Chapter Text
The stone slipped from his fingers and dropped to the ground with a soft thud. For a moment Harry thought it might bounce, or maybe glow softly with residual magic, but it didn’t: it simply lay there, useless. His mother, his father, Sirius… they all disappeared in pale wisps of white smoke that vanished into the night air as if they had never been there at all.
And then Harry was alone again.
It should have hurt more than it did, the absence should have torn something open in his chest… but instead of grief there was only a quiet certainty, a warm feeling that he gladly took as a form of consolation. They were gone from his sight, yes, but not from him.
He knew they were still there, beside him, watching over him. And he also knew he would soon join them in the afterlife anyway, that this was not a goodbye as much as a see-you-later...
The last steps that took him to the clearing Voldemort was waiting for him in were the hardest. His feet dragged against the forest floor as if they refused to follow his commands, as if they had finally decided to rebel now, of all times. His legs threatened to give out with every step forward. He knew what he was doing, he knew it was necessary, that it was the only way the others would have even the smallest chance at surviving, but his body didn’t agree with his decision, clinging stubbornly to instinct. His blood felt hot in his veins, rushing too fast, his heart pounding so violently in his chest it seemed desperate, as though it didn’t want to waste a single second more. Just one more beat. Just one more breath.
But sooner than he would have liked, the trees began to thin and a wide clearing opened up in front of him, illuminated by firelight that flickered in the darkness.
Voldemort was there, standing before the crackling fire with his eyes closed, unnervingly still, arms spread slightly away from his body, as if he were feeling the air shift around him, as if he could sense the very change Harry’s presence brought with it through his skin alone. Being half a snake, Harry supposed he couldn’t entirely rule it out.
Suddenly, Voldemort’s eyes snapped open, and slit pupils locked onto Harry with immediate precision, finding him without hesitation. As if he had known all along Harry would appear in that exact space at that exact time.
Something inside Harry loosened then, a strange sense of peace settling deep in his gut. He was going to die. But he realized now that he was no longer frightened by the certainty of death. He had come a long way, farther than he had ever expected to, and he had done the best he could with what he had been given. There were no regrets left, no last-minute wishes now. He would soon see his parents again. He was ready to die.
He walked fully into the clearing, his feet sinking slightly into the soft soil, and stopped just before the fire, just before Voldemort. He could feel the heat of the flames licking at his skin, but he didn’t step away.
It will be over soon.
“Harry Potter,” came the raspy voice of his enemy. “The boy who lived.” A pause followed, stretching for almost too long. “Came to die.”
Harry didn’t say anything. There was no point. He was going to die regardless, and he suspected it would only be more painful if he rose to the bait now, if he allowed himself even the illusion of defiance. So he stood still, face carefully blank, eyes closed, waiting for the unmistakable flash of green light that would end it.
He didn’t have to wait long.
“Avada Kedavra.”
-
When he opened his eyes, his first coherent thought was that death, frankly, sucked. His entire body ached as though he had been trampled and left behind, his throat was parched and painfully dry, and his eyes burned when he blinked, as if even that simple movement took too much of a toll on his body. Wasn’t death supposed to be peaceful? Soothing? Where were his parents, then? And where was Sirius?
He pushed himself up with care, experimentally arranging his limbs one by one in a way that would hurt the least -which was already a deeply suspicious thing to do while dead.
Moving as little as possible, he looked around. He was in a clearing, with trees rising around him on all sides. There was no sign of Voldemort or his followers, which was proof enough that he had, indeed, died. And yet his parents were nowhere to be seen, his body still hurt, and there was a tight, uneasy sensation twisting in his gut that told him that something had gone wrong again.
Because Harry Potter, apparently, couldn’t even be normal in Death.
He stood slowly and patted himself down, checking his belongings: the wand was still in his pocket, its weight solid and familiar, and the invisibility cloak was still tucked safely inside his shirt, its fabric cool against the skin. That didn’t make sense either -why would he need those objects in the afterlife?- but he filed it away with everything else that didn’t.
He made his way toward the edge of the clearing, crushing fallen leaves beneath his feet as he went. Hadn’t Voldemort attacked Hogwarts in Spring? Had he slept for months on the ground without realizing it? Was the afterlife a replica of the real world, stitched together from his memories?
He hadn’t thought to ask his parents about it, but it made a strange sort of sense that you would start your second life where your first one had ended. It was possible that his parents were somewhere else, then. Maybe the dead didn’t all arrive in the same place. He would only have to look around and see.
He walked through the forest for what felt like hours, passing trees that all looked the same, and when his patience wore thin and he began considering giving up entirely and Accio-ing a broom, the sound of overlapping voices reached his ears.
He followed the noise back, adjusting his course until the trees began to thin again, and through the gaps he caught sight of a familiar green slope behind.
Hogwarts.
There were no signs of battle, no traces of war around him.
That, at least, made sense.
If this was death, if this was some strange afterlife based on his memories alone, then of course Hogwarts would appear whole and preserved at its best rather than its bloodiest. The castle rose before him exactly as it had when he had first glanced at it, years before, glowing beneath the afternoon sun.
Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
So that was how it worked. You returned to the places that had shaped you -to the version of that place that reflected your fondest memories, instead of the newest ones. He was very glad for that, he didn’t know how he would have reacted in front of a half-destroyed Hogwarts.
He walked slowly down the slope, taking in the familiar curve of the path, the way the grass brushed against his ankles, the distant sound of laughter drifting across the grounds. That felt right, too. Hogwarts had always been alive with noise. Why should death be silent?
The students came into view as he drew closer.
They moved in loose groups, chatting animatedly or laughing at something Harry couldn’t hear. He watched them with a strange, aching fondness, as if he was looking at a memory he had not been part of. For a moment it felt almost comforting, like proof that life went on, even if his own had ended.
Then he noticed something strange, something out of the ordinary: the colours of their uniforms weren’t right. There were green robes among red ones, and blue mingling with yellow. Slytherins walking beside Gryffindors without so much as a sharp glance exchanged between them.
Harry frowned, but the thought and the uneasiness faded as quickly as they came. This wasn’t the living world anymore. The old divisions probably didn’t matter here. Why would they? Death had a way of smoothing over things that had once seemed so important, after all.
He kept walking, eyes drifting to smaller details. The uniforms looked just slightly off, the house crests embroidered in a style that felt newer than he remembered but not completely unfamiliar. He assumed it was part of the illusion, his mind filling in gaps where memory blurred. He had never paid much attention to how the crests were stitched to the uniforms, after all.
He crossed the threshold into the castle with a quiet sense of reverence. It had been a long time since he had entered Hogwarts that way without fear to be found out and killed.
Inside, the castle felt warm. The staircases shifted casually as they had always done, the portraits whispered and laughed among themselves, suits of armour gleamed without a single dent to be found. It was almost too perfect to be true. Harry wandered through the corridors, half-expecting familiar faces to step out of classrooms or call his name.
None did.
At first, that, too, made sense.
The dead didn’t always appear when you wanted them to. Maybe his parents were elsewhere entirely. Maybe Sirius was waiting somewhere quieter, like Grimmauld Place, perhaps. He checked the Great Hall anyway, standing just inside the doors as his eyes swept over the long tables.
Students filled almost every seat, but none of them looked up at him. None of them were his parents. Or Sirius. Or anyone he recognised.
A flicker of unease stirred in his chest, but he managed to quickly smother it with reason. Maybe you didn’t meet the people you loved right away. Maybe this place was only a reflection, not the entirety of whatever came after.
Still, his pace quickened as he left the Hall.
He took the stairs two at a time, moving on instinct alone. There was one place that had always meant home, no matter how many times he’d doubted it. If his loved ones were anywhere in the castle, they would be there.
The Gryffindor Tower.
He stopped in front of the portrait, heart thudding madly in his chest.
“It’s me,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Harry.”
The Fat Lady peered down at him with a puzzled expression. “Password?”
“I don’t-” He hesitated, then shook his head. “You know me.”
Her smile tightened. “I’m afraid I don’t, dear.”
Harry froze. How could she-?
“My parents are inside,” he said, more urgently now. “James Potter. Lily Evans.”
She studied him for a long moment, then sighed. “You must be mistaken. No one with those names lives here.”
The Fat Lady disappeared from the frame only to reappear a few portraits down the hall, and turned to whisper madly with a ballerina frozen mid-spin.
Harry stared at the blank stone wall and the empty frame, the warmth he had felt before suddenly turning cold and brittle.
For the first time since he had woken up here, a thought he couldn’t make fit forced its way into his mind.
If this was death… why did he still hurt? Why did his body protest every movement? Why did it unmistakably feel like he was still alive?
He didn’t know how long he stood there, staring at the unmoving portrait. None of this made any sense.
“Are you lost?”
Harry spun so fast on his feet that he felt dizzy. He knew that voice.
Tom Riddle stood behind him, dressed in pristine Hogwarts robes, looking exactly as he had when Harry had first visited the diary years ago.
It’s not possible.
Tom Riddle -Voldemort- hadn’t died with him.
Harry was pretty sure he was still in the living world, terrorizing Britain with his presence and his army of mindless followers. Unless his friends had managed to kill him- but even then, this couldn’t be right. Surely he wouldn’t appear like this. Surely he wouldn’t look at Harry as though they had never met. Surely there would be spells, curses, hatred crackling in the air between them.
And Riddle had created so many horcruxes there was simply no way he could show up like this, as if he was still whole.
But if this was not Death, then…
Harry’s heart missed a beat.
No. He refused to follow that thought any further.
“No Hogwarts robes?” Riddle continued, apparently unaware that Harry was teetering on the edge of collapse. “Can you tell me your name?”
There was still the possibility that the Riddle look-alike was not Tom Riddle. Maybe whatever force was responsible for the creation of this world had run out of ideas and fashioned a familiar face out of Harry’s memories. It could have been Ron, or Hermione. Why did it have to be Riddle?
“You first,” Harry said cautiously, clinging to this last hope as if his life depended on it.
“Prefect Tom Riddle. Fifth year Slytherin,” he replied smoothly. “Your turn.”
“Well,” Harry breathed, the place suddenly spinning around him, brighter than before, “fuck.”
This time, Harry really did faint.
-
Harry blinked slowly as memories of the last few hours came back to him. The castle. The uniforms. The unfamiliar faces. Tom Riddle.
There was only one possible explanation for what was happening, and no matter how unbelievable and convoluted it might be, he knew in his gut that this time he was not wrong.
He had died, yes… but he was not in the realms of the dead. He was fifty years in the past, when Tom Riddle was still a stuck-up student and not a terrifying Dark Lord.
Why wasn’t he able to die like every other person?
“Are you well?”
Tom Riddle’s voice brought him back to the present. He had fainted… and now he was, somehow, sitting in an uncomfortable chair in a dusty classroom. Why wasn’t he in the infirmary?
“No thanks to you,” he replied coldly. Everything that had happened in his life had been Tom Riddle’s fault, including the splitting headache that he strongly suspected was caused by hitting his head when he fainted.
Riddle studied him with his head tilted, hands laced in front of him.
“You were the one fainting on me, if I remember correctly. I was kind enough to carry you here, don’t I deserve better treatment?”
“You brought me to an unused classroom instead of the infirmary,” Harry accused. He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets and closing his fingers around his wand. “Don’t I deserve better treatment?”
Riddle’s grin was like a Cheshire cat’s.
“Indeed. I will take you there once you tell me who you are. You are not a student. Are you a spy? A mercenary?”
Harry blinked at him. A… what? He didn’t understand half of what Riddle had said, but one thing was for sure: he didn’t need Riddle’s attention on him. He needed to find a way to go back to his timeline and kill Voldemort -or go back to his timeline and die properly, this time. Lingering in the past was not an option. And revealing his true identity to Riddle was definitely not an option.
“I am… no one you should bother with,” he said, shrugging. “Leave me alone, and we will all be happy.”
Riddle took a few steps forward, walking around him in a wide circle.
“You say that. But it is quite clear that you are not a student, and, therefore, you are to be considered to be an enemy until proven otherwise.” He stopped directly in front of Harry. Even if Riddle was a couple of years younger, he was already towering over him. “So. Who are you? What were you doing in front of the Gryffindor common room?”
Harry was quickly losing his temper. He had never cowered in front of Voldemort in his own timeline, and he would certainly not cower in front of Tom Riddle. He puffed his chest out, if only to prove the point to himself.
“I was listening to the Fat Lady sing. You should try it sometime. She really hits those high notes quite well.”
Harry had expected anger, or at least open suspicion, but Riddle merely stared at him with cool, assessing curiosity… as if Harry had suddenly turned into a particularly interesting puzzle. Which was the exact opposite of the outcome he had hoped for.
“That,” Riddle said slowly, “is not an answer.”
Harry met his gaze stubbornly, jaw tight. He could feel the ache in his limbs again now that the adrenaline was ebbing away, the dull throb behind his eyes insistently reminding him that he was very much alive, and very much not a ghost.
Riddle exhaled through his nose, then straightened. “You are either a transfer student who has neglected to inform the Headmaster of his arrival,” he said, ticking points off on his fingers, “or you are mentally unwell. Possibly both.”
“Charming,” Harry muttered.
“Mad, then,” Riddle concluded, unfazed. “That would explain the theatrics. And the language.”
Harry stared at him. It would be so easy to rile Riddle up -Harry suspected that simply mentioning Voldemort’s name would do the trick- but instinct screamed at him to keep his mouth shut, to keep himself small and unnoticed. Not that he was doing a particularly good job of it, right now.
But he didn’t know why he was here, he didn’t know whether this was some cosmic punishment or a last, cruel joke. All he knew was that he had died. And now he was standing in front of Tom Riddle, before the monster had been made, before the murders, before the war, before everything.
And it felt… wrong.
“You are staring,” Riddle observed.
Harry blinked. “I believe you are the one staring at me.”
That earned him a sharp look and, unexpectedly, a short laugh.
“Yes,” Riddle said. “You are definitely unwell.” He stepped back, clearly having reached a decision. “You will come with me.”
“No,” Harry said immediately. The day he did something Riddle wanted would be the day hell froze over. He opened his mouth to tell him exactly what he thought of pompous Slytherins when, suddenly, a name surfaced in his mind.
Dumbledore.
The thought hit him so abruptly that it stole his breath. If Tom Riddle was here, then it meant that Dumbledore was in the school as well. Alive. And the old headmaster had always been like a grandfather figure to him, always guiding him in the right direction, always knowing more than he said. Probably the only person in the world who might understand what had happened to him.
“I need you to take me to the Headmaster,” Harry said, fist clenching at his sides, bracing for the discussion that was bound to happen. He was sure Riddle would never do anything without expecting something in return.
Riddle noticed the shift instantly, like a shark scenting blood in the water. “I do not need to do anything I do not wish to,” he said nonchalantly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. “Headmaster Dippet is a very busy man. I am sure you can tell me what troubles you, and I will decide whether it warrants his attention.”
Headmaster… Dippet?
Harry very nearly laughed.
Of course. Of course Dumbledore wasn’t Headmaster yet. How could he have forgotten? He forced the irritation down, already recalibrating. Dumbledore would still be here as the Transfiguration teacher, then. Which meant all he had to do was avoid Riddle long enough, and fate would do the rest.
“In that case, I don’t need your help at all,” Harry said, stepping toward the door without ever fully turning his back on Riddle. “Go back to the dungeons and play with your minions, I will go to the Headmaster on my own.”
Riddle’s smirk only widened.
“Oh, I don’t think so.”
Riddle’s amused voice followed him out of the door, as though Harry’s refusals were only the beginning of something Riddle found interesting enough to pursue.
The soft sound of footsteps behind him was proof enough that he had been right.
“No need to follow me around like a dog, Riddle.” Harry snapped, quickening his pace to try to put some distance between them -just enough for the stairs to shift and finally rid him of the nuisance...
But they did not.
The castle, traitor that it was, seemed to favor Riddle. The steps reconfigured themselves only when Riddle was close enough to follow, forcing Harry to stop and wait, teeth grinding, until the staircase moved again, each pause stretching his temper thinner.
“I can find my way around, you know?”
“Yes,” Riddle replied. “Which is precisely what concerns me.”
Good way to keep a low profile, Potter, Harry thought sourly to himself.
He didn’t bother responding. By the time they reached the upper floors, he had already resigned himself to having Tom Riddle shadow his steps.
-
Professor Dumbledore’s office was smaller than Harry remembered McGonagall’s being, or perhaps it only felt that way because it was stacked with things up to the ceiling: shelves of books lined the walls, and strange instruments were scattered around the room humming softly with restrained magic.
Dumbledore looked up as they entered.
He was younger, his hair darker, his posture less solemn, and yet the moment Harry met his gaze, there it was: the same sharp gaze, the same twinkling eyes behind the half-moon spectacles that were painfully familiar.
“Professor,” Riddle said as soon as he caught up with him. “I found this… individual wandering the castle. He apparently has no name, but it is clear he is neither student nor guest.”
Dumbledore’s attention shifted fully to Harry.
“What is your name, my boy?”
“I am Harry, sir.”
Beside him, Riddle moved slightly. He was probably angry at the fact that Dumbledore had been able to discover his name before he could. Served him well.
“And do you have a surname, perhaps, Harry?”
“I…” Harry hesitated.
He couldn’t say it. Not here, with Riddle listening so intently, memorizing every word.
“I am afraid not, sir,” he said instead. “I am Harry. Just Harry.”
“I see.”
The warmth drained from Dumbledore’s expression.
It was the kind of change most people would never notice, but Harry did: he had spent months watching that face in another lifetime, learning how to read the pauses, the slight tightening around the eyes that meant disappointment, calculation, doubt.
Dumbledore no longer trusted him.
Not that Harry could blame him. This was the past, it was obvious the Headmaster wouldn’t immediately trust a nameless stranger appearing out of nowhere. And this Dumbledore was not headmaster yet, he was still the Transfiguration professor, and -Merlin, the past was disorienting!
“And what brings you to Hogwarts, just Harry?” Dumbledore asked.
Harry’s eyes flicked to Riddle before he could stop himself.
“I would prefer not to speak in front of him,” he said quietly. “If that’s possible, sir.”
For a moment the room fell completely silent. Riddle’s lips curved faintly, a smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Professor,” he said, “I found him wandering the castle grounds. He is injured, improperly dressed, and in possession of information he should not have. I believe my presence is warranted. I might be of help.”
Dumbledore regarded them both for a long moment.
“Thank you, Tom,” he said at last. “You may wait outside. I will call you if needs arise.”
Riddle stiffened.
“With respect, sir-”
“That will be all.”
The dismissal was gentle, but the glare Riddle threw at Dumbledore definitively was not.
His gaze lingered on Harry for a second too long, before he turned on his heel and left the office, the door closing unexpectedly softly behind him.
Only then did Dumbledore gesture toward the chair opposite his desk.
“Please,” he said. “Sit.”
Harry did.
They stayed in silence for a few moments, and Harry felt again like the first time he had stood in the Headmaster’s office after defeating the troll in first year: small, uncertain, and painfully aware that his life might change for the best or for the worse with the next few words.
“Now,” Dumbledore said, closing a book that had been sitting open in front of him since the moment they had barged into his study, “you may speak freely.”
Harry swallowed.
“I… uh…I am not from this time,” he said.
Dumbledore did not react.
“Fifty years in the future, I died,” Harry continued, forcing the words out before doubt could stop him. “Or I was supposed to. I was killed by Vol- err… by a dark wizard. And instead of dying properly, I woke up here. In your Hogwarts.”
Still, no visible reaction. Harry worried his hands in his lap, heart beating faster than before.
“I want to go home,” Harry finished hoarsely. “Back to my time. That’s all I want.”
Dumbledore leaned back slightly, fingers steepled in front of him.
“You expect me to believe,” he said slowly, “that you are a time traveler who appeared on Hogwarts grounds under mysterious circumstances, injured, and that this has nothing to do with the ongoing conflict with Grindelwald.”
Harry’s mouth opened without him meaning to.
“Oh,” he said weakly. “Right. Him.”
Dumbledore’s eyes sharpened.
“I cannot exclude the possibility that you work for him. And you cannot prove you are from the future, if not by saying something that we have no way to verify. You see my difficulty.”
“Yes,” Harry said dully. He had no proof he came from the future. Except his memories, maybe, but he couldn’t allow Dumbledore to see them. It was too dangerous. If the knowledge he had went into the wrong hands…
But if Dumbledore suspected him it meant he would be no help… and Harry was stuck here indefinitely. With Riddle. In the past. With Riddle.
Strangely, he felt his lips stretch in a smile far too wide to be sane.
“Are you well, my boy?” Dumbledore asked.
Why was he calling him my boy, if he couldn’t even give him the benefit of the doubt?
“Perfectly.” Harry replied. “I’m losing my mind at a very reasonable pace.”
That did it. Whatever tentative neutrality Dumbledore had been clinging to vanished.
“My boy,” he said, again, voice still gentle but no longer warm, “you arrived here escorted by one of my most…” a pause. It didn’t take a genius to understand Dumbledore was looking for a better word than dark, psychopath, or troublesome to describe Riddle. “-peculiar students, injured, evasive, and speaking of death and fractured timelines. We have a war going on, and Grindelwald does not stop in front of anything to obtain what he wants. You must understand why I cannot simply accept your story at face value.”
Harry slumped back in the chair.
“I don’t expect you to,” he said quietly. “I just… hoped you might help me. I want to go back to Hogwarts -my Hogwarts. I want to go back home.”
Dumbledore’s voice was unexpectedly very soft when he spoke again. “You speak of Hogwarts as if it matters to you.”
Harry looked up.
“It does,” he said immediately. “It always has.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s home,” Harry replied without hesitation. “Because it’s the first taste of the magical world, for some.”
Dumbledore’s eyes flickered. Harry pressed on, words tumbling out now, unfiltered.
“Because Gryffindor taught me that friendship matters more than rules, that standing up for people is worth it even when you are terrified. Because this school protects its students. Even the lost ones. Even the most peculiar ones.”
Dumbledore studied him for a long time.
“At present,” he said finally, “I do not trust you.”
Harry nodded. “Fair.”
“But,” Dumbledore continued, “I cannot, in good conscience, turn away someone who has sought refuge within these walls. Hogwarts offers sanctuary to those who ask for it, students especially. And you appear to be fifteen, perhaps sixteen at most.”
Harry’s breath caught. He didn’t correct the mistake. For the first time ever, he was happy he looked younger than his age.
“You will remain under observation,” Dumbledore said. “You will not be sorted yet. Your quarters will be close to mine. You will not leave the grounds without permission. And I hope you understand that any deception will have consequences.”
“Yes, sir,” Harry said immediately.
Dumbledore stood, signaling the end of the conversation.
“For now,” he added quietly, “Hogwarts will be your home.”
Harry swallowed. Dumbledore hadn’t offered his help yet, but he was sure that he would trust Harry enough to believe his words. He had trusted Harry in the future, after all.
“Thank you, Sir.”
-
When Harry left the Transfiguration classroom, he found Riddle propped against the wall, hands casually in his pockets, waiting.
“I gather from your expression that professor Dumbledore hasn’t exiled you, yet,” he said, standing straighter.
“You would be right, Riddle,” Harry replied flatly. “Now leave me alone.”
He turned in the direction Dumbledore had told him his rooms would be, but Riddle caught his arm, stopping him mid-step. Harry’s wand was out and pointed at Riddle before his brain could even register what was happening.
“I said-“ he repeated, slowly “-to leave me alone. Got it, Riddle?”
To his surprise, Riddle smiled.
“You know very well I will not. Not until I discover every little secret you are hiding.”
Harry was just a heartbeat away from cursing him when someone cleared their throat right behind them.
“I believe you have somewhere to be, Mr. Riddle.”
Dumbledore stood at the entrance of his office, a stern look on his face. Only then did Harry register how it must look: pointing a wand at Hogwarts’ most promising student without apparent reason, minutes after being told to behave.
He wanted to smack himself in the face. He would have to pay attention to his own behavior from now on, especially when around Riddle. Which was impossible, because Riddle had a special way of getting on his nerves. So he would have to avoid Riddle as much as possible if he wanted to have a chance at going back to his time.
He ducked his head and made his way toward his new quarters, this time without interruption. He did not look back once, but he could feel Riddle’s eyes on him the whole time.
That was going to be a problem.