u/Accomplished-Gap6678

Harry Potter's uncle and aunt lied about many things, but one truth they always told was that Harry was a pathological liar. He doesn't know why, but Harry often blurts out lies whenever he feels nervous or anxious. Sometimes they were small white lies; other times, he made up stories with layers built on top of each other, creating an intricate web that, more often than not, brought him nothing but trouble.

Harry couldn't break the habit, even at Hogwarts. He tried not to, but Hogwarts, despite being actually magical, was big and rather intimidating for a boy who wasn't used to good things happening. So he told lies.

They fell from his mouth easily. Quickly. Randomly.

Sometimes even he would be surprised by what he said. Then he ducked his head, bit his lip, and wondered what was wrong with him. Why, did he lie?

Harry lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, hating himself for every second he told his fibs. He didn't think anyone had caught on yet, but Harry knew his time would run out soon. Eventually, someone would realize his "fun" stories weren't true. And when they did, he was sure he'd lose the only friend he'd ever made. Ron liked him, sure, but only for so long. What was his tolerance limit? No one liked a liar, not even Harry, and that was basically his label.

Rolling onto his side, Harry buried his face into his pillow, hating himself for his uncontrollable habit. He promised himself he would get better, that he would at least admit it was a lie after he told it. If only to keep Ron.

The next morning, when Ron asked him what he liked to do for fun, Harry panicked. He didn't have any hobbies or pastimes, unless you counted cleaning to earn his keep. He meant to say that, really, he did, but what came out was, "I collect rocks."

"Rocks?"

"Yeah." He sweated. "Rocks."

"Why?"

Green eyes flickered around the grand hall, looking for a reason to have one of the lamest hobbies, and when they landed on the High Table, his tongue actually tingled. Before he could think better of it, Harry turned back to Ron and blurted, "Because I'm looking for a specific rock."

"What?"

Harry licked his dry lips and swallowed as the other eleven-year-old's face wrinkled in confusion. He needed to stop. He really did. But fear slipped into his chest, loosening his lips and blanking his mind. "Yes, it's a special rock. It's one only found on the full moon, with a white strip on it. It's flat on one side, but raised on the other, like a rose. Do you know how rocks are formed? We learned about them in primary. They are formed when-"

Ron's eyes glazed over a little, telling Harry he was growing bored with the conversation. Dread pushed Harry to throw in a random layer that had nothing to do with the conversation "-and if you find the one I'm looking for, then you win whatever contest you enter!"

At that, Ron perks up. "Really?"

Before Harry could answer, the twins' laughter came from further down the table. Harry turned to see Ron's older brothers, identical down to their amused smiles. "You actually believe that, Ronniekin? It's obviously a lie."

Harry's heart launches. "No, it's not!"

"Yeah?" One says with a raised brow. He doesn't look mad; if anything, he almost looks like he's enjoying himself and playing along. "Is it this one?"

From his pocket, the twin pulled out a rock that looked exactly like the one he had described, down to the white, rose-like shape. He had no idea why the thirteen-year-old had it on him, or why, but Harry now had everyone at the table's attention. He had gone too deep again. He couldn't say no.

Harry's eyes widened. "Yes! That's it! Where did you find it?"

"Yesterday, while flying by the lake, I spotted it on the shore, isn't that right, George?" Fred asked his twin, because if the other one were George, it would be him.

"Right, you are. But, oddly, we haven't won anything, have we, Fred?"

Harry stomach dropped, but Ron, thankfully, came to his rescue. "You have to use it in the full moonlight. Duh."

The twins grin. "Oh, Icky Ronniekins, we plan to. Tonight is the full moon after all."

Harry went to bed thinking he would be exposed as the liar he is tomorrow, and he would lose his only friend. He couldn't sleep, and by morning, dark shadows sat under his eyes; a thumping headache sat at the back of his mind, and he was close to wrapping himself around Ron, if only to stop him from leaving.

That was until he saw George and Fred receive an owl midway through breakfast. They gaped at the box dropped between them, looked at each other in wonder, then slowly opened it. Inside were a bunch of galleons gleaming in the sunlight, and the box let out a loud trumpet sound, proudly proclaiming the twins as winners of some random inventor contest.

"We won," Fred said in wonder

"Two hundred galleons," George replied. "It's ours... but we entered two weeks past the due date...last night, actually... how?"

Ron thumped Harry on the back. "You were right! The rock worked!"

Harry smiled carelessly back at him, even though inside he was falling to his knees and thanking the universe from the bottom of his heart. He promised he would never ever lie again while at Hogwarts. This was far too close.

Brown leaned over the table, staring at Harry with wide, sparkling eyes. "Do you have any other rocks you're looking for? I want to win something"

He startled, not expecting the girl to even speak to him, and despite the promise he made literally two seconds ago, Harry babbled. "Um, no, but you should wear all blue on Friday."

She blinks. "Why?"

"Um... because, if you wear blue, then you'll get a super rare...chocolate frog card," Harry replied, eyes flying around the table until the gleam of a dragon ring on one of the seventh years caught his attention. He smiled weakly at her. "It'll have something to do with dragons."

"Okay." She mulled over his advice. "I don't really like chocolate frogs, but I do like rare things. I'll wear all blue on Friday after class."

Harry breathes a sigh of relief when she turns away to chat to her friends, giggling about one thing or another. He quickly busy himself stuffing food into his mouth, thinking it was the only way to stop himself from starting more lies. Thankfully, Ron isn't paying attention because he's busy congratulating his brothers, the center of attention, puffing up with pride over their win.

He almost forgets what he told Brown by the end of the week, until she comes tearing down the common room, holding the ultra-rare Chocolate Frog card of Newt Scamander from when he was on the Ukrainian Ironbelly task force. They made only ten in the world, and she found number seven on the first try.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" She jumped up and down, holding Harry's hand. "I would have never bought the chocolate frog if you hadn't told me. This card is the best thing to ever happen to me! My dad is a big fan of Newt Scamander; it's the perfect gift for him!"

"Um, you're welcome."

"Do you have any more predictions?" She asks, leaning in with sparkling eyes. "Anything you can tell me?"

Predictions?

"Um...well...if you hear a chicken crow at midnight, turn on your side." He winces, trying to pry his hand from her tight grip. Around them, Gryffindors glance at each other, having witnessed the two times Harry Potter had correctly predicted the future and, although some doubted, they silently agree to be wary of chickens. Just for fun.

The following morning, the first-year girls retell the story of the collapsing bedposts plaguing the female dorms. Apparently seven had just fallen over at midnight, but thankfully no one got hurt because they all moved when they heard a chicken crow and had escaped the wood just in time. That convinced everyone that Harry Potter was a seer.

Well, almost everyone.

Granger insisted the bedposts were the result of old beds needing replacement, not a magical fortelling, but no one really paid her any attention. Even though Harry really, really, really wished they would.

And that was how, after the one week as a First Year, Harry's lying wind up making him the most famous and accurate Seer of the century. Somehow. He just had to play along for the rest of his life, and pray no one but Granger ever caught on. She seemed to take it as a personal offense every time he was right, even after they became friends.

Harry Potter is influenced by a Hogwarts staff member on his eleventh birthday. However, it wasn't the shrunken man with the purple turban or the giant that broke down his door. Harry liked Hagrid; he very much enjoyed the magic he showed and the effect it had on his horrible family, but he couldn't deny that a part of him was wary.

The same part that was forced under a stairway, hit with pans for moving too slowly in the kitchen, and chased throughout the school because a group of mean kids was bored. He knew how easily someone of a regular size could hurt him; he didn't want to find out how someone as big as Hagrid would do it.

So he liked him, but Harry watched him from the corner of his eye, ensuring that at any sign of displeasure he would have a chance to escape. He kept his pace slower, made sure he was close enough that he wouldn't be lost in the crowd, but at a distance that Hagrid would have to reach to touch him, giving him a few seconds to dodge should the gentle giant no longer feel very gentle.

Because of this, Harry hadn't noticed the woman until he crashed into her legs. She stumbled with a soft gasp, unable to keep her balance; the basket in her hand went flying, and the contents spilled all over the cobblestones with a clatter and a crash. He froze, staring in horror at the mess he caused.

His muscles tensed, cringing as he ducked his head and slowly broke out into a cold sweat. Her hair was longer and brighter, but its yellow color made him think of his aunt, and dread slowly filled his stomach. He knew he should bend down and gather her things; maybe that would ease her rage, if only a little, but he could not uncoil his muscles. Could not control the small shake that was developing in his legs as she looked down at her items.

"Are you alright, dear?" Her voice was rough and warm, a little deeper than he was used to for a woman, but melodious nonetheless. "Didn't get hurt, did you?"

Harry's eyes snapped up to her face, slightly surprised by her questions, but he couldn't bear to hold her gaze for long. His eyes dropped down to the ground, not really seeing anything as his heart hammered in his chest. He knew that sometimes adults pretended they weren't mad, at least not in public.

His aunt always held it in until they got home, where he got his proper punishment. He had to make sure he didn't let her take him somewhere where she could hurt him. As long as he stayed within sight of others, he should be safe.

That would be easy, seeing as he couldn't move past wringing his hands into the hem of his shirt.

She must have taken his silence as something else because she let out a little amused laugh. "I see you're interested in my instructional supplies. I bet you've never seen this many muggle items."

The blond woman knelt, picking up a typewriter that shouldn't have fit in the tiny basket that was no bigger than her forearm. He blinked as she launched into a long but enthusiastic lecture about the different writing utensils Muggles had, at one point picking up different versions of the typewriter and stating each model's year of release.

As she spoke, Harry slowly felt himself being grounded, captivated by her words and the interesting story she painted, while she threw in fun facts about the printing press and the way it revolutionized the Muggle world. The roar that had developed in his ears slowly lowered while his heart returned to a normal beat instead of the painful drumming it had been jerked into.

She smiled at him sweetly, reaching out to slowly help uncurl his fingers from his shirt and placing a fancy-looking pen into his palm. "You can keep this. And when you become a third year, you should join my muggle-studies class. I teach the printing press and all other kinds of interesting Muggle facts. I'm Professor Burbage."

"Harry Potter." He whispered, staring in awe at the gift he was given. This was the second present of his life. First, a cake by Hagrid, and now a pen that looked like the kind his uncle Vernon liked to buy his bosses when he was trying to get a promotion.

Professor Burbage's eyes widened slightly, but she made no other sign that she was excited to speak to Harry. He was grateful for that, still slightly overwhelmed by the greeting he received earlier in the pub.

"It's a pleasure, Mr. Potter. I can't wait to see you at Hogwarts."

Later that night, as Harry lay in his cupboard, clutching the pen he managed to hide in his sleeve, Harry wondered if there was a field of study that might look at wizards and witches the same way Muggle-studies did. And if there was, what he had to do to get a mastery in it.

This would be the start of the first MagiSociologist, and the steps he took to understand the world like his favorite professor did to understand Muggles. He would also become one of the oddest wizards to ever walk the earth, making a few of his friends cringe whenever he started to analyze them the same way a magizoologist did (at least in their eyes), but thanks to his work, a majority of tense between muggle-borns and purebloods was slowly iced away by his research.

It would also be the birth of one of the most dangerous wizards to ever walk the earth, and the tale of him storming Voldemort's stronghold just to get back Charity Burbage, while cutting his way through witches and wizards, would be a horror story many in the future would doubt to be true.

For now, however, Harry picked up a notebook to write his very first observations of the Leaky Cauldron, hiding a smile in the darkness of his cupboard.

Tom Riddle wakes up one day to find a boy sitting at the bottom of the bed, watching him sleep. His first reaction is to scream, much to his shame; the second is to hurt the boy with his mind. The other orphans had learned over the years to leave Tom and his room well alone, but this new face was obviously unaware of the unspoken rules of Wools.

He likely was a new orphan, freshly arrived that morning- or late afternoon?- and Tom was more than willing to teach him personally.

Except nothing happens.

The boy keeps staring at him with unnervingly bright green eyes, a shade that almost looks unnatural, and Tom keeps straining his mind to hurt him, but nothing happens. He strains so hard that he actually develops a headache.

Clutching at his aching skull, Tom doesn't notice the other boy and gently pushes him back under the covers with a soft coo. "It's okay, Tom. I'm here now. And I won't let you become a monster."

He had no idea what that meant, but he felt too nauseous to demand answers. Tom fell back to sleep a few minutes later, lured by the sudden increase in warmth from the previously flimsy blankets of his bed and the soft humming of the strange boy. He'd heard other orphans talk about lullabies before their time in the orphanage, but Tom had never been the receiving end of one.

At least not from what he could remember.

In the morning, he wakes to the boy once again at the bottom of his bed, sitting on the railing, wide green eyes fixated on his face. In his lap is a plate of warm, mouth-watering breakfast food, the kind that the orphanage can rarely afford. "For you."

A minute of silence passes, and Tom eyes the plate held up to him like an offering, confused. He tries once again to make Bad Things happen, but there is no sign of change at all with the strange boy. He takes the plate, eats it all in large bites, least the boy tries to steal some, and when he's finished, he realizes those green eyes are still observing him from inside an empty expression that would have almost belonged on a simpleton were it not for the way his eyes trace over Tom's face.

He's being studied. Like an animal inside a zoo.

Tom shivers.

"I'm Harry," The boy says after a long pause. "I'm your new roommate."

Tom was burning this place to the ground.

Over time, however, he grows used to his little shadow. Although Harry does whatever he says, and rarely complains when Tom pushes work onto his shoulders, his roommate makes it a point to stop Tom from bothering the other orphans. Harry doesn't let them walk all over the pair, using his uncanny presence to scare off any troublemakers, because if Tom found him unnervering, the rest of the world was horrified by him. It was entertaining to see, especially when Harry didn't seem to understand why so many people were so "nervous," as he claimed they were.

On the other hand, Tom was always on the verge of a headache or a heart attack because of Harry. It took him three years to find out that the magic that sits right under his skin, allowing him to speak to snakes and make Bad Things happen, was also an ability Harry possessed.

Harry just had his magic covered in Darkness that made everyone around him feel wrong. When Professor Dumbledore demanded to know why that was, Harry had only shrugged.

"The man who killed my parents used some very dark magic to do it. I think some of it stuck to me when he failed to kill me." Harry locked gazes with Tom, staring into his soul like he was the judge, jury, executor, and spectator of Tom's trial. "Dark magic leaves traces even when you wish it didn't."

Tom shivered, more unsettled by his roommate than ever before. Thankfully, Professor Dumbledore promised to help him stay away from Harry at Hogwarts, after a long and detailed conversation about how dangerous pretty boys with magic as dark as Harry can be. He isn't sure why the Transfiguration professor felt the need to add the word pretty, but Tom agreed nonetheless.

Harry was sorted into Slytherin and Tom into Gryffindor. He felt safe in the Gryffindor tower, but sometimes he swears he can sense Harry there, as if the snake knew the tower brick by brick. His housemates promise there is no way a Slytherin could reach him here, but Tom has his doubts.

After all, everyone knew how, despite being a fellow muggle-born, Harry had been able to outcast everyone in Slytherin and had somehow taken on the whole house in a brawl. The snakes claimed it was a house-wide dueling tournament, but everyone knew the truth.

They tried to break the Muggle-born first year. Instead, they were reminded of their morality. And the one responsible for that was his orphanage roommate, who followed Tom around like a shadow. He wanted to tell him to get lost, but he was slightly terrified of what would happen if he did.

This was going to be a long seven years. At least he had Professor Dumbledore on his side. The man was the only one who seemed able to keep Harry from getting too close... even when Tom sort of liked it that Harry waited on him hand and foot.

During the staff meeting right before the new school year begins, someone mentions Harry Potter—specifically, his lack of admission. Normally, only the heads of houses are aware if a student, rarely but not impossible, chooses to deny their entry to Hogwarts.

However, this is the Boy-Who-Lived, and that means the castle is buzzing with gossip about the boy, so Albus wasn't too surprised that word of young Harry's unanswered owl had gotten out. At first, they believed the boy's guardians were taking their time to confirm it, because news like this was bound to get out, but the less advance warning they gave the paparazzi, the better. That quickly changed as time went on, and there was no sign of the boy's response. In fact, with Hogwarts a mere month away, everyone was growing antsy.

Word was starting to go around that the lack of answer, acceptance, or rejection meant something far worse for the young boy.

Albus wanted to settle everyone's concerns, but even he didn't know what was going on. He had sent out Hagrid on Harry's birthday, expecting the groundskeeper to come back with tales of the trip; however, Hagrid had reported that the Muggles Harry was staying with had spent the day at the cemetery, visiting a grave. Harry hadn't been among them, and Hagrid felt it was rude to interrupt their mourning to ask where Harry was.

Now listening to the adults, each throwing out theories of where young Harry is, Albus fought the urge to sigh. The theories were growing odder and odder, to the point of ridiculousness. It was most likely Harry's guardians were unsure of where to find an owl. He had assumed Petunia would know as she had grown up with Lily, but had failed to consider the fact that it was Lily's parents who knew all academic details regarding the wizarding world.

Petunia had also been a child back then and likely never picked up on it. She may have written the letter she sent asking to attend, but perhaps she didn't send it.

Minerva shoots him a very pointed look, as if the curve of her frown was a reminder of her opinion on the Muggles. Albus knew she didn't approve, but she wasn't aware of the Prophecy or the Blood Wards. He kept that information to himself, locked away behind his strongest Occlumency defenses.

Albus knew how fast gossip traveled, how quickly people told their most trusted, who in turned turened to their own most trusted. He was headmaster for a school of teenage children, after all.

He clapped his hands, bringing the debate to an end. "Remember, everyone, the purpose of this meeting is to discuss all incoming students. I'll handle Harry Potter's admission personally."

"I'll go with you," Minerva stated, leaving no room for denial. Albus nodded, accepting her self-invitation and turning to the rest.

"Now, we have eighty incoming students. Do you have any class concerns you wish to discuss?" Albus sat back as three hands went up. He put Harry Potter to the back of his mind as he grabbed his quill to take notes. Severus and Aurora were competing for the same time slot for their NEWT-level classes, since that was when the moon was at its peak, which made potions stronger; however, Aurora wanted it because the moon phases were a must-cover topic if her students wanted to pass successfully, and she needed them to see the magical residue that came off the moon.

It led to an hour-long screaming match between the two masters, eventually settling with Albus granting Severus the slot only because Aurora demanded more days of the week to teach, expanding her instructional time and her pay.

They moved on to the next concern.

Filius wanted to request a stool or a stage for his classroom so he didn't have to climb on books to teach. Albus wanted to grant him this, but his hands were tied, since the school governors controlled the budget. His explanation caught the attention of Severus, who pointed out that increasing Aurora's pay meant Albus did have some control of the budget. He wanted an increase in his supply budget if Albus could grant increases.

Rolanda jumped in before he could answer, declaring that if Severus got more potion ingredients, then she deserved better brooms. The room then exploded with everyone throwing out their own classroom requests and thinly veiled insults at each other's subjects. Albus knew this was going to be a long meeting.

He didn't revisit Harry's missing reply until two weeks later, when he realized he had forgotten to check in on that. Not that anyone could blame him. The preparations for the start of the new year were always a crazy haze of last-minute things, even though it was the same every year. Harry had missed the deadline for responding, but Albus was willing to bend the rules just a little for the prophecy child.

He went to grab Minerva, dragging her away from her inventory count of all the transfigured items that were beyond saving (some of her students never quite cast correctly, leaving the items permanently changed in some areas), and the two traveled to the familiar Muggle neighborhood. It was early evening, when most people were at home, eating dinner and settling in for the night. Despite the houses being alight with light, there was not a soul out on the street.

Perfect.

They walked up to the door of 4 Privet Drive, knocking loudly but not too roughly. There was a moment's pause before muffled footsteps could be heard coming towards them. Minerva straightened her posture and fixed the wrinkles in her robes. A habit she always had, and advice she always gives the new students: smarten yourself up before meeting someone new.

The door opened, and a child appeared. Not Harry, unless his hair had lightened quite a few shades and his eyes had changed from green to blue. This must be his cousin.

"Who are you?" The child asks, rather rudely, but since they are strangers knocking on his door, Albus will excuse it.

"Good evening. I'm looking for Harry Potter to offer him a position in our magic school. My name is Albus-"

The boy's face shifted from distrust to sadness, his features changing so dramatically that the words died in Albus' mouth. A sense of wrongness settled in his stomach, and he had not survived these many years by ignoring his gut. Something horrible was going on.

"That's not funny." The child scolded, moving to close the door. "Go away."

"Now wait just a minute," Minerva bristled. She had never been one to take perceived disrespect well. It was one of her flaws, jumping to conclusions from facial expressions. She's gotten better over the years, but Albus still remembered the hot-headed witch who was losing her house points every other Tuesday.

The door slammed closed in their faces, and the faint click let them know the boy had locked it. Minerva didn't wait for even a second, raising her wand and thrusting magic at the wood. Albus sighed as the wood slammed open; the child, who was in the motion of walking back to his seat in front of the telly, whipped around with a scream.

This alerted his parents because one second later, a heavy-set man brandishing a kitchen carving knife and a woman clutching a broom like a spear came barreling out of a doorway. Albus waits a while, allowing Minerva to handle the accusations and the screaming Muggles, searching for Harry. He sees almost no sign that the boy even lives here, despite the multiple frames displaying eerily still photographs on the walls and atop the furniture.

He ignores the other adults and cowering child to make a round of the rooms and hallway, hoping perhaps that Harry's image was placed in a different part of the home. If the house was so neat and organized, maybe they were particular about the frame arrangements, too. As he walked, he watched a family's life from its early stages to the present, but one jarring detail chilled him to his bones.

A family of three lives here, with no signs at all that a fourth was ever present. The stone of unease turns heavier in his stomach. He turned back to the conversation to find Minerva had strong-armed the three to sit down, all of them clutching each other in fright as she pointed her wand at them with a calm expression.

Oof, he should have paid more attention to her.

"Now, this is all a misunderstanding." Albus walks over to his coworker, pushing her wand arm down until she is forced to drop it. He smiles warmly at the muggles, hoping to put them at ease. "We just wanted to talk to Mr. Potter and inquire about his enrollment at Hogwarts."

"That's not funny!" The boy bursts, angry now. He ignores his mother's frantic shushing as he glares at the two professors. "Stop making fun of Harry!"

"We are not," Minerva replies evenly, though her lips press against each other tightly. "We merely haven't heard an owl reply."

"Of course he can't reply." The man scoffs, rolling his eyes even though he's been regarding them as if the two of them were boggarts.

"Why not?" Minerva huffs. Her patience is hanging on by a thread, and he can tell it's about to snap. Albus settles a hand on her wand arm, squeezing it in warning.

"You mean... you don't know?" Petunia cuts in, voice tight with disbelief and something else. Something like grief, hurt, rage, and relief all in one. The stone was a boulder now, and Albus felt like he was sinking into an ocean.

Out of the corner of his eye, a head peeked out of the cupboard under the stairs.

The room temperature dropped; the family of three glanced at each other, then at the house, as if worried about being overheard, before Petunia whispered, leaning towards them like she was sharing a secret, but her eyes swirled with grief. "Harry died last year."

It was as if he'd been hit with a freeze hex. "What?"

"He was in the garden." The boy picked up, voice flat despite the tears prickling at his eyes. "He was supposed to pull the weeds out of the rose bushes cause he got in trouble at school. A spider bit him. I don't know what it was or where it came from, but it was deadly. I was the one who found him."

The last sentence is spoken so lowly, Albus almost didn't hear him, but the devastation in the child's frame is the loudest thing in the room. Petunia immediately crushed the boy to her chest, whispering comfort. The child doesn't react to her words, staring blankly at the floor.

Minerva clasps her hands over her mouth, a sharp, painful gasp leaving her lips. Albus's first reaction is to deny them, to shout that there was no possible way Harry Potter could be dead, and to such a simple death, but he turns his head to look at the thing in the corner of his eye and is met with undeniable proof.

A child, with wild, unkempt hair, thick round glasses, and clothes far too large for him, stares back. The child is transparent, with just the right amount of silver-grey that he knows it's not been a recent death.

"Sometimes it feels like he's still here." The blond child confessed. In that moment, Albus realized with a start that the three can't see him, because Harry is a ghost and Muggles cannot interact with them. Not completely. Harry doesn't speak to Albus or Minerva, likely unaware they can see him, for the boy walks over to the blond and pats his head.

A shiver goes through the child, blue eyes flickering around wildly. Ghosts have no sensation, but sometimes they did tend to leave cold spots that muggles could sense if they were powerful enough.

Albus had heard of ghosts like these, Muggle-born children who died before they could be told of their magic, and haunting their family members for lack of what to do. Most times those children were trapped in their homes, bound by the chains of whatever killed them.

They often became corrupted and deadly to the living.

"He's not," Petunia replied to her child, but it was almost as if she was trying to convince herself. "He's moved on. Harry is with Lily and her husband in heaven."

It's a lovely thought, but one entirely wrong.

"Mr. Potter." Albus addresses the young ghost, who swings around to him and seems utterly startled that Albus is staring right at him. He points to himself in confusion, which could mean a number of things, from the boy being mute to not speaking to anyone in the past year and forgetting how. "Yes, you, Mr. Potter. I can see you and hear you. So can my colleague."

Harry's eyes widen. Mr and Mrs. Dursley do not take kindly to this, leaping to their feet and demanding the pair leave again, but their own son shushes them.

"Harry? Harry is here?" He asks Albus. The aged wizard nods back at him, pointing to the area where Harry stands. How odd that the ghost doesn't bother with floating. "Can you tell him I'm sorry? Can you tell him I'm so, so sorry?"

Was the boy apologizing for not finding him sooner? Or for causing his death? Or for something else? Whatever it was, the apology didn't have a positive effect on Harry. His figure flickered, going from silver-grey to black for a few seconds. Minerva let out a choked sob as Albus's own heart plummeted.

Harry was becoming corrupted, and if left alone, he would turn into a ghoul version of an Obscurial. These were the kind of ghosts that most Muggles build their horror stories around. It was no wonder, because dead Obscurials were dangerous, with no reason behind their attacks. Their minds were long gone.

Thankfully, Harry changed back to silver-grey, but his hateful glare at the Muggles didn't leave his face. Whatever the child was apologizing for, Harry didn't forgive. Might never forgive, even. He had died with that feeling, and that was a hard thing to shake. Some theorized that ghosts' final emotions were forever engraved into their existence, which was why Miss Myrtle still burst into tears at the slightest prompting, despite having been much harder to bring to tears in life.

Harry hadn't died with hate, but he hadn't felt the most positive of emotions towards the family of three. If he lingered longer, he would forget any positivity, and that head pat to offer comfort would change into an attempt at decapitation.

Albus couldn't let that happen. By protocol, he was supposed to report Mr. Potter to the Ministry's Spirits Division and let the professionals handle the exorcism, but that would mean destroying what was left of Harry Potter's soul. That would mean losing the one link of the prophecy.

"Mr. Potter," He started again. "How would you like to be a part of Hogwarts' very first graduating class of ghost students?"

"Albus?!" Minerva gawked, but Albus only smiled at her, trying with his eyes to explain.

"I allow a ghost to teach. Why shouldn't I allow a ghost to learn? You of all people know the value of an education. Mr. Potter will do much better in the castle learning than here watching life move on without him"

Harry Potter's eyes grew wide and hopeful. "I can leave?"

Albus watched the chains that bound Harry to the property appear, each wrapped in dark, unhappy feelings, and he realized he had made a horrible mistake leaving the boy here all these years. He would make sure he never had to see this place again. "Yes, Mr. Potter, you can leave. After all, every young person deserves a good education."

Harry wakes to find himself in a world very similar to his own, but with one large, jarring difference. He is not the Boy-Who-Lived. Instead, the Chosen One was a young girl named Rose Potter, still walking around, unaware of the magic living under her skin. She lived with her uncle, aunt, and cousin at 4 Privet Drive, in her cousin's hand-me-downs, somewhat altered to resemble girls' clothing, and had hair as wild and untamed as Harry's.

She had the same startling bright green eyes that were shadowed with anxious mistrust, and the same burning urge to be liked by anyone governed her every movement. It was like looking into a twisted mirror.

In all honesty, Harry hadn't even set out to find her, not really. He only came to Surrey as a last resort, because his other options had vanished into thin air. The night before had been a relatively simple one. He had fed his sheep, moved his flock into the barn, cooked himself a simple dinner, and settled into bed with a book recommended to him by the town's bookstore owner's daughter.

After the war, Harry had all but retreated from the magical world, taking his gold and settling down in a nice, quiet Muggle town, with more sheep than people. He bought a shepherd's house and property after the old man moved to the city with his son, finding the open, grassy lands of solitude utter bliss.

His friends stayed to rebuild what the war had destroyed, but Harry had been tried. Despite fighting with Ron and Hermione from the same age, he had felt completely burned out by the whirlwind of disasters the magical world had brought to him. He was no longer a wide-eyed eleven-year-old, struck by the wonder of magic.

He knew what horrors magic could cause and found himself taking a page from his aunt's book. Harry wanted no part of magic ever again. He had placed his wand in a metal fireproof safe, and hadn't cast a single spell since.

That didn't mean he turned his back on the wizarding world completely. Harry still came around for dinner at the Burrow, hosted Ron and Hermione whenever they were free, and exchanged letters with other acquaintances just as much. He simply did not want to be the one doing magic, nor did he want to go anywhere near a magical public area.

It caused a bit of a gap between him and the others, because no one who could do spells understood not wanting to. Ginny, bless her, tried her best to understand, but it became clear that for all her acceptance of the Muggle world, she simply could not live in it. Not when Harry acted as if he were a Muggle himself, with his stubbornness about not using his magic. They broke up, agreeing they wanted different things, but remained great friends.

Rumors eventually spread that the once-great wizard Harry Potter had turned into a squib because of a non-existent injury he sustained in the war. His fame plummeted, and it wasn't long before people called him the washed-up hero. His friends were outraged, but Harry adored it.

People left him alone thanks to that rumor.

Yes, life after the war was everything he wanted as a child. His own house, far away from anyone who could hurt him, treasured friends despite the way they were all starting to drift apart as they each built their own life, and all the loving sheep he could care for. Not to mention never having to worry about finances.

He had no complaints.

Which was why, when he woke in an unknown apartment surrounded by bags and bags of his gold (he knew it was his money because the goblins had still not forgiven him, and he had to make do with creating his own vault in his house) and his wand in his hand- well, Harry had logically gone to the Burrow.

He had noticed the wards acting odd, but Harry had been able to push through them from sheer will. It didn't make it impossible to get to the building, but it felt a lot like he was trudging through knee-deep mud. He should tell Molly to have someone come out and look at the wards; it might be time for a maintenance check.

Except Molly didn't recognize him, so when he opened the door to the house, he was met with a series of curses from the panicking woman. Behind her, clutching to her skirts, were her children, but Harry knew all of them should be taller than the ginger woman. And older.

He had fled as Molly roared at Percy to contact the magical authorities, still firing hexes and curses like a seasoned duelist. Thankfully, the ten-year-old wasn't fast enough to connect the floo, so Harry had plenty of time to run as far as his legs could carry him, zig-zagging for his life. He then went to Hogwarts, seeking out the Headmistress, only to be told by a younger-looking Hagrid that uninvited guests tended to vanish in the Forbidden Forest, especially ones that had no children and thus no reason to be at the school.

If he didn't understand the threat, the heavy club the half-giant had swung on a shoulder made it clear enough.

By that point it was mid-afternoon, and he had come to the conclusion that he had traveled through time. Or he was going insane. He wandered aimlessly, refusing to go to Diagon Alley from sheer habit, and eventually he found himself climbing onto a bus going back to the only other place he knew to be safe.

But his house, his rolling green hills, and his flock were all in use by the man who would sell to him for years to come. Harry had climbed back onto a bus, moving in a daze. He only had the clothes on his back, his gold stashed away in the extension charmed bag Hermione had insisted he take, and his wand, which he hadn't touched in a decade.

He was running low on his Muggle money, which meant he would have to go to Gringotts himself, instead of asking Ginny to exchange his gold for him, unless he wanted to wind up on the streets or worse, wind up staying in a magic inn.

Harry's legs had carried him to another bus, then a few stops and a walk, before his mind snapped out of his depressed and panicked state to realize he was standing in front of 4 Privet Drive in the dead of night. All the lights were off, as everyone was likely asleep, and he realized that somewhere inside, a child was sleeping under the stairs.

The knowledge made a stone appear in his stomach. He knew better; he really did, but how he wanted to go in there and fix that injustice. A bad idea, because he should be focusing on getting back home as quickly as possible.

Harry broke into 9 Privet Drive, ignoring the for-sale sign in front and the fact that the building had no furniture, deciding he would rest there for the night. In the morning, he would start his search for a way to get home.

Only the following day, when he was going for a walk to clear his head after tossing and turning on the cold floor, he saw the young girl tending to the rose bushes in the garden. It was far too early; the sun was barely rising, and yet there she was, pulling weeds, far skinnier than a child should be and looking utterly exhausted.

She couldn't be older than seven.

Harry stopped dead, staring at her in utter confusion, which she must have sensed because she glanced up at that moment.

"Oh!" She startled. "Um, hello?"

"Hello," Harry replied, voice thick. "Bit early for gardening, isn't it?"

"I like to garden." She replied with a shrug. It was an easy response. A practice one. One he recognized. His aunt coached him into saying the same thing anytime someone asked him about his gardening responsibilities, too.

"That so? I'll have to ask you for some tips for my lawn." Harry replied, smiling. His familiar stubbornness taking form behind his words. He knew. He was not going back to his time or his dimension. He was staying here, and he was going to get custody of this little girl to give her a safe and warm home if it killed him. He would even pick up his wand again if he had to.

"I just moved into 9 Privet Drive." Harry continued walking closer to the fence, but stayed respectfully on the other side. "My name is Harry Potter"

At the name, the young girl froze entirely. Her eyes moved over his features, clearly tracing the similarities between them and building her own conclusion on the reason. Hope bloomed in her eyes as she stood to her full height. "My name is Rose Potter. Are we related?"

Harry felt the moment he shattered his chance to get home. "You know, we might be."

Harry hates to admit it, but time travel was not all that complicated. At least once, he got past the aching, bone-crushing traveling part. He wants to claim that he did it intentionally, that he spent months researching and collecting the necessary ingredients, but in reality he had been drinking with Ron to celebrate his best friend's soon-to-be wedding and decided to apparate while doing a backflip at the height of the third bottle.

The plan was to simply get to the other side of the room they were in, amid the cheers of their other friends while he did said backflip. It had gone well until he was spinning sideways with his body feeling like he had done the worst case of splinching known to humankind, and landed rather painfully in an alleyway outside of the bar.

He hadn't made it across the room. He'd gone outside of it.

Harry lay there for a few minutes, groaning in pain, until his magic slowly numbed his body well enough that he knew he hadn't lost any body parts. It was a small joy, as he climbed to his feet and limped out into the street. He intended to go back inside and beg whoever was sober enough to get him through the floo and to St. Mungo's, but he ran into a wizard the second he managed to stumble out of the alley.

The impact, while not too bad, seeing as neither were going overly fast, had caused pain to radiate through his body and knocked him right off his feet. The wizard had let out a noise of displeasure, but the moment he realized Harry was unwell, he had taken out his wand, casting a few spells on Harry, and the world had turned dark.

When Harry came to, he found himself in St. Mungo's four days later, being looked over by a Healer who carefully asked some seemingly innocent questions about himself. Harry answered to the best of his abilities, but it became clear he didn't do a good job based on the worried frown she started to develop.

She didn't give him a reason why, only stating that he would be kept for observation. When he asked to reach out to his emergency contacts -Ron would likely be beside himself that Harry had somehow gotten himself killed at his stag do and was slowly losing it- but she refused, without a convincing explanation that he could not have visitors.

On the second day, she returned with a visitor, one that had Harry choking on his lunch. This visitor was Fleamont Potter, and apparently, everyone thought he was Harry's older brother. A half-brother, at least, because of Harry's green eyes that separated him from being Fleamont's literal clone. Even James hadn't looked so much like Fleamont, taking his mother's sharp features.

Harry was told by the well-meaning man that he had signs of his memories being tampered with, and due to the injuries Harry had been found with, it had likely been an attempt by Fleamont's mother- the old Lady Potter- to kill Harry. She had not taken well to the house seat being handed over to Fleamont instead of her; as per tradition, Fleamont would only be allowed to become Lord Potter after his marriage, which he was very much not, and had been making a big fuss to wrangle back power.

It was safe to say that the previous Lord and Lady Potter had an unhappy marriage, having only agreed to it because their families had arranged it. While not having the wealth that Harry was used to, the Potters were rather well off in this timeline, and Lady Potter had been counting down the days until she could wield the money unchallenged the moment her husband had gotten ill.

In retaliation, Lord Potter had gone to the goblins and found a way to ensure she got nothing when he passed, as long as Fleamont and other members of the bloodline lived.

Fleamont had found evidence that she was slowly killing off cousins who would inherit the seat if anything were to happen to him and had worked with the Aurors to sentence her to Azkaban for the rest of her life, only a week prior. Harry had always found it strange that the Potters had all but vanished by the time James had been born, though he never would have suspected it was due to his great-grandmother.

Because he was so stunned by the news, Harry hadn't been able to argue much when Fleamont explained he would be taking him in and that, no matter what disaster their parents had been, the two would be a happy, warm family.

Fleamont had also assumed Harry was much younger than he actually was, attempting to sign him up for Hogwarts, but he put a stop to that quickly. It took a spell to verify he was actually nineteen, as he said, instead of a confused sixteen-year-old.

In a few hours, Harry had learned that he had somehow wound up in 1946, that his grandfather was still a bachelor, only seventeen years older than him, and that he was presumed to be a victim of near-assassination for being Lord Potter's love child. He had almost no knowledge of this time period, because History of Magic was a useless class that taught nothing, and everyone he knew mostly spoke of the 70s instead.

Due to this, everyone assumed he had been hit with a variation of Obliviate that worked to create false memories. When they did a scan, some memories were blocked from their view, even though Harry clearly remembered them, and he could only assume it was Time attempting to keep the timeline running correctly. It didn't stop the Healers from making their own conclusions, and they had been so darn convincing that it was the truth; for a moment, even Harry almost believed it.

He would have to figure out how to get home on his own because everyone else just thought he was a poor spell-damage man living in a delusion.

It was honestly exhausting, especially with Fleamont practically tripping over himself to make Harry feel welcome. It was rather smothering, given how much the man wanted to bond, though whether that was due to the type of person Fleamont was or to his desperate grasp at his last link of a familial bond, Harry would never know.

Not only that, but perhaps worst of all, was the "nice young man" who visited Harry while he was unconscious in St. Mungo's.

The very same wizard he had run into when he first arrived in the past had somehow found a way to convince Fleamont to allow him to visit whenever he wanted to check in on the poor, confused Harry. Fleamont saw it as a chance for his brother to make friends and get settled in his new life- the older wizard was trying to find out where and what Harry had been doing before he was found, but since that was in the 2000s, Harry highly doubted the man would succeed- so he was more than happy to host the friendly stranger.

That stranger?

Tom Riddle, young clerk at Borgin and Burkes, whose dark, amused eyes seemed to always laugh at him while Fleamont chatted happily about one thing or another, drinking tea and pretending to be the perfect on legs. Riddle knew that Harry wasn't the victim the rest of the world thought him to be, but the man had not the correct truth either.

Especially when Harry had attacked with his bare hands- the healers had taken his wand away until he was deemed mentally well enough to have one- and Riddle had only found it adorable. Riddle believed that Harry was Death trapped in a human body, for some reason.

And Riddle was determined to secure immortality by seducing Harry for some stupid reason.

Fleamont found it all so romantic, pushing for Harry to give the monster a chance. Harry normally would have even entertained the idea, but his wand wouldn't be returned to him unless he proved he was "getting better" and attacking people wasn't doing him any favors, even if Riddle more than deserved it. It wasn't like Harry was all that great at wandless magic.

So he played nice with Riddle, but he sure as hell didn't flirt or imply he would ever touch the freak with a ten-foot pole. Not that it seemed to stop the sociopath; if anything, Riddle seemed to find it very intriguing that his usual crafted masks weren't the right fit to get into Harry's good graces.

"You will fall in love with me, Dear Death." Riddle hummed around his cup. Behind him, the rolling green hills of the Potter property made a lovely backdrop, and the man almost seemed to be a painting instead of a man. It was irritating how attractive he was. "It's only a matter of time."

"I would never." Harry hissed, slamming his own teacup on the table, making the plate of biscuits clatter. Fleamont had not-so-subtly ushered them onto a balcony with drinks and snacks a few minutes ago to create a romantic atmosphere. "And don't call me that. I'm not Death. Why do you even think that?"

"Those who trapped you in human flesh crafted a convincing human disguise, but they made a mistake with your eyes. I recognize that shade of green anywhere. No human has the Killing Curse in their iris. "

Harry sputtered, "That-? Are you serious? People have green eyes! A lot of them do!"

Riddle smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Harry had come to learn they never had emotions, only greed, rage, and a cold amusement. He used to read the phrase "eyes as dark as the soul they belong to" in books, but he never knew it was true until he met Riddle before he went mad with so many Horcruxes.

"Perhaps, but none have the same shade of the Killing Curse." Riddle leaned over the table, giving Harry a look of utter want- not lust but greed- that made him feel like he should check the locking wards before bed tonight. "I will become immortal. It's all a matter of time. Now tell me, what are you looking for in a lover?"

"I don't want a lover!"

"A husband then." Riddle nodded. "We can have a spring wedding."

Maybe Harry didn't need his wand. Maybe he could snap Riddle's neck with just his hands and be cellmates with great-grandmother. If only that wouldn't break Fleamont's heart. He found it would be very hard to hurt the other Potter. The man was a ball of sunshine, and it was sickening how much Harry wanted to see him smile.

No, it was best he bid his time, get his wand, and get back to the future. Maybe doing a front flip while apparating will work.

Tom Riddle is thirteen years old, walking through Hogsmeade for the first time, when someone rudely launches onto the back of his robes and drags him out of the crowd. He finds himself airborne until he lands rather gracelessly on a strong, thick shoulder, and a hand clamps his arms to his side before he can make heads or tails of how he wound up there.

He kicks, screams, and attempts to bite before his mind remembers he has a wand to defend himself. The person who carries him like a sack of potatoes doesn't flinch or acknowledge his attempts in any way. They merely bounce him up and down to unbalance him, and his magic is batted away like an annoying bug.

Tom feels dread pooling in his stomach when the stranger kicks open a door of a rather pathetic-looking pub. The place was falling apart, dirty in a way that screamed it was for the poorer side of clientele, and not a single soul was inside. Which meant there would be no one to see what happened to Tom.

He screams again, this time as loud and as rude as possible, uncaring for once that his cockney accent leaked out of his voice. Not when an Incarcerous was shot at him the second his bottom landed- rather painfully and rudely- in a half-broken chair. The man standing over him, with crossed arms and a frown on his lips, was unfamiliar, but he had the right facial features that Tom was sure he was at least a relative of the wizard.

Though in the wizarding world, that didn't mean much. Almost everyone was a relative to each other; it was odd to meet someone who wasn't.

"I thought so." The stranger sighs after Tom finishes a rather scorching threat. "I could tell at a glance, but I was hoping I was wrong."

"Wrong at what?!" Tom hissed. He only noticed he had slipped into Parseltongue on the last word when the man stiffened. Instead of the normal fear or awe that bled across people's faces when they learned Tom was a Parselmouth, the man just rolled his eyes.

"Course you speak snake. Why not?" He sighs as if it was Tom that was being an inconvenience and not the victim of a kidnapping. "Alright, listen up, I won't let you be a repeat of my past mistake. You need to change."

"What?"

The man's frown deepened into a look of greater displeasure. "I've seen a boy like you before. One that was tempted by darkness, and I let him be, thinking it wasn't my place to stop him from doing wrong. It cost me my sister. I won't let that happen again. So congratulations, brat, I'm taking over your upbringing. First order of business, you're getting a job. Good men are hard-working after all."

Tom felt like someone had spelled a live fish into his ear again. Just as baffling and disgusting as the fish had been in his first year, these sentences made him gawk unseemingly. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about accountability." The man grunted, leaning down to glare into Tom's eyes. "Something I've learned at an age much younger than you. I know you're evil, but not doing anything to proactively fix that is the same as not doing my duty as a member of this society. I'm going to turn you into an upstanding citizen to prevent your future dark lord uprising"

"Are you...mad?"

"Ha!" The bark of laughter was loud enough that Tom jumped in his boots, but the man didn't seem to care as he smirked. ""My full name is Aberforth 'Mad' Dumbledore for a reason, I suppose"

"Dumbledore? Are you the transfiguration Professor Dumbledore's brother-"

"Don't talk to me about that man. He stopped being my brother the day he decided he was too good to help the family." Aberforth bit out, with just enough venom that Tom could have seen them getting along if circumstances were different. Anyone who despised Professor Dumbledore that much was a friend of Tom's.

"He might look at you and see the shadow of the man he left our family for; he might consider you a lost cause so that he doesn't feel responsible for fixing, and he might even convince himself that recognizing the signs means he's changed, but I know better. I know that the only way to get boys like you off the dark path is to reroute it and work the uneven parts. I know it takes putting your blood, sweat, and tears before seeing a hint of improvement. I left Hogwarts to provide for my mother and sister, and I don't regret it, but damn if that doesn't mean I'm going to let someone as bright as you waste away your potential. You're special, and I'm going to make sure that doesn't mean you're rotten too."

Tom blinked slowly, stunned by the speech. He always knew he was special, better than others, but this was the first adult who realized that on their own. Who so bluntly scolded him as he was praising. A strange gooey feeling bleeds into his chest, and Tom hates it instantly. He scowls back, practically burning with his eyes.

Aberforth smirks, amused. "Yes. I'm going to straighten you right up. First things first, a job. Congratulations. You are the first employee of my new business. Welcome to the Hog's Head, the worst pub around."

It took seven escape attempts before Tom was able to make it back to the castle, and by then he had missed curfew. He swore he would never go back to that place again. No matter how oddly intriguing the uneducated barman was.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

"Tom, kick table seven out. I don't let underage idiots into my bar." Aberforth huffs, waving his spatula at Tom, who is fixing up three specialized mixed drinks he had insisted on adding to the menu. It had kept them from losing the business, but now Tom had to take multiple steps to finish one order, and he regretted making the suggestion.

He turns his head around, just enough to catch sight of the Hogwarts students attempting to appear as though they belonged in the Hog's Head despite the obvious sign that stated no underage patrons were allowed on the premises. The way they glance at him and break into whispers lets Tom know why they are there. He feels a headache coming on, knowing today's shift was about to get a lot more annoying than usual.

Another group of brats that thought themselves in love with the handsome barman and would likely take physical means to get rid of.

It's been a decade since Aberforth had dragged him off the street, and despite Tom's original opinion of the man, his self-proclaimed job of curbing Tom's dangerous behavior had been the better option than returning to Wool's and its war-torn surroundings. Not to mention it gave him much-needed funds for Hogwarts supplies.

He had shown up for the promised work during the winter holidays of his third year, patching up the molded wood and broken roof, and by the end of his third year, Tom had moved into Aberforth's house above the pub. He never left.

He had appreciated Aberforth's approach to child-raising, especially to a teenager, because the older wizard didn't baby him or treat him without respect.

He acted as if Tom were an employee he happened to allow to live under his roof. He had rules that he was more than capable of enforcing, and he called out Tom's lies without a hint of anger or amusement. He mostly acted like it was embarrassing for Tom to walk around with a carefully crafted mask, like he was someone who never grew up of play pretend. It did wonders in getting Tom to drop it.

Aberforth knew of Tom's violent tendencies, his anger and narcissism, but unlike other adults, the man only shrugged and informed Tom there were thousands like him. Apparently Aberforth had lived near muggles who had returned from the front lines of the first war and had, more often than not, fought one off during a shell-shock episode.

Not to mention his sister, Ariana, who had outbursts just as deadly as Tom's. Worse even, because she had accidentally killed their mother during one and Aberforth had been the one who had to bury her on his own. Albus had been nowhere around when Aberforth took over taking care of the house, but that wasn't surprising.

Tom had come to realize that Albus' fame and self-importance had gone to his head at a young age, and he had burned the bridge between the Dumbledore brothers long before Ariana's death. It had given him yet another reason to dislike his Transfiguration professor, and sitting his NEWTs was the best day of Tom's life.

He never wanted to see the old man again. At least not without his fist meeting the ginger's nose. Aberforth taught him a mean hook that Tom always wanted to try on someone older. He had seen it make lovely red pour out of classmates plenty of times, but he always imagined older folk's blood would look lovelier. If only he were given the chance.

Aberforth didn't like him starting fights, but Tom was encouraged to finish them.

"Do I have to?" He grouches, rolling his shoulders. He never wore robes while he worked. They got in the way, and without them, he tended to get a few more tips than normal. The magic world was not used to the curve of his neck and the display of his strong shoulders, shaped by heavy lifting and years of labor, which he flashed while working. Aberforth didn't know any temperature-controlling charms, and by the time Tom was old enough to cast them himself, he realized that he found the stuff and humid air of the pub too comforting to cool it.

That did mean he sweated a lot, so he always wore sleeveless shirts and tight trousers, meant to be sturdy they handed any sort of labor. Tom even allowed his hair to grow past his shoulders, pulling it into a ponytail much like Aberforth's, but that was only because his hair was just marvelous; it would be a crime to cut it. Not because he admired the old fool.

"Yes. Get them out. And get rid of number twenty-five too." Aberforth frowns at the corner of the pub where a man with green eyes and a peculiar lightning scar is seated. "I don't like the look in his eye"

Tom didn't either. The stranger had shown up about three weeks ago, between the hours when they stopped catering to humans and started catering to creatures of the night rolling in. Aberforth had no quarrels serving anyone of age, regardless of their blood status, their class standing, or their species, but that only caused his bar to develop a certain reputation.

A reputation that attracted bad company. Tom had grown a sixth sense when customers were more trouble than they were worth, and that stranger, who watched Tom like he was a bomb about to be dropped from a plane, was trouble in physical form.

"You better not marry him," Aberforth warned. He narrowed his eyes at Tom. "I know you like his type."

Tom spluttered for a few seconds, nearly dropping the tray of drinks he had balanced on his shoulder- he could carry it over with magic, but why not give the handsome vampire in the right corner a proper show?- before he hissed. "I am not going to marry. Ever. You know this."

"Hmm." Aberforth turned back to his stove, shoving the food around in the pan. "Sure you won't. Whatever. Just don't let him kill you. I don't want to be stuck cleaning up organs before bed. And don't you dare invite him to your bedroom- go somewhere else. I want to sleep."

Tom hated the twinkle in Aberforth's eye. Sometimes it felt like the old man knew far more than what was humanly possible, but the same could be said about Albus. Perhaps the Dumbledores just had that ability- maybe they had a different version of the Sight. Not enough to see the future but enough to have a stronger intuition than most.

"I am not doing that either." Tom sighs.

"Sure. And he's not thinking about how attractive you look dressed like a working-class Muggle or sizing you up for a coffin. He might stick you in a wedding tux before he buries you, but that boy is dangerous. And he's been through a tough life, so he won't roll over and take your shit. Kick him out, and if that fails, bring him to dinner next month. Any man who can handle saying no to you has a good head on his shoulders. That is, if you can manage to get him to agree to a date at all." Aberforth snorts like it's a joke, implying he highly doubts Tom can get the odd stranger into a date or dinner with his guardian.

Tom feels the familiar urge to do just that, only to show the old fool that he can do anything. He nearly marches right over to table twenty-five, just out of spite, but stops himself at the last second. He doesn't need to prove anything. Tom is the most attractive person in all of Hogsmeade.

He doesn't chase. He gets chased.

And that stranger was going to spend the rest of his pathetic life chasing Tom, the Hog's Head barman.

"I'll go kick the tables out." He sniffed, turning towards the group of Hogwarts students first. "And then I'm going to seduce a vampire."

"Oh my, a vampire. Get a load of the little lord over here, seeing the real world for the first time outside his ivory tower," Aberforth mocks. "Everyone's been with a vampire and a werewolf, brat; you aren't special. Now a Siren, that's wonder."

"Says the man who had a Veela throw her drink on him last week!"

"She didn't throw her drink at me. She shared her refreshment with me. Difference."

Tom stomps away, a grin pulling at his lips against his will even as Aberforth continued to mutter about his Veela girlfriend. She was the same age as the old wizard, but a lot stronger-willed than any of Aberforth's past partners. Tom hoped they would get married someday, if only so he could laugh at Aberforth when Odette made him name Tom the best man.

Unknown to Tom, a time traveler was watching his every move, green eyes alight with suspicion. If he stepped one toe out of line, that green would escape the stranger's eyes and turn into a deadly spell that would rid the world of the Dark Lord they knew.

Ron Weasley has always been loyal to Harry Potter since he found the scrawny thing sitting alone on the Hogwarts Express. They've gone through so much together that at one point Ron genuinely forgot that Harry wasn't his actual brother. If you were to ask Ron who his favorite sibling is, his mind would conjure up the image of Harry, before any of the people he was actually related to.

After the war, Harry grew jittery, eyes tracing threats that weren't there. Hermione and Ron tried their best to be there for him, but after Ginny and Harry broke up, it was like Harry went into a downward spiral. He became almost unrecognizable, and Ron was horrified to realize that he strongly resembled his godfather on the first night they properly met Sirius Black face to face. He was just as skinny, just as dirty, just as wide and crazed-eyed as Sirius had been when Ron stood up to him on a broken leg.

Ron asked Hermione to let him bring Harry to their house to keep an eye on him. His wife had agreed instantly, and together they worked hard to help Harry put himself back together, but they could tell it wasn't as perfect as he once was. Somewhere along the road of saving the wizarding world, Harry had broken, and now, without a Dark Lord to defeat, he had no goals, no dreams, no guidance on what to do with his life. As horrible as it sounded, Harry was worse off without Voldemort because he was raised to be sacrificed.

In Harry's eyes, his life no longer had meaning.

Hermione lay awake at night, pressing herself against Ron's chest and whispering her worries. She talked about people who couldn't handle the type of sadness that Harry carried, and how often many wound up in graves by their own hands. How she recognized the same signs in Harry, and Ron always assured her it wouldn't come to that, but he married her knowing she was the brightest witch in their generation. Hermione was always right. It was only a matter of time.

"Is there any way to stop it?" Ron asked, but it felt more like a beg.

His beautiful wife only smiled sadly. "If you could change the past, maybe."

She didn't mean it literally, Ron knew, but her words played in his head for months afterward. By the next year, her words haunted him as they laid Harry to rest. They found him lying in his bed, a content smile edged into his face, and it reminded him horribly of how Fred had died. He kept thinking about it, months into his new life with Harry no longer in his world.

As much as he loved Hermione and Harry, both always had a certain disbelief in what magic could do. Their Muggle upbringing had certain limitations forever ingrained in their minds, and when Hermione rejected the idea of going back to save Harry, he knew he had to make a choice.

Let Harry stay as a beloved chapter of his life and live now, or give up the life he had built to extend Harry's. Ron spent one last day with his wife, his family, and all the friends he still had left before he drove into magic that was strictly forbidden. If there was one great thing about being a Weasley, it was how many of them there were spread all over the world. It allowed them to gather more resources than most, and made it possible for Ron to build a one-way ticket to the past secretly.

Legally speaking, what he was doing was enough to send him straight to a Dementor's Kiss, but Hermione must have known a little of what he was attempting, and she turned the other way anyway. If his wife, who was the most respectful of rules and laws - though not the type to follow them blindly- thought there was a chance, then Ron could not stop. Even if it meant she would stay in the future living without Ron while he saved Harry.

If all went well, Ron would be entering a new timeline, one exactly like his own, but the moment he arrived, it would split into another world. For all purposes, Ron Weasley would leave her a widow. He tried to ask her again to come with him, but Hermione had her share of time-traveling at thirteen. She swore she would always live in the present time, even if it caused her heartbreak.

When his spellcraft was ready, Ron carved the runes into the pavement of 4th Privet Drive- much to the horror of the new muggles living there- and with one final farewell kiss, he left his world. Hermione reported him dead the following morning.

Ron landed on his feet in the year 1981, one week after Harry Potter had been given to Petunia. His ritual left some changes in his appearance. It dyed his hair from orange-red to flaming red, turned his blue eyes to a sea foam green, and erased most of his freckles. Since he had used the remains of Lily's blood wars to secure an anchor in the past, which was why he used that particular location, he knew there would be some side effects.

He planned on them.

He knocked on the door, grateful that Hermione had the foresight to dress him in the best Muggle outfit that fit in this time period because when Petunia opened the door, she was taken aback by a man who was the spitting image of her late father, one who was more well off than her middle-class family had ever been. The only difference was the color of his eyes, the ones Lily had inherited and the ones that she suspected her nephew would grow into as well.

"Hello," Ron told her with a nervous smile. "My name is Ronald Evans. I was contacted recently by child protective services due to my DNA matching with what I believe is our shared nephew. I'm sure you figured it out, but I'm your elder brother, the one from your father's previous marriage to your mother."

If the Blood Wards demanded Harry live with family to protect him, then Ron would simply become his family, and he had a ten-year plan to ensure Harry's happiness outside of his duty. He just had to convince the world he was a rich but harmless Muggle. Convincing Petunia and her husband to move was a lot easier if it meant he could buy them the house of their dreams and take Harry off their hands.

Thanks to Harry leaving everything he owned, including his gold, to Ron, he was now one of the wealthiest men of the 80s.

His reasoning for pretending to be a Muggle was simple. The more Ron interfered with time, the more risks there were of magic trying to destroy him or those he loved to correct itself. But if Ron changed the past of things that he wasn't really present for, well, there was more leeway. This also meant that while Harry was too young for the magical world to learn about him, Ron was able to discreetly hunt down Horcruxes from those more accessible to ensure Harry's victory.

Now, if only Harry, his sweet boy who had moved from practically his brother to being his son, would stop trying to find him a romantic partner, things would be perfect. Even explaining that he preferred women and men didn't deter his kid.

There was also that time Harry locked Ron in a closet with one of his Muggle teachers. Another where he tried to get the local baker to delay the transaction with Ron. It didn't help that Lily Potter nee Evans was a really attractive woman, which made Ron attractive too, and that Ron slowly started buying up nearly all the businesses in the area to explain his wealth. Harry had a lot to work with to get him a partner, whether Ron wanted to or not.

Ron almost had a heart attack when Harry attempted to get Ron to meet his Potion Professor during his first year after hearing a rumor that Snape had a thing for redheads.

In one world, Dudley Dursley is the apple of his parents' eyes, spoiled rotten at the expense of his cousin, who is stashed in the cupboard under the stairs. In another, Dudley is the mistake that forced his parents to marry, and their bitterness over the accidental pregnancy led to the same treatment as his cousin. In this world, Privet Drive is a tense house where everyone is on edge, ready to start arguments or take shelter from them. Outside the home, the Dursleys appear as the perfectly normal couple, with the perfect lawn, the perfect jobs, and even the perfectly crafted image of a loving couple.

So perfect in fact, people forgot they had children living with them.

Harry and Dudley quickly learn to rely on each other, each promising, after learning what neglect and abuse mean in school, to find a way to escape Privet Drive together. They may not both have enough to eat at home, may not have clothes that fit, or may not have been spoken to with any warmth by adults; they do have each other. It's enough for the first ten years. Enough that it develops into a codependency.

That's why, the day Harry's Hogwarts letter arrived, the two were quick to burn its contents. Harry had shown signs of his magic a few times; most were dismissed by him, but not by Dudley. Especially when he watched his cousin teleport to the top of the school roof the one time a couple of bullies caught him alone. Dudley may be as thin and as small as Harry- both suffered from malnourishment because neither Petunia nor Vernon bothered to ensure they had eaten- but he was the best fighter of the two. He tended to fight dirty and had even traded a few boxing lessons from some of the older boys in exchange for a few of their house chores.

Dudley had refused to explain away teleportation, and the two assumed Harry was like a comic book character come to life. He would one day master his powers and together the two would vanish in the night. The problem with Hogwarts now was that they were ten; Harry was nowhere near a master of his powers, and the letter said nothing of Dudley attending. It wasn't possible for them to leave their broken home right now.

Hogwarts didn't seem to get the memo. Over the course of the next few days, letters arrived by the dozen. Dudley and Harry scrambled to keep them out of sight, burning, ripping, burying, and even eating some of the letters, but they didn't stop. Eventually Dudley admitted defeat.

"Go." He whispered in Harry's ear. The cupboard had gotten so small for the two children that they couldn't fit unless they each lay on their sides, pressing into each other for warmth. Sometimes they dreamed of using the extra bedrooms upstairs, but Vernon would never give up his study, and Petunia adored her arts-and-crafts room. "Go. Get out of here. It's better that one of us does."

Harry hated the sadness in his cousin's voice. Hated it so much he got an idea. "What if we enroll you in Hogwarts too?"

"I don't have magic," Dudley replied gently, as if he needed to remind Harry of the important fact of his application to someone much younger.

"Yeah, but they don't know that."

"I'm pretty sure they do."

"Not if we convince them they don't"

It was a stupid, reckless idea, but Dudley still found himself becoming hopeful as Harry whispered the secrets of his plan. With each idea that fell from his cousin's lips, dreams of sleeping in a bed, having enough to eat, and not seeing his parents for months on end filled his mind. By midnight, Dudley had found himself agreeing.

The next morning, when the post arrived carrying four copies of the same letter, the two each took one and carefully altered its contents. Harry was a master forger, taking lessons from some of the older boys who hung around the free meals station while Dudley took his boxing classes. The older boys had strongly implied that they expected Harry to join their street gang one day, but thankfully never forced him into anything.

Once done, the name Harry Potter had vanished from the letter and been seamlessly replaced with Dudley Dursley. Then the two set about sending back acceptance notices, holding their breaths as the owls vanished overhead. It had taken trial and error to figure out how to get an owl, but they had managed to gather the intel from a heavily intoxicated Petunia. The woman spent most of her days with a bottle of wine, and they knew that once she hit a certain level in the bottle, they could ask her anything.

She was always so far gone she never realized she even spoke to them.

Unknown to the pair, Harry's protective blood wards had expanded to include Dudley during their years of brotherhood. Some would say it was Lily looking over her son and nephew as best she could in the afterlife; others would scoff and claim Lily had not done the ritual correctly and the magic in the wards was always faulty; there were leaks like this one. Either way, when the letter arrived at Hogwarts, the person reading it was greatly encouraged by the magic cloaking the parchment not to overthink the extra name.

They marked Dudley Dursley down for attendance and moved on to the rest of the owls, never noticing they had to rub some sparks of magic from their eyes. As the first day of classes neared, Harry and Dudley spent hours-sometimes days- attempting to find Diagon Alley. Petunia's slurred words made it difficult to find clues that helped their search, but they knew it existed. They weren't afraid of being gone from home too long.

After all, Vernon would sometimes vanish for days himself, returning with the smell of a stranger's perfume or a pub. It usually led to multiple screaming matches with Petunia, but the adults never brought up where the boys were in the meantime. They never noticed the boys weren't there most of the time.

In the end, the two managed to find the pub, even though Dudley could not see it. With Harry as a guide, but both trying not to draw too much attention, lest they repeat that one teacher who was worried about their home life, Harry and Dudley managed to get into Diagon Alley. At the first shop, when they attempted to pay with money stolen from Petunia, they were rudely told that no one would deal in "muggle" money and that the pair would have to have their funds exchanged at Gringotts.

"What an ass," Dudley muttered, throwing a finger at the clerk through the window. Behind him, Harry did the same, though his cousin's temper led to two fingers. Once they got their money, neither would bother coming back to this shop.

"Should we break their windows?" Dudley asked, eyeing the front panels with a hint of excitement.

Harry thought it over, then shook his head. "No, we don't know who's running this part of the city."

It wouldn't do to go and step on the toes of whatever gang or power was in charge here. The blond snorted but didn't push further, trusting Harry's judgment. That's how they worked. Harry was the brain, using his quick thinking to get them out of situations, and Dudley was the brawn, fighting them to safety when Harry couldn't.

When the pair arrived at Gringotts, they had over thirty excuses of why they were unaccompanied by a adult on their tongues, but the goblins didn't even bother to ask. They were only moved from the teller line to a back office as soon as Harry's name left his mouth. There, Harry's family accountant slowly went over his vault and his responsibilities as the new head of house, but most terms went over the scrambling eleven-year-old heads. The goblins didn't seem all that bothered that neither Dudley nor Harry seemed to truly understand, only that there was a record showing they told them about it.

Because of this, neither noticed that the goblins had added Dudley as the spare to the Potter Line after asking multiple times why Dudley was even in the room. Harry's "What's mine is his. What's his is mine. We're brothers." had been interpreted as his proclamation to officially adopt Dudley.

By the time they walked out of Gringotts carrying multiple scrolls of parchment and bags clicking with coins, Dudley Potter was officially in the records, and the paperwork was sent to the Ministry for processing. It was done by the one goblin who needed glasses to see but refused to give in and wear them, as she still insisted she was too young to need them. When she was looking over the notes of the meeting, she mistook the dates of the adoption. She had backdated it to the day Harry was born.

Meanwhile, the young boys found an inn that accepted the coins they took from the pile in the Potter's vault to book themselves one room with a real bed.

The following days, the pair ventured out from the safety of their rented room in the Leacky Caludrun, only the last few hours of business operations. They encountered fewer people this way, but it forced them to stretch their errands over days rather than a few hours. With Harry's gold and careful planning, they successfully prepared for Hogwarts without anyone the wiser that they were even there. Not even the Inn Keeper, Tom, noticed because it was Dudley who had booked their room while Harry stood stoicly a few yards away.

The pair were afraid someone's eyes would linger on them for too long, and then they would be sent right back to Privet Drive, so they made sure not to form any friendships or useful contacts. As long as they had each other, that was all they needed.

Finally, September 1st arrived, and the cousins-turned-brothers gathered their things with fast-beating hearts. It was one thing to lie on paper; it was another to try to convince actual school faculty that Dudley was always meant to be there. It took them hours to find the Hogwarts Express, cutting it so close they only barely climbed on when it started moving. Because of this, they found no open seats on the train until they reached the far end and discovered a tiny hidden room near the caboose.

Eyeing the tiny space, Harry deemed it better than asking other students to let them sit with them. Right now, the fewer people who notice Dudley, the better. No one bothered them during the ride, but that might have something to do with the room having no seats, forcing the two to sit cross-legged on the ground behind some shaking luggage. They went over multiple plans, created thousands of excuses, and Harry even penned down some escape routes in case they failed. Dudley listened along, adding details where Harry failed to consider their physical disadvantages or when he thought Harry was going too far into his own mind to consider common sense.

When the train arrived, the two waited until the crowd moved before joining them at the back. While staying at the Leaky Cauldron, the pair discovered Knockturn Alley, and although it was obviously not the safest neighborhood, they were most comfortable there because it reminded them of the boys who taught them useful skills in a similar neighborhood near their school. People didn't ask too many questions in places like that, and the pair had learned that long, dark cloaks with hoods were the same as hooded jackets, protecting them both in rough neighborhoods.

They were quick to nod, tugging on their cloaks and hoods, before scrambling after the first-year students onto the boats, sharing one with two nervous-looking girls. They didn't offer their names, and neither did the boys, riding the lake in tense silence. When the ghosts arrived, Harry stepped closer to Dudley, until their shoulders touched, and when a few students attempted to get their hoods off their heads, Dudley's fists came down quick and hard on wandering fingers.

The sorting was the first real challenge. Dudley's bit his lip so hard it bled as the Ds were called and passed on, without Dursley being called. Harry's hand found his, squeezing hard enough he might have broken skin with his nails. They gathered quite a few odd looks for still refusing to take their cloak hoods off, tilting their chins enough they faces were obscured, but neither cared.

Not until Professor McGonagall stumbled to a pause in her list. "Potter, Dudley?"

There were mutterings of confusion, and even the woman herself was staring at her list, as if she had never seen written language before. Dudley let out a breath he was holding, relaxing completely as Harry excitedly smacked his shoulder, gleeful that his plan had worked. Around them, the muttering grew more and more confused as people tried to reason the name that had been called.

"Harry Potter has a brother?"

"I guess so?"

"It was never mentioned in the books, though..."

"Not like he's famous, right? I mean, Harry Potter was the one who defeated You-Know-Who. Why would they write about the brother that didn't do anything?"

"Wait, I think I remember something about him...."

"Did you? I....I guess I just forgot."

Harry leaned into Dudley, keeping his voice low. "Go. Try to aim for the house that gathers the least attention."

Dudley nodded, marching up the Sorting Hat with a head held down and his cloak blowing in the breeze.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________

At the teachers' table, the Headmaster is the only one who realizes that blood wards are invading his mind and changing his memories. He fights against the sudden attack, but he isn't quick enough to stop the idea that Dudley Potter has always been here from taking root in his mind.

For the rest of his year, he eyes the pair of Hufflepuffs with a terrible sense of unease. Others agree with his sentiment, but Albus knows it's different. It's not that the pair were rule breakers despite the mistrust and lack of respect for those in authority. They were extremely isolated from the rest of the schoolchildren, refusing to make friends with anyone. Dudley's magic performances were abysmal at best, almost as if someone else was casting for him and he was just making the motions with his wand, but that wasn't enough reason to pull the boy into his office.

Harry watched others like they were chess pieces he could move on the boards, his smile never quite reaching his eyes. They got a few points taken away for their habit of pulling on cloak hoods, but it didn't break uniform outside of class time. Their essays were the best of their year, and they rarely bothered their professors; even Snape could not find too much of a reason to dislike the boys.

Yet still, Albus felt something off about them.

It's the same feeling Tom Riddle used to give him, whenever the boy pretended to be the perfect well-meaning student during his days at Hogwarts. Back then, Albus, too, was the only one who felt that something was horribly wrong behind the mask the boy had carefully carved.

He fears the same thing is happening again with Harry Potter, but this time, Potter might not be someone they can actually defeat.

Harry normally isn't the type of person to go through someone else's things. He didn't want to give the rumors his aunt spread about him any validation, but sometimes his curiosity gets the best of him. A good example of this is the moment when he spotted the blank diary that Ginny dropped upon their return from Diagon Alley in her excitement to grab Charlie's old broom and play a round of pick-up Quidditch with her siblings.

He was going to give it back to her, really, but it had fallen open face, and he had seen an interesting sentence on the first page.

The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach.

It was written in the most beautiful calligraphy he'd ever seen. Harry had assumed the sentence had been printed intentionally, like a starting prompt for those who bought it. He traced the writing with his finger, wishing he could somehow absorb the skill with a quill from touch alone, and was shocked to see that the book shivered.

Despite knowing and learning about magic for a year now, there were still times that Harry was surprised by what magic could do. Moving books was one of them. He dropped it as if it burned, yelping and scooting away from it. His eyes swung to the window, where a group of redheads was flying about on brooms, wondering if they somehow sensed his snooping. He had made the excuse to need the bathroom, sneaking away while a heated argument between Ginny and Ron had started up to escape the rising voices. Harry never did well when someone yelled. Reminded him too much of Privet Drive.

When no one burst into the room demanding to know why he was going through Ginny's things, Harry cautiously picked up the journal again. The journal was cold to the touch and no longer moving, but the first sentence had changed.

Is everything alright, Ginny?

Harry stared. He closed the book and opened it again to see if the words would change. They didn't. But he had been so sure it had said something entirely else. Just as he was wondering if he was going mad on the five close and open, more writing appeared underneath the question.

Are you nervous about cooking for him? Don't be. You just have to practice.

*"*Hello? Are you charmed to give love advice?" Harry whispered it, wondering if the book was a lot like the portraits that decorated Hogwarts walls. If paint could speak and move, maybe Ink could write itself? Mirrors gave fashion advice, so maybe journals could give advice of the heart. Likely why they were in the form of something so private. He received no response, and after a moment of hesitation, Harry ran back to Ron's room in search of ink and a quill.

"Hello? Are you charmed to give love advice?" He wrote as carefully as he could, feeling somewhat silly. If anyone were to ever find out about this, Harry would likely die of embarrassment. It wasn't that he was interested in anyone, but he was interested in learning what the world of magic had to offer him.

There was a long pause, and for a second Harry was considering ripping out the page to eat in an effort to hide his question when those beautiful words returned.

Yes, I am, in fact, designed to provide love advice and answer questions you may have about romance. May I ask who I am speaking to?

Heart pounding, Harry slammed the book closed. His face felt like it was on fire. He wanted to toss the book back in Ginny's room, run out into the yard, and pretend he never saw the black leather book, but he paused. He wasn't interested in anyone at Hogwarts, not really, but he had questions. He came to realize that what he considered normal was way off in the wizarding world, and every day it became more and more apparent that he was Muggle-raised. He could ask Ron and his family, but asking about relationships felt embarrassing enough due to the topic alone- never mind the reason being he was so ignorant of the wizarding world's way of life.

This could be his one chance to learn more about the wizarding world without anyone finding out and making fun of the Boy-Who-Lived-But-Wasn't-Even-Aware-Magic-Was-Real. Harry didn't want to leave evidence he had written in the book, because he wasn't sure if there was a way Ginny could pull back conversations. He should be a plain name, generic enough it could be anyone.

With that in mind, he carefully wrote out. My name is Tom.

What a coincidence, my name is Tom as well! How can I help you today, Tom?

"Hmmm." Harry's eyes ran over the diary's Tom, finding it slightly off from the other writing. It wasn't that it was bad per se, but there was a distinctive difference in the loop of the o and the sharp strike of the T. Almost as if the diary did not care for its own name. Which could only mean one thing: "It's not as free-willed as a portrait. This is like the charmed mirrors."

Which meant that it could offer advice, but it would piggyback on previously provided information, much like how the mirrors would borrow someone's reflection to make fashion suggestions. Harry relaxed slightly, finding comfort in the knowledge that it was personalizing itself for him, meaning if Ginny or the other Weasleys found the journal later, there was less of a chance of them seeing his usage of it.

Perfect because there was a burning question he had not dared to ask throughout the year.

Are boys allowed to date other boys?

Of course! Same sex marriages have been legal in the wizarding world since the 1700s. Is there a boy you fancy, Tom?

No! I just wanted to know.

Are you a Muggle-born? The question seemed innocent enough, but for some reason Harry felt unease by it.

I'm a Halfblood. Muggleborn father and a pureblood mother. Harry feels awful clever for switching his parents' blood status. This should make it hard to figure him out. My uncle is a Muggle, and he raised me after my parents' death, but he hates magic. I didn't know I was a wizard until last year when I turned 11.

I'm sorry to hear that. I'm an orphan too.

There it went, changing itself to better fit what Harry needed of it. He felt himself relax even further, leaning back on Ron's bed in a more comfortable position. It's alright. Can I ask you another question?

Of course

How do boys know they like other boys? Or that they know they like girls?

That's a complex answer. It's different for everyone, but most people experience similar signs of affection, such as butterflies in their stomachs, sweaty palms, racing hearts, and a warm sensation in their blood.

Harry blinked at the words. He felt those things plenty of times; in fact, he felt them a while ago when Tom scared him with his first reply. Almost as if compelled to tell the truth, Harry's quill scratched the pages of the book without a second of hesitation, telling Tom honestly. You made me feel like that.

Well, aren't you the charmer? I'm honored to make your heart race.

Harry's eyes widened at the words. He wasn't attempting to be charming, but for some reason Tom's reply made his heart stop, then race as if he was being chased during another round of Harry Hunting. Except instead of the gripping fear he was used to when he ran from Dudley, the heart racing felt oddly good. A blush started to form on the top of his cheekbones.

Harry wrote back a reply, admitting he wasn't trying to be charming, but Tom assured him that just meant he was an effortless charmer, which was better. No one had ever given Harry so many compliments in one conversation before. A giggly sensation grew in his stomach as he wrote to Tom, a minute turning into an hour, an hour into an afternoon, and an afternoon into an evening, with Ron shouting that dinner was ready.

Harry hadn't noticed the time pass, so engrossed with his conversation with Tom that he felt like he was walking on cloud nine when it ended. He stuffed the journal into his pocket, not wanting to part with it just yet. He would give it back to Ginny before they went back to Hogwarts.

Two years later, when Harry turns fourteen, he still has the journal, and he still spends days sending flirty remarks to Tom. No one knows about his friend, and deep down Harry knows it's not a real person, just an item with an artificial personality created through magic to help with love troubles, but that doesn't stop him from feeling like his emotions are real.

He is in love with Tom, and he sort of feels like his journal loves him too, based on the way he speaks to him. Harry can spend hours talking about his day, his dreams, his hopes, and feel like he was having secret rendezvous with his boyfriend. He didn't tell anyone about Tom, fearing the ridicule he may face for developing feelings towards a magic item, but that hardly matters

Tom is his secret. Not even Sirius knows about Tom, and his diary had been the one to give him advice on how to prove his godfather was innocent. It had been the ink of his (not) Boyfriend that had helped Harry lay down the trap for Pettigrew and make sure the Ministry didn't cover up their mistake when he presented the evidence. Harry had moved into Sirius' house for the summer, and he was finding that living with his godfather was the second best thing to ever happen to him.

Finding Tom was the first.

It helped to have support in his pocket, especially with his name being drawn from the Goblet of Fire and no one believing in him (except Sirius, but the older man was so far away that it felt like he was alone). Tom had been the one to help Harry think of a plan for the dragon, stating that just trying to outfly the thing was far too dangerous, and giving him multiple protection spells for him to master. He had come clean about his real identity right after the task, fearful he might die without telling Tom his real name.

I have to find a date for the Ball, Harry complained, writing a tad bit too aggressively. A bunch of people have asked me, but those same people were saying horrible things about me before the first task. I don't want to take any of them.

That's right. They don't deserve you. I would treat you so much better than those tailcoat chasers.

Harry's heart flutters. I wish I could take you as my date instead.

There is a long pause before Tom writes back. You can take me. There is a ritual that binds our cores together, allowing me to borrow your magic and take on a physical form. I have to warn you that it's Dark in nature.

Harry's mouth dropped open, and he sat up from where he was lying on his stomach. He had gone out to the edge of the black lake, sitting under his favorite tree, to talk to Tom. He always ended up kicking his feet or rolling around from the overwhelming fluster feeling Tom gave him, and Harry had found a secluded place where he could react to his (not) boyfriend's words with none the wiser.

He hadn't been aware that it was possible to get Tom out of the book. He assumed that his heart would always belong to the artificially generated writing that popped up in his journal. But now, there was hope. Now Harry could see and hold Tom.

I don't care! I'll do anything for you, Tom!

Harry had to kill a baby unicorn and use its blood under a full moon. He had to feel something in him shatter as the light of the unicorn's eyes faded away, but he hadn't allowed himself to falter. He had taken the silver-blue liquid, dropping it into a bowl of his own blood in the deepest and darkest place within the Forbidden Forest. He had gathered other items some stolen from graves a few fordge within the forest but he had done it.

The black ink of the diary flowed out of the pages like a never-ending river, shifting into the bowl and rising up and up until a figure appeared. A boy, slightly older maybe by a year or two, stood before Harry.

He was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen, and when he opened his dark eyes, connecting with his green ones, he knew he was doomed. He would fall into whatever pit of darkness the other boy asked of him. A wide, wicked smile bloomed on Tom's face, echoing the very dark ink he was made of. "Hello, Harry."

"Hello, Tom," He breathes, stumbling towards him. "I've waited so long to meet you in person."

A hand came up to cup Harry's cheek, stealing his breath as Tom, almost victorious, muttered: "I as well. Nothing will ever tear us apart, my sweet."

Harry Potter gets killed in an Auror raid gone wrong. He didn't even see who cast the spell that did him in. He did feel it, though. It was a scorching pain that spread from the middle of his upper back to his shoulders.

He wasn't too shocked to realize he didn't make it. Death was a sensation he had felt before; there was no use denying that he died. The only thing was, instead of seeing that familiar bright King's Cross, Harry found himself on an unfamiliar floor. Wrapped around his legs and middle were two blankets, and based on his position, he could say with certainty that he had fallen out of bed.

The problem was, he had fallen out of a bed he did not recognize.

It took him a moment to detangle himself from the blankets and get to his feet. Harry could see the morning light slowly rising through the window. Seeing as the raid was done mid-afternoon, this meant he was unconscious - or dead and resurrected- for at least fifteen hours. The bedroom he was in was spacious, dripping with luxury of the kind that made Harry uncomfortable.

Harry slowly stumbled to his feet, wincing at the weakness in his knees and back. It felt as if he had been bedridden for days rather than a few hours. After he got steady enough to stand on his own without wobbling in place, he did an investigation of the room.

His wand is nowhere in sight, but Harry has gotten good enough to do some basic wandless detection spells. If there is something cursed or otherwise dangerous in here, he would know. A slow lap around the room gives him more details about the room's owner, but not much about exactly where he is.

It looked to be a main room in a large estate, of a Muggle. Harry had hardly ventured back into the Muggle world after the war. He knew there was a sudden boom in technology between the 1990s and 2000s that made it obvious he's knowledge of the Muggle world would soon be outdated, but it shouldn't be this much of a difference.

The television was missing the entire back, looking more like a slab of metal, but it still worked. The telephone needed a wire to connect to the wall, but not the part that one heard and spoke into. There was something that resembled a computer, but it wasn't as bulky as the ones he remembered from typing class in school.

Strange. Very strange.

"Where in the world am I?"

"Not where. It's what. What world am I?" A voice gasps next to his right ear.

Harry whirled around, breath catching at the towering figure of black shadows wrapped in a flicker cape of deeper darkness, standing over him. He knew who this was in an instant, having felt its touch in the forest.

"Death," He gulps, instinct reaching for his wand holster. When his fingers jam against his skin, he usually keeps it on his forearm, never taking it off,f even when sleeping. Today it's missing.

The embodiment of death smiles- or at least that's what it looks like, despite not having proper facial muscles to create an expression. Harry is going off the empty sockets that make up its eyes to gauge emotions instead. "Hello, Chosen One. I'm sure you have questions"

"I do. What's going on? What did you mean by what world am I?" He asks with more confidence than he feels. He should be afraid, but Harry has always had a temper that outweighed his fear.

"I mean you are no longer in your world. I have brought you to one without magic, one with peace, and one where you will find happiness." Death floated closer to Harry, holding out a familiar silver-gray cloak and a wand. "It's your reward for the burden Life and Fate gave you. All children of prophecies live terrible lives, and I have never agreed to it, but since it happens out of my jurisdiction, I can not interfere. They agree to let me give children like you a second chance at life in a world that will be far kinder once you fulfill the duties of your prophecies."

Harry was stunned into silence, maybe even gone into shock, because he didn't react to the entity of the afterlife shoving the two Hallows into his arms. He only stared at it in confusion.

"These are the only items you are allowed from your old world; use them well." Death's smile widens as it slowly starts to flicker out of sight. Harry gets the feeling this will be the last time he sees it before his death actually sticks. "In this world, you are the only son of James and Lily Potter, two muggles that own the biggest medical research corporation in the world. They, along with your godfather Sirius Black-Lupin and Remus Lupin-Black, spoiled you rotten due to your poor health since you were a child. The Harry Potter of this world passed last night, finally losing to the illness that plagues him since birth- I brought your soul here and allowed your magic to heal his body. Do not worry; he is well, in a world where he is healthy for the first time and able to heal from a broken heart. His secret lover had recently ended things, and he did not take it well. He had run away to another country to escape the heartache, claiming he was attending a study program at his university, and hasn't contacted anyone for over a year. No one knows he has passed. That's all I have time to tell you. Enjoy your new life, Harry Potter, Chosen One, as the only magic user of this universe"

It flickers away, ignoring Harry's shout of surprise like someone had blown out a candle. Harry wants to ask more questions, many questions, but he is left alone.

He is left alone, holding the two hallows, utterly overwhelmed by the turn of his life.

"I'm getting real tired of this Chosen One business," He groans, rubbing at the stress-induced headache. "Real tired"

He had many options. One, he could break down, cursing and swearing at the cruelty of higher beings' control of his life as he has done before. Or two, he could grit his teeth, roll with the hexes, and sink into what needs to be done as every Auror before him has done.

Harry isn't a child anymore. He is a man of twenty-seven years old, a decade of being one of the best Aurors in the business. He won't break down as he did in Dumbledore's office after the disaster of his 5th year.

"Right. First things first. I need information about the other Harry." He mutters to himself. "Figure out who he is, what he is like, and who knows him best. It's not something I haven't done before. I have to think of it as another Polyjuice undercover mission. No one will notice the swap."

___________________________________________________

Unknown to Harry, everyone did notice, almost instantly after three months of him preparing to return to Other Harry's former home. Everyone assumed the mountain air had done him well and were all beyond glad to see him healthier and happier than ever.

Especially his parents, who Harry treated as if he had gone a lifetime without instead of a year. The man spent as much time with them as possible, even finally accepting James' offer to work in the company. Harry had refused before, stating he wanted a life outside the family business. He also spent many hours in his godfather's home, smiling and laughing with the uncles that were basically a second set of parents.

They had no idea who had broken Harry's heart a year ago, but they all breathed a little easier seeing the change he had undergone.

Including Other Harry's ex.

Tom Riddle, a friend created when Tom would stop by Harry's yard on the way home, sharing stories through a window with the bedridden boy who was too weak to attend school like the rest of the children in the neighborhood. Their friendship turned into something more at age eighteen, much to the sickly boy's delight. For nearly a decade, they kept their relationship a secret at Tom's request. He had done so because he had only used the young and ill heir's wealth, finding him too weak to be truly romantically interested.

A year ago, Tom had left Harry for a bigger fish, the only son of the Malfoy family, Draco, set to inherit far more wealth than Harry. Draco's parents want him to settle with a wife who could run the family company, pushing women onto him until he could not take it anymore. He asked Tom to be his husband, only to get them off his back and benefit them both. Draco would have as many lovers as he wanted, wasting his parents' wealth as he pleased, while Tom got to control the world's strongest technology company. He would finally crawl out of the pit of his poor upbringing to be one of the most important men in the world.

He did not regret leaving Harry.

Not until he saw this version of him at a gala, healthy and confident in a way he never thought Harry Potter was capable of. Tom realized with a start that he had made the biggest mistake of his life as Harry danced with Ronald Weasley, co-owner of a startup company for prank items of all things, attending the gala in a pathetic attempt to gain investors.

His older twin brothers -the other co-owners- were at the Gala as well, trying their best to convince one elite to lend them money. Harry hadn't even waited for the pitch to finish, grinning widely at Ronald from the moment the nervous man approached him.

Tom had no idea Harry could smile like that.

"Are you seriously just going to brood the entire night?" Draco snorted, sipping from his wine glass like it was the only important thing in the world. Well, that and the man in a purple suit, Tom was half sure his husband was going to be taking home tonight. "If you're that upset about Potter dancing with someone else, do something about it."

"Do what?" Tom snapped, hand tightening around his glass; it cracked as Ronald's face turned even redder at whatever Harry had said

"What else?" Draco tilted his glass toward the dance floor, smirking at the couples as if he found them all a form of entertainment. "Win him back, of course. You don't mind my lovers. I wouldn't mind yours."

"Win him back" Tom stared at Harry, who dipped the red head that was much taller than he by at least a head. His smile seemed brighter then before if that was physically possible. " Yes. I can do that. Surely Harry hasnt change that much. He may be upset with me but he could never hate me. Not the boy who clung to the only friend he ever made."

Every student who walks into Hogwarts is told about the Sorting and understands that they will be placed in one house. A majority already has a general idea of where they would like to go, be it through tales from older relatives or by discovering the school traits on their own. Everyone understands that they have to choose one.

Everyone but Harry Potter.

See, when Harry sat under the sorting hat, he wasn't mentally chanting Not Slytherin despite the negative comments he heard about the house. Instead, he was thinking of something that only came from fear of being sent back to his aunt, and of the one promised escape for a few months being ripped away.

Harry was thinking Any house will do; just let me stay.

The Sorting Hat always took students' input into account when making a decision, even if it sometimes went against what the student wanted because it deemed what the student needed more important. Students' traits influenced the decision as well, but not nearly as much as the traits they admired or the places they needed to go to become adults like the ones they admired.

When it peeked into Harry's mind, it realized that the boy had no attachment to any house, and the only thing he really needed was to stay at Hogwarts. The boy's home life was not the best, as is seen in many children's lives over the years, but each one had a small hope for a specific home. Even if it was an unconscious hope.

Harry Potter did not. The Hat considered the options. It rarely encountered someone so apathetic about the whole thing, but that did not mean it was a never-before-seen event. There had been many children the Hat had sent to houses with children who didn't care one way or the other about which color decorated their robes, but each one had demonstrated one aspect of the house's strength stronger than the others, which made the final decision.

Harry was alarmingly equally leveled in every trait, bringing the entire process to a standstill. He was just as clever as he was brave. Just as loyal as he was creative. Just as kind as he was ambitious. Just as intelligent as he was chivarious.

Perfectly balanced. Perfectly neutral.

A perfect throne in the Hat's plans.

A minute turned into five, then ten, and by the twenty-mark, the Hat realized that the students and staff had begun to feel anxious. They wanted an answer that it was still considering, and soon Harry's own thoughts were filled with familiar childhood fear and defiance in equal parts.

Eventually, the Hat decided to do something it had never done before.

"SLYTHERIN! HUFFLEPUFF! RAVENCLAW! GRYFFINDOR!"

Harry Potter's robes were dyed all four colors, and the crest on his chest bloomed into that of Hogwarts instead of a house. He let out a breath of relief, happy to have been allowed to stay, and he failed to notice the utter confusion his sorting had caused. That was until he innocently asked Professor McGonagall where he was supposed to sit.

"This has never happened before!" Shouted one professor accusingly, glaring daggers at Harry as if he believed the boy had done it on purpose.

The Hat hummed. "And no one has ever survived the Killing Curse before either. As something that has existed for one thousand years, allow me to offer these words of wisdom: Everything that has ever been done was once upon a time done for the first time, and humanity learned to adapt to it. Now you must do it again.

Harry Potter, after much debate between various groups, eventually settled in Gryffindor tower for a week. Then he moved to the Slytherin dungeons. And then to Hufflepuff's in the dungeons. And finally walked up to the tower to Ravenclaw. He never had a bedroom before, and now he could wander between four at his fancy.

Hogwarts was the best thing to ever happen to Harry, and his constant movement slowly taught others to ignore the lines drawn between houses.

Tom Riddle learns about the new lord in town when a story about the reclusive man is put in the Daily Prophet, though he is the last to know of him. He doesn't have a subscription to the paper, but Abraxas is always happy to hand his copy over after he finishes reading it. The blond was more interested in the updates on wizarding stocks and the gossip columns, so unless the front page was a really interesting story, he never had to wait too long for his turn.

Usually Tom would read the latest issue by the halfway point of breakfast.

However, on that particular morning, as he was preparing his coffee, he noticed that Abraxas was not letting go of the paper any time soon. In fact, he seemed glued to the headliner alongside everyone else. Tom read the words over the pureblood's shoulder, while carefully adding sugar and milk to his coffee.

It's a luxury to be able to sweeten his drink or to add milk, and he doesn't shy away from overdoing it a little.

Rationing had hit Wool's hard, leaving Tom to savor every sip since his return for the new year. The war had broken out during his second year of Hogwarts, and only one year later, basic foods started being limited. Wool's had already struggled to provide meals for the hundreds of unfortunate orphans who walked its halls; now war orphans were arriving daily, and everyone was fighting for the scraps the orphanage gathered.

Another reason to dread going back to that wrenched place come the end of the year.

Lordship claimed after two hundred years: Lord Peverell Returns!

Tom raises a brow. He had never heard of the Peverell house before. He wants to ask, but doing so would once again bring his Muggle upbringing to attention. As it were, Orion Black was watching from across the table, dark eyes sharp, waiting for a hint of a mistake that he could exploit. The first year seemed fascinated with causing people to lose their tempers, pushing the boundaries of everyone within the house the second he sorted. Due to the fact that he is the heir to one of the most powerful houses, Black did not fear retaliation.

He would learn soon not to cross Tom, but not yet. It was still too early in the year. Tom wanted him to settle into a false sense of security. By winter break, Tom planned on ruining the boy.

He pretended he didn't notice the brat waiting for his chance, turning his attention back to his breakfast. Tom reached for the butter- another luxury- and ensured he spread it as slowly and as carefree as possible onto his toast just to annoy Black. It does the trick because those sharp, slightly cruel eyes launch onto someone further down the table, and the first year is up from his seat with a mischievous smirk pulling at his lips in seconds.

Tom wishes his target well.

Breakfast ends before he can get the Prophet, but Tom doesn't mind. He's able to piece together the story from the students' various conversations about Lord Peverell. Apparently, the lord isn't from the main branch of the family, but was able to claim the lordship because his maternal side had just enough drops of blood to count. He would lose his position should someone of the main branch challenge him for it, but since the Peverells had gone two hundred years without a direct male descendant of the main line appearing, there was little to no chance a challenger would take it from Peverell now.

Peverell had two votes in the Wizengamot, due to his maternal and paternal seats (Tom wasn't sure what his father's family was, though they had to be lower station than the Peverells), meaning he had the deciding vote but had no party he was allied to. A few students spoke of the wealth the family must have after the years of fee collecting for the spells they had created- apparently Lumos was one. Every year, anyone above the age of seventeen would pay a tax for the Copyright Spell Protect Act, which basically meant creators of spells that were shared to be taught in the Hogwarts curriculum were paid for their generosity. Spell creating was hard, and most pureblood families preferred to keep them within the family, locked away in grimoires that were passed down from child to child.

In the world of magic, knowledge was power, and no one shared it without gaining something in return. After all, if you knew the spell, then you could learn the counterspell.

The other information Tom learns is how close a call Peverell made to get his lordship; as per tradition, wizarding families had 200 years before they were officially marked as extinct. That was not to be confused with a line dying out, because even if there were no more people running around with the name, the blood may have survived through a Squib or a bastard somewhere. The goblins must have been desperate to keep the investments and the taxes under Peverells' name open, and likely had been the ones to find the Lord, then the other searching himself.

Finally, no one knew what the Lord looked like, where he came from, or what his story was before his announcement. He had entered Gringotts undetected and had left it just as quietly. He had not settled in any known Preverell properties, nor had he presented himself to society.

Lord Preverell was a mystery that everyone desperately needed in times of war, despite how distant it was within the walls of Hogwarts.

Tom stopped caring about the Lord by that evening, as he settled down in his bed. He always searched the job listing behind the safety of his curtains, hoping to find anything that could offer him a board during the summer. He had gone to a few interviews but always left disappointed. The wizarding world didn't have much of a care for the age of a worker the way muggles did, but they almost always wanted someone who could legally cast a spell. Underage magic laws made it impossible to secure an income; still, Tom searched and applied anywhere he could.

A particular help-wanted ad caught his attention. It was the smallest listing among the Prophet's moving and blinking letters, designed to grab the reader's attention. The ad's static wording and design seemed boring by comparison, suggesting it was either a Muggle-born or a Muggle-raised person seeking to hire. Tom circled it without hesitation.

At once the little square lit up, writing replacing the original words within seconds. The one hiring must be a night owl as well.

Good evening! Thank you for your interest in this position. I am looking to hire quickly. Would you be able to do an interview on Thursday?

Tom taps his wand to the square, whispering a reply that should appear as writing on the other side. "Good evening. Yes, I can interview on Thursday. Is it possible to do so in the early afternoon, say one?"

Tom has a history of magic, then, and sneaking out of Hogwarts will be a walk in the park if everyone is busy with classes. He's done it before.

Yes, that works perfectly. Can we meet in Hogsmeade at the Three Broomsticks?

Even better, Tom didn't have to arrange transportation. He could walk to the village. "Yes, that would be fine."

Perfect, we can meet in the third private room.

Two days later, Tom climbs the castle wall and slips out without anyone the wiser. As soon as transfiguration ended, he ran out of the room as quickly as he could, knowing everyone would be used to it by now. Professor Dumbledore's dislike of Tom was a known fact, as well as his speedy retreats from the room. He arrived at Three Broomsticks with only two minutes to spare, and he used them to pat down his windspread hair, straighten up his robes (he borrowed some casual wear from a few housemates, unknown to them), and mentally tell himself not to fail.

The barmaid smiles at him encouragingly, mistaking his nervousness for a different reason. "Don't worry, the first date is always the most nerve-wracking one. Just be yourself."

Tom wants to ask her what she means, but she pushes the door open before he can, not bothering to knock. Inside, sitting at a table with a stack of parchment and a quill, is a boy only two or so years older than him. He has wild hair sticking out in different directions, a stain of ink on his chin, and is dressed like a Muggle. Tom almost leaves right there and then, but it's the boy's first words that root him to his spot.

A pair of brilliant green eyes go round with shock, jaw dropping for only a second before the boy sighs loudly and rubs his eyes. "Of course You-Know-Who shows up on Halloween to bother me....even in the 40s....can't catch a break."

The barmaid winces, whispering to Tom, "Not a great start, but you can turn it around."

The older boy sighs again before gesturing to the chair across from him. "Come on. Let's get this done. Ma'am, if you could bring us some butterbeards and some sweets, that would be lovely."

Seeing the dismay for what it is, the woman offers them a smile and floats elegantly away after shutting the door behind her. Tom lingers in front of the doorway for a second before he approaches the table. "You are the one hiring?"

"Unfortunately." The boy sighs again. "I can't exactly be too picky, not with my time limit."

"What is the job position?" Tom asks, folding his hands in front of him. He settles in his chair, drawing back his shoulders and attempts to imitate the way his Slytherin housemates hold themselves. Someone important. Someone in control. Perfect. "The listing lacked details."

The boy's nose wrinkles. "That was done on purpose. It's charmed so someone desperate enough for a job and under a certain age could see it. I need someone to play my fiancé for the next three years."

Well....that was odd.

"Why?" Tom draws back, a little wary.

"I recently came into a Lordship, and per the requirements written in the family grimoire, I can't keep it unless I have an engagement contract drafted up within the first three days of my claim of it." The boy grumbles, bouncing his knee up and down aggressively. He holds out a hand, but the look on his face clearly states he would rather not touch Tom. "My name is Harry Preverell. I'm fourteen years old. I can offer you salary, board, and the resources of an ancient house as long as you agree to wait out the needed time for me to come of age and keep my Lordship."

Tom feels like he just held his first wand all over again. He shakes the offered hand with gusto. "I'm Tom Riddle, and I would love to take on this job."

Tom Riddle fears death.

He has from a very young age, when he witnessed how other orphans who couldn't handle life at the orphanage died and disappeared without a trace. Most times, they wouldn't even get a grave, because if the orphanage had money for graves, they wouldn't be struggling to meet basic needs.

His fear only increased when the war began during his second year. The bombings, the terror, the uncertainty, and the knowledge that if he perished, then no one would mourn the loss. Tom refused to become a forgotten dead orphan.

Hogwarts refused to shelter him while the war raged on, and only after four years of it, Tom knew it would be a while before it ended. His followers hadn't offered him a place to stay because he was still a mudblood in their parents' eyes, who weren't there to witness Tom's greatness in class. Even with his new Prefect position, Tom meant very little to them.

He realized he had to find his own shelter. He would have to make himself unkillable until then.

Tom spent months scouring the library for any solution, hoping to find at least a spell that would protect him from the bombs, when he came across two interesting phrases.

One spoke of immortality through the usage of Horcruxes

Another spoke of immortality through the usage of the Deathly Hallows.

He weighed his options. One was the darkest of magics; the other was a myth that rang with some truth. If he chose the former, he would go down a path he could never return from, but if he chose the latter, then he may be chasing a fantasy for the rest of his life.

Once upon a time, magic was nothing more than a fantasy to Tom Riddle.

He put the book with the Horcruxes back.

It took reviewing the books in the Chamber of Secrets before he realized he made the right choice. In a journal he was half sure belonged to Merlin himself, there was a ritual that could summon the Deathly Hallows to him. Tom wasted no time in attempting it once he gathered all the materials. Summer break was a mere week away, and he had to hurry before he was sent back.

The ritual did bring him the Hallows, but they were not alone. Sitting in the center of his summoning circle, blinking the most eerie green eyes Tom had ever seen on a human, was a boy his age wearing all three Hallows. Before he could steal the three valuable items, they crumbled to dust, vanishing like a blown-away candle.

The boy remained.

Well, thought Tom, recalculate his plan. At least I managed to get the Master of Death

For that had to be who this was. Why else would he appear when Tom called for the Hallows? The only question that remained was, how could Tom use him?

As he thought, the boy flushed red (he would later know it was from anger), and the intensity in his off-putting eyes grew so strong it almost felt like a touch on Tom's skin. He shuddered.

Tom was used to people's fascination with his looks, and he used them to his advantage plenty of times. Still, beauty was often more of a curse than a blessing, especially in Hogwarts, where his Muggle-born status offered little protection against lust-filled Purebloods.

Wait a minute. That could work.

Tom considered the other with new eyes. He wasn't as handsome as Tom, but he was pleasant enough to look at. He had a lean body, healthy in a way that indicated regular physical activity. His clothes were odd but made from a material that spoke of greater wealth than Tom's.

All in all, he could grow accustomed to hanging off the boy's arm.

Tom let a smile bloom on his face, the same one that won him over every person who used to sneer at him for his blood status, and strutted towards the center of the circle, ensuring it looked like his natural side

"Hello, I'm Tom Riddle. Your soulmate. I used this ritual to call you to me," He lied, letting the words roll off his tongue as easily as breathing. He knelt, taking the stun boy's hand and gazing adoringly into those unnerving green eyes. "I'm so happy to have finally found love"

If Tom had summoned an immortal instead of the means for immortality, then the only thing to do was make that immortal fall in love with him and share the immortality.

If it worked for Perenelle Flamel, surely it could work for him.

AU where at the end of 5th year, instead of Sirius dying, the Order gets lucky and defeats Voldemort by destroying his body. This brings the Second War to a halt, as most Death Eaters once again scramble to make themselves look innocent and the Ministry has to clean up the mess of a year-long error, but thankfully doesn't have to worry about war or other deaths in the meantime.

That doesn't mean they're out of danger. It took Voldemort years to come back, but come back he did, and now some Death Eaters- namely Bellatrix Lestrange- know there is a way to give the Dark Lord a body again. This prompts Slughorn to break his silence and go to Dumbledore with his memories, claiming to have an idea of how Voldemort came back. He wants to stop it from happening a second time. Because of this, Dumbledore orders the older members of the Order of Phoenix to hunt for Horcruxes and keeps this plan hidden from Harry and the other kids who showed up to the fight.

An upside to the battle of the Department of Mysteries is that Sirius is finally proven to be innocent, as the new Minister is quick to use him for some good press. It's an attempt to distract the masses from the disaster Fudge made, but Harry's first comment at Sirius' trial is to publicly explain where he got his "I must not tell lies" scar and who gave Umbridge the power to do that to him. Scrimgeour is quick to throw her under the bus too, because parents quickly find out from their children what happened during the year, including reading their letters. They also find out about Dumbledore's army, and despite a few having doubts, praise the club for doing better at protecting their children during a silent war.

Sirius becomes Harry's new guardian, as Dumbledore thinks the blood wards aren't that necessary now that Voldemort doesn't have a body. They are still cautious, as not all Death Eaters have been rounded up, but there is a lighter sense in the air now. Harry is sent back to Hogwarts now regarded as a hero, and many trip over themselves to apologize for not believing him. Despite having spent the summer with Sirius and finally being believed for what happened to Cedric, Harry feels restless and angry that the Order still won't tell him anything. It's Luna's innocent question about the DA that gets him thinking: He needs something to fill his time up and keep his mind busy. He decides to keep the defense club going, but he doesn't fill out the paperwork properly, and his professors don't read it as closely as they should. Harry winds up with a paper, signed by three heads of house and the headmaster himself, giving Harry authority to run "a club" as the Club president.

Harry discovers one night, while trying to think of an excuse for Professor Snape on why he was roaming the halls after curfew (he fell asleep outside), that he blurted out he was just setting up the stargazing club and poof Hogwarts reacts by turning his excuse into a real thing. When Snape casts a spell to verify the legitimacy of his club, Harry appears as Club President to both the stargazing and the DA, and a poster is magically made in the grand hall, ready for any student to sign up. By the time Harry walks to breakfast, there are thirty names written on it. After that, Harry starts creating clubs on a whim, sometimes doing it as a favor for other kids who were previously denied.

Lavender Brown wants a gossip and tea club? She got it.

Neville Longbottom wants a club of dangerous and somewhat illegal plants? Sure, he came to fight with them

Justin Finch-Fletchley wants to have a Muggle culture appreciation club where he can snack on Muggle snacks and watch films? Harry's bylaws dictate the school has to pay for his favorite crisps.

Terry Boot wants a pranking club as a secret admirer of the Weasley twins' mischief? It would be an honor for a second generation of Marauders.

He's grown too powerful, and by the middle of the year he's founded and is club president (in name only; the others run the clubs without him) of over fifty student organizations. They can't stop him. Harry will become a thorn in the adults' side until they let him help with defeating Voldemort.

Harry Potter time-travels to Tom Riddle's school days. He arrives one day before Myrtle's death and manages to save her, but is not able to get proof of what Tom is up to. He decides his best course of action is to keep a close eye on Tom and foil whatever plans he can, while at the same time figuring out how he got to the past and how he can return to the future.

He isn't sure what he expects from a teenage version of Tom Riddle, as his only form of reference is the piece that Riddle locked away in his diary, but it sure as hell wasn't the version Harry meets. When Dumbledore spoke of Tom's school years, he painted him as a boy already dripping in darkness, each move planned not to be a waste—sophisticated like an unfeeling statue of a prince. When Slunghorn spoke of Tom's school years, he painted a picture of a boy that everyone in town knew and adored. Always kind and welcoming, as graceful as he was beautiful.

When Harry actually saw Tom's school years, he realized there was a big reason everyone let his name fade into obscurity. Tom Riddle was not the mastermind horror he grew up to be. In fact, he was more of a danger to himself than to others- Myrtle's near-death experience.

Tom Riddle as a teenager was just that- a teenager. A dumb one if Harry was being honest.

In the first week alone, he witnessed Tom attempt to leap across the missed stairway to get to class (miss and fall two floors down), have a screaming match with a portrait about Tom's voice cracks, destroy the common room looking for homework he misplaced, get drunk off some bottle thier housemates smuggle in to the point he was hanging off the chandelier singing sailor songs, got lose so often another perfect's entire job was to find him and bring him back before cerfuew, tried any form of magic even ones that most people knew were hoaxes or just plain odd (apparently in third year Tom attempted a spell that wiped his bottom for him and the results were.....he spent a month in the healing chamber) and worst of all, his flirting was so bad it gave Harry second-embarssment. He wasn't even the one Tom was trying to get, and Harry still had to leave the room after hearing some of his pick-up lines.

It's only a month later that Harry realizes Tom Riddle wasn't the cool dark prince he had presented himself to be. Tom was popular, sure, but in the same way everyone knew That One Kid in school. He could defend himself extremely well because of all the times other students attempted to bully him for his wild and odd behavior. He was well liked by the teachers (minus Dumbledore of course) but not by the students.

Tom Riddle was the Luna Lovegood of the 40s despite his beauty. And damn, if Harry didn't have a soft spot for the Luna Lovegoods of the world. He approached Riddle after the boy had attempted to put on a showcasting of the "odd but powerful" spells he found stuffed into a cookbook that belonged to a famous wizard (according to Riddle, at least). The other students ignored or laughed at Riddle, who stood earnestly on a makeshift stage trying to get attention for a spell that made cupcakes sing the emotions of whoever would eat them. He seemed genuinely excited to show others, and the downtrodden look in his eyes slowly morphed into the anger and hatred Harry knew so well.

"That's an awesome spell," Harry spoke before he could stop himself. Riddle looked up from where he was stuffing his cupcakes, the hatred shocked away by someone not only speaking to him but complimenting his spell and the research he put into finding it. "Do you have any more like that?'

And that is how Harry's plans changed from attempting to get to the future to following Tom Riddle around, ensuring he never soured too far off the "Odd but harmless" path. He gets called Riddle's sidekick as a mocking nickname, but it's a good trade-off in his book. He just wishes Tom would stop doing things that nearly get him killed because of his clumsiness or his plain curiosity.

Tom Riddle, on the other hand, assumes they're married because that's the only logical explanation for why Harry sticks around despite how tired Tom makes him. He doesn't care there was never an official wedding or that Harry likes to take things slow, so he only tolerates Tom holding his hand- that's his husband he's graduating Hogwarts with.

Everyone had expectations when it came to Harry Potter and his reappearance in the magical world. His book series filled in the gaps about where the young wizard was, dazzling readers with his daring tales, but it was one thing to read about the young hero and another to see him in person.

That's why the first years of 1991 were highly anticipated. Everyone was dying to see what Harry Potter was like and where he would be sorted. Despite the high possibility that he would be in Gryffindor like his parents, the other houses were just as hopeful that Potter would be sorted with them.

At the sorting, a hush fell across the crowd as Potter was called up to approach the sorting hat. Everyone strained to get a good look at the lad, who walked with his head down, his shoulders hunched and his long hair covering his eyes. He barely made any sound, even his footsteps so soft it would have been missed in a normal level of sound crowd. Potter sat down on the stool, and the hat barely touched his head before the hat yelled, **"**Ravenclaw!" '

The blue house leaped to their feet, cheering and chanting, "We got Potter!" drowning out the groans of disappointment from the other houses. It took a few minutes for the professors to get control of the room again, hushing the celebrating house before resuming the sorting. Potter didn't make a sound in response, only scurrying to the table once he was nudged by Professor McGonagall. Despite the many attempts by his housemates, Potter didn't utter a single word or make eye contact with anyone the rest of the night, and when they were taken to thier dorms, he shut himself away in his bed.

That set the stage for Potter's life at Hogwarts. He spoke to no one, made no friends, and spent most of his time hiding away in scattered locations around the castle. Even his professors could not get him to talk, which earned the scorn of Professor Snape the most, especially when the boy refused to reply to his questions during the first day of class. Many had assumed the boy was mute until he whispered apologies or asked for basic things like the milk at the Ravenclaw table.

"Does he think he's better than us?" One student asked, annoyed, when Potter once again refused to spend time in public areas and instead hid in his dorm.

"No. He's just a bit mousy." Ron Weasley replied, wrinkling his nose. "When I met him on the train, he had jumped out of his skin the moment I opened the door. I watched the blood drain from his face when I asked if I could sit with him, and he spent the entire ride looking terrified."

Or, Dumbledore's desire to have Harry raised outside of the wizarding world to make him humble goes horribly wrong. Harry has developed anthropophobia. At the Dudleys', it's easier to manage because they, too, would rather not see him or be around him, but Hogwarts is different. Everyone is always trying to crowd him and be around him. Harry is on the verge of a panic attack daily, but he tries to force himself to go to class simply to overcome his fear. His sorting into the Ravenclaw house has nothing to do with his wit or intelligence.

Instead, Harry is sorted due to his creativity, specifically his clothing-making skills. It was his one escape from both his fear and the Dursleys, starting when he learned how to patch his own torn clothes from a book. He's always working on a project or another, and he dreams of one day having his own clothes line or even a brand.

If he can cure his anthropophobia, that is.

For today, Harry focuses on breathing while walking down the hallways to class, and does not bother exploring Hogwarts or defeating the forces of evil. He has enough on his plate as it is. Because he steps away from it all, everything falls onto the shoulders of Neville Longbottom, who, with the help of Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, stops Voldemort every year. People forget that Neville wasn't the original child of prophecy until the war breaks out and Harry is brought back into the limelight.

Harry Potter attempts to travel through time and end Voldemort as a child using a ritual with a success rate of only 5%. He doesn't mean to be arrogant, but Harry assumes he will be successful because, as the Chosen One, he's used to making the unlikely happen.

This time, however, he fails, and as a result, Harry gets thrown into an alternate universe. There he finds that Tom Riddle is a Ravenclaw graduate, running a flower shop of all things, and that his soul is completely whole. Tom isn't rich beyond image, with power in the Wizarding World, nor does he have followers. But he has two close friends, his own business, a home of his own above his shop, and an active love life that is more than enough for a man to be satisfied.

For all purposes and appearances, he's a normal man in his early thirties. Harry doesn't buy it for a second. Even if this isn't his timeline, he doesn't think there could be a world where Tom Riddle isn't a monster. He has to find proof of whatever dark magic the beautiful florist may be hiding and bring him to justice.

To get close and gather intel, Harry uses the gold he brought from the future to buy the shop next to Tom's. The only skill he has outside of dueling and flying is the years of cooking he provided for the Dursleys, specifically the fancy Muggle coffees he learned to make for Arthur. The man had gotten Harry an espresso machine as a housewarming gift when Harry had been forced to move out of the shared apartment he had with Ron after his best friend got married to Hermione. The couple said he could stay, but Harry felt like he was intruding on the newlyweds.

Arthur adored the drinks so much he often brought over some coworkers, who were all excited to have the Chosen One's coffee. Even if they were mostly there to gawk at the famous wizard, they all seemed actually to enjoy the drinks.

Unsure of the cafe craze's history, Harry opened a café shop, using his trusted espresso machine from the future. He had brought back all his earthly possessions with him. He figured if anyone got suspicious, he just claimed he got the machine from an uncle who lent it to him.

Riddle Flowers is always overflowing with customers, many of them there to see the man voted most beautiful in Witch Weekly three years running. The Marauders cafe, on the other hand, is lowly lit and empty, most wizards preferring brightly colored buildings because anything else makes them assume dark arts. Not that Harry cares; he's wealthy, and this is just a cover. He starts his investigation by keeping track of who goes in and out of the flower shop, digs through Riddle's trash, and breaks in the one time he's sure Riddle is out.

Nothing that ties him to the dark arts is found, and weeks turn to months with Harry becoming more and more frustrated.

He ensures that he is never seen in the streets because he doesn't want Riddle to think someone is on to him, and he figures he should be inside his dark shop during working hours to at least hold up the illusion that he's trying to run a business. Because of this, no one who visits Diagon Alley actually knows what the owner looks like.

That is, until Tom Riddle himself walks through the door, being dragged in by Alphard Black and Myrtle Warren, his apparent best friends since Hogwarts. Harry's very first customer after being open for five months is his worst enemy. He takes thier money and delivers thier drinks, mostly out of shock at seeing an adult Myrtle, now a beauty worthy of being a model. He knows because she attempts to recruit him for her modeling company before they leave, and Alphard asks if he would rather join his fashion company as his model instead. Riddle says nothing, but he's staring hard enough at Harry that it almost makes him break cover and hex him out of his cafe.

After that day, Riddle makes a habit of showing up at his cafe for lunch break every day, and with him follow the love-struck customers of his flower shop. Harry is horrified to find his business blooming and now has to spend most of his time actually working. He barely has enough time to properly investigate Riddle, especially when, to his own horror, he gains his very own love-struck clientele, mostly those with an alternative sense of style, because apparently his future robes make Harry seem like he prefers the alternative lifestyle himself. Joy.

Meanwhile, Tom Riddle has a crush on the punk-looking man and is doing everything he can to muster up enough courage to ask him out. Myrtle and Alphard both claim the barista is definitely interested in him as well, but Tom doesn't know for sure. It sometimes feels like the man hates him.

Tom Riddle, at the ripe age of seven, is the terror of Wool's orphanage. He has established his place in the orphan picking order well above the rest of the children. The only people who dare challenge him are Ms. Cole, the orphanage matron, and Mr. Heck, the orphanage chef.

He steals whatever he desires and makes bad things happen to anyone who dares cross him. Tom knows no other way of life: this is how one survives Wool's. Then the strangest thing happens. On a normal Tuesday morning, a man wearing his face and answering by his name strolls into the orphanage, has a thirty-minute talk with Ms. Cole, and by lunchtime he strolls right out, Tom stumbling behind him carrying a beaten-down suitcase of all his earthly possessions.

Tom Riddle Sr. is his father, and he has been searching for Tom for the past six years. Apparently, his brother-in-law had gone to Tom Sr.'s house, hissing insults about his sister's death caused by giving birth to Tom, on the first anniversary of her passing.

Tom Sr. had realized his wife had given him an heir to the Earlship and was determined to bring the heir home to train to take over. There is no love between father and son, only duty, but as Tom settles into his new home, a noble man's manor, he is determined to win his father's approval and maybe one day, his father's love.

He throws himself into his duties and shapes himself into the perfect heir. Everything Tom touches turns to gold, every new skill is mastered, and it's not long before he's regarded as the best thing to happen to the Riddle Estate despite his beginnings.

Years later, when Tom turns ten, he meets a new stable hand working at Riddle Manor named Harry. His father claims the boy is orphaned and the only reason they hadn't sent him to a place like Wool's is that Harry can do the work of twice the men. He more than earns his keep- seeing as the Riddles offer him a board, meals, and a small pay- despite how impossible it is.

Tom doesn't have time for Harry; his daily schedule is packed with activities, lessons, and responsibilities that will gain his father's approval. He rarely does anything that won't contribute to this goal.

No one tells Harry this because somehow, someway, the irritating boy always manages to disrupt his day, asking outrageous questions like, "Do you have the urge to hurt small animals?" And "What would you do with a power known not?" Or the worst, "If I got you to fall in love with me, would that stop you from causing a war?"

Tom is only grateful that no one else hears the idiot's questions lest the pair be thrown in prison. When his Hogwarts letter arrives, delivered by Professor Dumbledore, Tom sees a hint of acknowledgment in his father's eye solely because it now gives the Riddles a new area to influence. It's up to Tom to establish them as a powerful family in the Wizarding World, and he will not fail.

He screams when Harry jumps on the train, waving his own letter, and gushes, "Marry me, Tom. For the good of humanity"

This is the summary of thier entire relationship for the rest of thier lives.

It's a known fact that bad things happen to wizards who mess with time. Harry Potter just always assumed the consequences would be a horrible cursed fate or even death. He decided to risk it all anyway because he wanted desperately to save those he lost. He would let the world burn for those he loved.

He aims as far back as magic will allow him to jump, and winds up two years before his parents start Hogwarts. Harry would have liked to stop Tom's existence by saving Tom Riddle Sr. from the love potion, but beggars can't be choosers.

He sets to work immediately, tracking down the Horcruxes scattered throughout the world. It's frustrating, but it seems Tom did not leave them in the locations Harry knew of. He moves through the magic world, head down, shoulders slumped, and a hood casting his face in shadows at all times. Despite his parents already existing, he decides to forgo a last name, lest he accidentally unborns anyone, and merely introduces himself as Harry to whoever asks.

With no identity, no gold, no fame, no family line, and not even a wand, Harry is convinced he seems like the perfect downtrodden homeless wizard that no one would pay any mind to. He is proved right as days turn to weeks and weeks into months, with little to no conversation between him and other humans. He's proud of himself for keeping such a low profile.

Unknown to Harry, the magic that allowed him to time travel is being released into the air around him at all times. He doesn't sense it at all, but every other magical being does, including the witches and wizards who can tell right away what the so-called "Harry" is.

Father Magic- formally known as Mother Magic when they were unaware of magic's prefered gender- had taken a humanoid form and was visting Earth. He was passing judgment on humans, deciding which bloodlines would be privileged to keep thier gifts. They would all be falling over themselves to please Father Magic, if being around him didn't feel worse than a thousand starved dementors combined. Even muggles were horribly reminded of their mortality the second Father Magic walked the street near them.

No one dared to utter a sound, to move a muscle, to even breathe too deeply as Father Magic moved from one side of the country to the other, his echoing footsteps a haunting warning of his approach. It was as if time itself was frozen whenever he was spotted, and only when he vanished from view did things move. Even the animals and the wind fell into a hush around Father Magic.

A reckoning was coming, and no one knew who would be safe and who wouldn't.