An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
SUMMARY:
They lost the battle of Hogwarts. All that stands on the grounds of its hallowed foundation is its grave.
For over a decade, Harry has fought to defeat Voldemort, but with the death of each horcrux, Voldemort grew worse, more monstrous, more terrible and cruel than before. With no one left to save, Harry’s last chance is to go back in time and change the course of history altogether.
But such travelers are forbidden and the anomaly in time must be removed.
As unspeakables hunt the time traveler, as Grindelwald seeks to regain ownership of the elder wand, and as nature itself attempts to reorient the proper order of time, Harry struggles to survive in the past and to be a father to the young Tom Riddle.
Until, that is, Harry finds unlikely shelter with one Newt Scamander.
—
TWO EXCERPT:
“Tom,” said Mrs. Cole. “There’s a man here for you.”
Tom startled, spoon slipping from his grip and clinking against the tin bowl. Porridge splattered the table. Hastily, Tom grabbed the napkin from his lap and wiped the mess up.
“Ma’am?” said Tom, his voice even and high pitched with childhood. His accent was thick. He eyed Mrs. Cole warily. “Whatever d’you mean?”
“This man is here to adopt you. Come along, no dawdling. Let’s get your things.”
Tom’s dark eyes flicked up to Harry; he swallowed. “Is that it, then?” he asked. “Isn’t there a process to make sure we’re a good match as a family or somethin’? A trial run, yeah?”
“He’s an old family friend—”
“And you believed him?” said Tom, interrupting. “Anyone can say that, can’t they?”
Harry stepped forward and took a seat beside the boy. Tom stared at him with unwavering precision.
“The name’s Harry Potter,” said Harry; he held out his hand. Tom glanced at it; his hand slowly slipped into Harry’s, his skin cold to the touch. “You’ve got a strong handshake there.”
Tom straightened, chin lifting slightly. “So, you’ve come for me? Why? What’d you want with me?”
“I knew your mother, Merope. I’ve been looking for you.”
“What for?”
“Huh?”
“Come off it, you’ve got to have a better answer than that,” said Tom haughtily. “What’s my mother got to do with anythin’? She’s dead, isn’t she? You don’t look married—haven’t got a ring, do ya?—and men don’t come round adoptin’ little boys unless they want somethin’ from them. You got a farm? Is that what you want from me? You want a farmhand?”
Harry blinked, trying to keep up with the kid. “No, I’m here for you,” he said, reaching out and ruffling Tom’s hair. The boy jolted. “Specifically you. Besides, I don’t own a farm. I’m here for a son—I’m here for you.”
“A son? Well, why haven’t you gone off and made your own, then?” demanded Tom. “I hear it’s rather easy.”
“Tom!” snapped Mrs. Cole, aghast. “You mustn’t say things like that. It isn’t proper!”
“What, it’s true, inn’t it?” said Tom hotly. “Adults make babies all the time, don’t they? Why not make your own, I say. Why bother with getting one already made and not your own? There’s a reason we’re all orphans and nobody wants us. I just think it’s a bit suspicious for someone to come round for one of us, that’s what.”
Mrs. Cole threw Harry an apologetic look. “See what I mean?” she said, sighing. “He’s cheeky, this one. Are you quite sure—”
“I want Tom,” said Harry, not breaking his gaze from Tom. “He’s perfect just the way he is.”
Tom’s eyes widened. He quickly dropped his gaze, a hint of pink flushing through his pale cheeks. Tom shoved his porridge away and carefully closed the book. He twisted around, short legs pulling out from the bench, and hopped out. He brushed at his shorts, his white socks coming up halfway his thin calves.
“I suppose I can go with Mr. Potter, for a trial run,” said Tom with a little sniff.
“That’s the spirit,” said Harry; he held out his hand. “Let’s go pack your things, yeah?”
For a long moment, Tom visibly deliberated with himself, hands fidgeting with each other while his feet shifted. Tentatively, Tom reached for Harry and accepted his hand.
“While you gather his things, I’ll get the paperwork together,” said Mrs. Cole.”
Harry smiled stiffly. “Of course. We’ll meet you back at your office.”
When they parted ways with Mrs. Cole at the entrance of the orphanage, Tom gave him a furtive look. “This way,” he said, having no issue with pulling Harry along towards a staircase down the opposite hallway. “My room is on the third floor.”
“Lead the way.”
At the top of the second flight of stairs, where Harry’s legs ached with pain, they entered a room with eight beds tightly packed together. Tom let go of Harry’s hand and walked to a large wardrobe, opening it up.
Harry vividly remembered the memory of Dumbledore setting Tom’s wardrobe on fire.
All to teach him a lesson about stealing.
Well, that wouldn’t be happening this round.
Tom gathered two pairs of trousers, two shirts, two underpants, and a winter jacket onto the nearest bed. The clothes looked old and worn, patches sewn onto various parts of the fabric. Tom bent down and grabbed a small tin from the bottom of the wardrobe. He bundled up the clothes together and shoved the tin inside.
“I’m ready,” said Tom in a low, subdued voice.
Harry bent down and lifted Tom into his arms, the bundle pressed between them.
Tom squawked. “Hey!” he protested. “I can walk—let me down.”
Harry didn’t answer him as the boy squirmed in his arms. As Harry walked down the stairs, Tom settled down with a pouting glare, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Not a baby,” muttered Tom.
“I know.”
With one arm supporting Tom, Harry shifted his weight to the left side, sliding his free hand into his pocket. He strode through the hallway back to Mrs. Cole’s office, opening the door and pausing there.
“Ah, there you are, gov. Sit and we can finish the paperwork—”
“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Cole,” said Harry, pulling out the elder wand and pointing it at her forehead.
“Pardon—”
“Obliviate.”
