leslie opened the door to her flat, looking over her shoulder.
Things could have gone very bad tonight. Harry knew he wasn't in any real danger, having years of experience in the field and a backup team prepared for any eventuality.
"Yes?"
"Take care."
Her face softened. "Yeah, you too, Evans." Despite her thin face and the dark shadows under her eyes, she looked truly young for a second.
Harry worried about her. Worried about all the people he'd met along the way, people he'd inevitably leave behind when he went back to the present.
Harry watched Leslie close the door behind her, taking a step forward once he heard the click of the lock. He put his hand on the wall, feeling his own magic thrum under his fingertips. Dozens of layers of protective wards circled the perimeters, as strong as the ones in his place.
This hellhole was just a temporary assignment for him, but for the rest of them? It was reality. The only one they'd get to live.
Harry tightened his jaw, willing away the wave of guilt climbing up his throat.
When he got to his own flat he immediately put on some coffee, preparing to spend the whole night awake.
His living room was always freezing cold, but with a little nudge from Harry the fireplace could burn the whole night. After taking a sip of coffee, he refreshed the charms he'd placed on the cracks of the wall, (they kept the chilly air out), and re-applied another set of spell-works that prevented humidity from rotting the ceiling. He double-checked the wards and closed the curtains, lighting up a muggle gas lamp.
Paranoid bastard, Ron scoffed in his head.
So what if I am? Better safe than sorry, he fired back.
Harry kept most of his files on the trunk of his bedroom, which was by far the flat's most protected room. He went to fetch them, also grabbing the leather brown notebook he used to talk with Ron and Hermione. They hated it when he didn't keep them updated.
Once Harry was back in the living room he settled in the creaky couches by the fire, spreading the files over the table.
Funnily enough it had been Riddle's diary that gave Hermione the idea of creating a device that could surpass the fundamental laws of time. It was also interlaced with their own magic, in a similar way Riddle's Horcrux had been. Harry didn't have the time or the brains to figure out exactly how it worked, but Hermione and Draco had managed on their own.
She'd always been good with challenges, and Malfoy understood the subtle intrinsics of magic like no one else did—hence, his current position as Unspeakable. It was mind-boggling to think about the amount of classified spells he worked with every day.
The diary was simple and discreet, but incredibly effective. It was also the reason he hadn't gone half-mad yet.
After the war Ron, Hermione and him had been unhealthily dependent on each other, breaking out in cold sweats when they were apart. Despite how far they'd come since, they knew better than to send Harry into the past without a minimum of communication. There were other ways of submitting his monthly reports to the Auror Department, of course. But this? This was just for them.
And Malfoy, who passed along his snappy insults through Hermione from time to time.
Hey guys, hope you're doing good.
The words stayed printed on the page.
Work today was a little hectic, but overall fine. I saw Malfoy's grandfather. Abraxas Malfoy, to be exact.
He tapped the pen against his lips, thinking of a way of phrasing the rest without sending either of them into a frenzied state of panic. Hermione had always been the worrywart during their Hogwarts days, but the war, the pain of losing Fred and seven years of being Harry’s partner had made Ron develop a unhealthy sort of protectiveness that matched Hermione’s cautiousness.
Don't worry, I didn't talk to him. He was seated at a large table, and Leslie was the one actually taking their orders. I would like to keep an eye open though, just in case. I'll probably go through some of the files again before going to bed.
Ron, how are things on your end? Any new developments? Has Hermione managed to push through with the indictment? I saw some things today that could help. I have time tomorrow morning, write then.
(Meaning, when Hermione wasn't there to scold them for breaking about seven laws.)
Please tell Molly and the rest that I miss them. Hug Teddy for me too. I sent some stuff for him to Robards' office, but you know how he gets. He probably won't like seeing a vintage Comet arrive through official channels. Please make sure that Andromeda gets it, so she can give it to Teddy on his birthday. (Remind when is Victorie's birthday, again? Do I need to buy a second gift anytime soon?)
Anyways, talk later.
I love you guys. Immensely.
And it was a testament to how much he missed them that Harry didn't even wince while writing that last bit.
Once that part was done with, Harry focused on the papers in the table. One was a newspaper clipping from The Prophet, back from 1945. Riddle's teenaged face smiled back at him, showing a white row of teeth. He held up his Medal for Magical Merit for the camera, blushing with modesty. The piece covered the accomplishments of Hogwarts' most gifted student, briefly describing his heroic deeds during 1943, and his involvement in the Chamber of Secrets closure.
Riddle, being the sneaky-two faced bastard that he was, spent the whole interview talking about his classmates, describing the importance of team work and praising Hogwarts’ professors. In his own words: "Each one of them has somehow shaped my academic trajectory, and I'm incredibly grateful for their guidance."
Humble, intelligent, handsome and cooperative.
Harry called bullshit.
He groaned, dropping his head against the table.
Everything had gone downhill from there. He shuffled the papers, looking at the meticulous timeline of Voldemort's life he'd constructed over the years.
After graduating, Tom went to Dippet—who was still Headmaster at the time—and asked for a job as the DADA teacher. Harry had the theory that he'd used that opportunity to charm the ghost of Helena Revanclaw into revealing the location of her mother's Diadem, as he'd shortly departed towards Albania.
That meant that in 1953, 27 year old Tom Riddle had three Horcruxes already, was working as a salesman at Borgin & Burkes, and had been doing god knows what in the meantime.
Harry hadn't heard a whisper about him yet, which couldn't be good. Malfoy had been one of his most loyal followers, and his presence at The Lounge disturbed him.
He leaned against the sofa, grimacing when it screeched unpleasantly.
"Accio cigarettes," he said, stretching out his open hand.
Mione would be furious if she could see him.
The sharp nicotine spike reached his bloodstream, relaxing the tense muscles on his back and neck.
"I really should quit."
The flat's unnerving silence answered back.
He put the cigarette in his mouth, taking another long inhalation. "I should adopt a kneazle, too."
Harry looked at the pitiful plant standing in the corner of the room. "How's that, mate? Would you like a friend?"
The plant just stared at him reproachfully. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear it angrily muttering about Harry's horrible caretaking.
"Oh, come off it, it was just a suggestion.”
Harry exhaled another cloud of smoke. "You have a point though. I'd probably forget to feed the thing and kill it in the process."
Talking about killing made his thoughts return to Voldemort, which was almost as depressing.
He furrowed his eyebrows, thinking things over. At least the idiot hadn't met Hepzibah Smith yet, so Harry wouldn't get the need of getting involved in his life-long mission of "protecting the weak".
"Insufferable stupid adrenaline junkie," he heard Draco say. "The fool has a hero complex and no regard for his personal safety. I swear Potter, sometimes I think you're looking to finish what the Dark Lord started."
He sighed again.
It was going to be a long night.