Chapter Text
Harry would consider himself quite skilled in the art of eavesdropping.
At the Dursleys, eavesdropping was the key to survival. Harry made a habit of lingering in the hallways extra long, straining his ears, to find out whether or not it was safe to enter the room. If he heard his Uncle grumble about a bad day at work, Harry would know to stay far out of his way or else he would be the one to feel his wrath.
Throughout his Hogwarts years, this skill only improved. It was essential to solving the yearly mysteries he always found himself wrapped up in. He didn’t find the Chamber of Secrets by minding his own business, that’s for sure.
Harry made good use of his masterful eavesdropping even now, as he stood outside Fred and George’s room under his Invisibility Cloak, one ear pressed flat against the door.
Thanks to the letters Ron wrote him over the summer, Harry knew that Fred and George no longer lived at the Burrow and instead were staying in a flat above their new joke shop. This made the hushed, tense voices coming from inside their room all the more suspicious.
“Time travel? Dumbledore, how can you be sure it’s time travel?” Mr. Weasley asked, his tone bordering on frantic. In all his years of knowing the man, Harry had never heard him so panicked.
“He could be tricking us!” Mrs. Weasley added, equally distressed.
“I’m certain it’s not a trick.” Dumbledore sounded as calm as ever, but Harry could sense some tension there anyway. “I have cast a plethora of diagnostic spells and have come to the same conclusion every time. He is an authentic time traveler from the 1950s.”
Harry’s mind raced with the possibilities. Someone had time-traveled to the future? From the 1950s? Harry hadn't known forward time travel was possible, but after being a wizard for six years, he knew better than to be surprised by seemingly impossible feats. He only wondered why the mysterious time traveler was here at the Burrow. Wasn’t there a whole division for time travel in the Department of Mysteries? Shouldn’t the Unspeakables be the ones to deal with this sort of thing?
“You brought the potion, I take it?” Dumbledore asked.
“I was all out of Calming Draught,” Mrs. Weasley said, apologetic. “But I had an Elixir to Induce Euphoria, I hope that will do.”
“It will," Dumbledore confirmed. “Now, before I wake our guest, I would like to discuss some logistical matters with the two of you—where he will be staying, how we will send him back, and other topics of that nature. Perhaps it would be best to talk over a spot of tea in the kitchen?”
Harry had little time to act. He stepped away from the door a mere second before it swung open. Thankful for his Invisibility Cloak, Harry froze like a statue as Dumbledore and the two Weasleys passed by him, heading for the stairs.
Quite instinctively, Harry stuck out his foot and caught the door before it could close. He shot a glance towards the stairs, but all he could see was the back of Mr. Weasley’s head, red and thinning. None of them had noticed Harry.
Curiosity outweighing any thoughts of consequences, Harry slipped inside the room, shutting the door softly behind him.
Fred and George’s bedroom looked exactly as he remembered it from previous summers. Two identical beds, two identical nightstands that held two identical lamps, and lined with stacks of cardboard boxes full of their old inventions. The only thing asymmetrical about the room was the sunshine-yellow potion resting on the rightmost nightstand—the Elixir to Induce Euphoria.
Well, that and the person.
Lying unconscious on the rightmost bed was a boy around Harry’s age. His dark curls framed his pale face with perfect precision, not at all messy from sleep. His still features all complemented each other flawlessly, like he were a marble statue crafted with the most delicate care. The word 'handsome' popped into Harry's mind, but that didn't begin to cut it. 'Perfect' came closer, yet still fell short.
It was Tom Marvolo Riddle, appearing no different than he had four years ago in the Chamber of Secrets.
Harry’s heart dropped like a stone. He inhaled so sharply that he began to choke, and as hard as he tried, he couldn’t find a way to do so silently. Tears sprung up at the corner of his eyes as he coughed into his fist.
Of course, it was him. It was always him. Why would Harry think even for a second that the mysterious time traveler would be some unknown face—a stranger? Of course, it had to be a time-traveling Lord Voldemort.
To Harry’s horror, his impromptu coughing fit caused the sleeping Tom Riddle to stir. Harry regained control of his breathing and froze, eyes locked onto each minuscule movement Tom made.
Tom’s peaceful sleeping expression had gone, replaced with a tense, furrowed brow. The slow rhythmic rise and fall of his chest grew quicker and more irregular by the minute, and his arms, once immobile, were now stretching above his head.
Harry knew it was mere seconds before the worst thing imaginable would happen…
And there it was. Tom’s eyes opened. Harry half-expected to see the signature red slits he had become used to seeing from Voldemort. But of course, Tom's eyes were warm brown instead—the kind of eyes girls swoon over, the kind of eyes people get lost in when they're not careful.
Harry didn’t dare move a muscle. He knew it was silly—he was wearing an Invisibility Cloak for Merlin’s sake—but he had this irrational fear that Tom would be able to see him if he did.
He watched in real time as the drowsiness faded from Tom’s face, and alertness took its place. His eyes flicked around the room, a mixture of confusion and fear mingling together as he didn’t recognize it. In one swift motion, Tom sat up, straight as a board.
The movement encouraged Harry to act. Walking on the pads of his feet to not make a noise, Harry crept towards the door, and from the inside of the cloak, he turned the doorknob and pushed.
The door did not budge.
Harry tried again, harder, more desperate. Nothing.
Maybe it was a pull door. Harry tried pulling instead, but of course, to no avail.
Of course, it was locked. Why wouldn’t it be locked? Dumbledore wasn’t going to leave Tom Riddle alone in an unlocked room! Harry cursed inwardly. Why did he have to go and eavesdrop? Why couldn’t he have just minded his own business?
Feeling as though he were knee deep in rapidly rising water (or as though he were locked in a room with a future Dark Lord), Harry grappled for the wand in his pocket. Only, before he could grab it, a creak of the floorboard behind him made Harry spin around, just to be met with Tom Riddle standing mere inches from his face.
Harry’s heart practically jumped out of his chest. Instinctively, he swung his fist forward, hitting Tom’s cheekbone hard. His knuckles stung, and Tom stumbled backward.
It all happened so fast, Harry’s brain took a second to catch up. When it did, the only thing Harry could think was one word—fuck. He cursed his violent reflexes. Why couldn’t he just scream like a normal person? Why was his first instinct to punch?
Tom recovered quickly, though a mixture of bewilderment and rage was written all over his face. Clearly, Tom was unused to being punched by invisible men.
“Who’s there?” Tom demanded and that voice—it transported Harry right back to the Chamber of Secrets. For a split second Harry was twelve years old again, fighting for Ginny’s life, and deathly afraid of a twenty foot Basilisk.
Lost in thought, Harry made the crucial mistake of not dodging when Tom reached out and yanked the Invisibility Cloak off of him.
Harry grabbed for the cloak, but it was too late. He had been seen. The Cloak dropped to a crumpled pile on the floor, looking as defeated as Harry felt. Tom wasted no time in his retaliation. His fist made contact with Harry’s nose, returning the favor with a sickening crunch.
Harry reeled back, groaning and clutching his nose. A wetness spread down his face. He pulled his hand away from his face, and sure enough, it was stained red with blood. Great.
He didn’t have much time to recover, because Tom grabbed him by the shoulders and slammed him into the wall. To his right, a portrait fell and hit the floor, sending glass shattering everywhere. Through the cracked frame, a picture of Fred and George smiled and waved up at him.
“Who are you? Where have you taken me? And what have you done with my wand?” Tom demanded, crowding Harry in a clear attempt to intimidate, so close that their bodies pressed together. Harry might have guessed Tom would be cold to the touch, but surprisingly, he felt warm. Harry tried to ignore the sensation. “Answer me!”
“Harry,” he said through clenched teeth. Tom squeezed his shoulders harder. “Potter. And I haven’t taken you anywhere!”
“Harry Potter,” Tom repeated, the name rolling smoothly off his tongue. “Don’t pretend. Surely, you have something to do with this.”
“I really don’t.”
Tom’s grip loosened if only slightly. He leaned back, searching Harry’s face for a lie. “Then you’ve been captured too?”
“No, I haven’t been captured. I just got stuck in here by accident.”
Tom studied Harry’s expression for several seconds before apparently realizing Harry was not a threat and releasing him. Harry stepped to the side, rubbing the spot on his arms that Tom’s fingernails had been digging into, and watched as Tom went to the door, struggling to wrench it open with increasing desperation.
Tom pulled and pushed at the handle before he waved his hand in a strange motion and then hissed in frustration. “There are magic-repellant wards over this room!”
Harry blinked. He hadn’t even known that was a thing. He thought of the wand in his pocket, wishing he could use it against Tom. Then again, at least neither of them had access to their magic.
Upon realizing his fight with the door was in vain, Tom faced Harry once more.
“Harry Potter, you claim you have nothing to do with any of this, that you are but an innocent bystander, so you should have no issue in answering this; Where am I?”
Despite the fact that Tom’s voice sounded identical to how he remembered it, there was something in it that hadn’t been there in the Chamber of Secrets. A distinct note of panic that he hadn’t had back then.
“You should really be asking, ‘when am I?’” Harry didn’t know what made him say that. Perhaps just to catch Tom off guard, to see the shock on his face.
Tom froze, eyes going wide. His anger—his viciousness—had faltered just long enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of something far more hesitant. And as a warm pang of satisfaction filled his chest, Harry realized, yep, that was exactly why he said it.
Tom’s throat bobbed. He ran his fingers through his hair. The gesture was so human, Harry couldn’t help but lock onto it. In all his memories of Tom, the teen was so untouchable, a terrifying force of nature. Not as much as the fully grown, snake-like Lord Voldemort, of course, but even at sixteen years old Tom Riddle had been quite frightening. But now, he didn’t quite have that same quality. Perhaps it was just a matter of getting older. Harry found it rather difficult to be scared of someone who could very well be in the same class as him.
“What year…”
“1996. That’s fifty years,” Harry answered before Tom could finish. Knowing so much Tom didn’t was a uniquely satisfying feeling. “Welcome to the future where everyone knows how horrible you really are, and no one is fooled by your little, good student act anymore.”
“It isn’t an act, I am a very good student,” Tom said, haughtily, before adding. “And it’s fifty three years.”
Harry scoffed. Tom ignored it.
“Fifty three years…fifty three…” Tom breathed, turning his hands palm up and staring at them as if they were something special. “It’s unheard of…I’m the first…”
He didn’t like the way Tom was acting now, wonder dancing in his eyes, face flushed pink with sudden excitement. His sudden elation was unsettling, and yet, at the same time, somehow made him even more attractive. Annoyed by his own thoughts, Harry cleared his throat and fought down a blush of his own.
“But then, if I exist at the same time as my future self, wouldn’t that cause a paradox?” Tom asked out loud. “That means not only did I travel through time, I traveled through dimensions as well…”
Harry wasn’t exactly clear on how Tom jumped to that conclusion—but at the moment, he didn't care. He stewed in silence, annoyed at how quickly Tom's shock had morphed into awe.
Tom recovered from the life-changing news with a quickness Harry couldn’t help but envy. If Harry were the one who woke up fifty years in the future, he’d be freaking out right now. He turned back to Harry. “Who is behind this? Surely, you must know. Who has taken me here?”
“Someone smart enough to keep you somewhere you can’t hurt anyone!” Harry spat.
Tom squinted at him. Harry supposed his vague comments would be confusing. “You know me. Or, at least, you know who I become.”
“Yes, I know your future self,” Harry answered. “But I know you at this age, too.”
“How is that possible?”
“You came out of a diary.”
Tom froze. “You know about my diary?”
“Well, if you count destroying it as ‘knowing about it,’ then yeah, I guess.”
There was no time to react. Tom lunged at him. And this time, the force knocked Harry off balance. His back exploded with pain as it slammed against the floor. With the wind knocked out of him Harry couldn't fight back, as Tom climbed on him, sitting on his waist, and trapping Harry beneath his weight.
“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?!”
“Yes, I destroyed your diary—like I just said!”
With Tom’s hands pinning Harry’s wrists firmly to the floor, Harry could do nothing but stare upwards as Tom leered over him, downright murderous. His eyes were wild, and his mouth was bared into an animalistic snarl. Warmth blossomed in the places their bodies touched one another, and Harry’s stomach gave a quite unwanted flutter.
“How?” Tom demanded, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. “How?”
“I stabbed it with a Basilisk fang.”
“A Basilisk fang?” Tom repeated, growing more and more incredulous with each passing second. “And how exactly did you get your hands on one of those?”
Harry smiled, a sharp, vicious thing. “Well, it was easy to get, once I killed your pet Basilisk.”
Emotions flitted across Tom’s face like fireworks. Shock, loss, rage. For someone who presents himself as so cold, so unfeeling, he sure was expressive. Though the same was true for his adult self. Harry couldn't remember the last time he went a whole day without feeling Lord Voldemort’s explosive anger through their connection.
Tom leaned in close to Harry’s face, squeezing Harry’s wrists so hard he cut off the circulation of his hands. “You are going to pay for that, Harry Potter. You are going to die.”
Harry could feel Tom's breath against his face, could count each one of his individual eyelashes. Gooseflesh erupted across his arms, and his stomach gave another flutter.
Tom’s hands released Harry’s wrists and found his neck instead. He wrapped his hands around his throat, not tight enough to cut off Harry’s air, but snug enough to show that he could. The threat was there. But now Harry had his hands free. He latched onto Tom’s forearms, ready to pull them away at the first sign of danger.
“Tell me, how did you find it?” Tom’s voice was low and smooth, as if he were forcing himself to remain calm. “The longer you talk the-”
“Longer I live, yeah I get it,” Harry rolled his eyes, having heard the same spiel from the diary.
Tom Riddle was oh so dramatic—as was Lord Voldemort himself. As horrifying as Voldemort’s resurrection in the graveyard had been, the long, drawn-out monologue was quite theatrical, Harry had to admit. Instead of becoming a Dark Lord, Tom really should have considered becoming an actor instead. Not only would it have been better for the world, perhaps Tom would’ve found more joy in it too—who knows?
Seeing as Tom was on top of him with his hands around his neck, Harry should probably not be pondering Tom’s alternate career paths. He should be feeling a sense of urgency, or at least a little twinge of fear. But for some reason, he couldn’t muster up the feeling. All those times dealing with Lord Voldemort must have desensitized him to Tom Riddle.
Tom didn’t take kindly to Harry’s interruption. Somehow, he leaned in even closer, their noses were now practically grazing. “Do you think this is funny? Do you think I’m bluffing? Perhaps, you think this is one big joke, that I do not truly mean the words I am saying."
Harry was staring directly into Tom’s eyes. With the proximity, he noticed specks of amber inside the dark irises. “No, I know you’re serious,” Harry said.
“Then why aren’t you talking?” Tom’s hands twitched, squeezing his throat for just a fraction of a second.
“Because, Riddle, I’m not in the mood to play your games!” In one swift movement, Harry clenched his hand into a fist and punched Tom in the throat. Not hard enough to do any permanent damage, but hard enough for the intended reaction. Tom released Harry and grabbed at his own throat, choking. Harry took the opportunity to push at Tom’s chest, flipping their positions. Now Tom was trapped underneath Harry, his arms pinned under Harry’s knees, still coughing.
Triumph soared through Harry’s chest, making him almost dizzy.
Once he caught his breath, Tom glared up at him through watery eyes. Harry wished he could memorize the look on Tom’s face forever. His hair no longer neat and perfect, but sticking up in odd places, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. He looked like a total mess—and he still pulled it off.
“You’re going to regret this,” Tom promised, voice hoarse but deadly. “I’m going to kill you.”
“If you say so.” Harry shrugged. He didn’t see regretting this anytime in the near future. The look on Tom’s face made it all worth it. That, and the sensation of Tom’s heart pounding in his chest against Harry’s hand.
Tom began struggling violently beneath him. Squirming, thrashing, and trying to throw Harry off of him. Harry held him down by the shoulders, but it was becoming increasingly difficult.
Harry glanced towards the still-locked door, wishing desperately that Dumbledore would come through it and put a stop to this.
Tom got an arm free and yanked a handful of Harry’s hair. Harry clenched his teeth to muffle a groan.
Minutes passed, the two of them punching, and scratching, and battling for dominance. Harry had been in his fair share of physical fights in his life—facing opponents that ranged from Dudley Dursley to Draco Malfoy—so he wasn’t exactly unused to this kind of thing. The only difference was that, unlike any of his previous fights, this time his opponent was actually fighting to kill.
Harry’s head spun with adrenaline as he fought to keep Tom far away from his neck. He knew the second Tom was able to latch onto it again, he would squeeze the life out of him.
The two of them moved around the room, lost in their fight. With a hard shove, Harry knocked Tom backwards into a nearby stack of boxes filled with the twins’ old inventions. The contents of the boxes spilled into a messy pile—one invention making a loud bang, and another oozing green slime—as Tom hurried back to his feet.
To return the favor, Tom managed to knock Harry into the bedside table. It fell on its side, sending the lamp as well as the sunshine-yellow potion to the floor.
Harry let out an 'oomph' as Tom straddled his waist, restraining him once more.
“Give up, Harry Potter. You will not win,” Tom hissed above him. “It will be easier if you stop fighting. More peaceful.”
Like that would ever happen. Harry thought. He squirmed and tried to wrestle his hands out of Tom’s grip, but Tom was not so easily moved.
“Do not feel too bad, Harry. While I cannot lie to you—death by strangulation is incredibly painful, or so I hear—it should only take ten seconds before you lose consciousness. That isn’t so bad, is it?”
Tom wrapped his hands around Harry’s neck. Hands now free, Harry landed a punch to the side of Tom’s head. Tom growled and winced, but only began squeezing Harry’s neck.
Panic shot through him. He began clawing at Tom’s arms, but it did nothing to weaken his grip.
“Ten seconds, Harry,” Tom said. “It’s already been three.”
Desperate, Harry turned his head a little to the side, scanning the room for anything he could use in his favor. The room was in a state of disarray between the mess of boxes and old inventions, and the tipped-over table and lamp. But for some unknown reason, he latched onto the potion that lay on the ground—The Elixir to Induce Euphoria.
It was crazy. It was desperate. But it was something.
He reached his hand out, stretching, feeling for the potion. There. He grabbed hold of it, eyes never leaving Tom’s face.
Tom didn’t see it coming. He slammed the flask in the space between Tom's eyes. Again and again. Tom’s hands twitched, and it was all Harry needed to push upwards and reverse the situation, tackling Tom to the ground.
Without wasting a second, Harry uncorked the flask and grabbed hold of Tom’s jaw, forcing his mouth open as he poured the yellow liquid inside. Eyes widening, Tom spluttered and tried to turn his head away, but Harry just shoved the flask deeper, nearly reaching the back of his throat. With one hand, he pinched Tom’s nose close, holding his face still, as Tom was forced to swallow.
Tom, probably due to the panic of being force-fed potion, seemed to gain a newfound wave of strength. He thrashed underneath Harry, wriggling out of his hold. The flask slipped from Harry’s hand and rolled away, vanishing somewhere under Fred's bed.
On his hands and knees, Tom coughed and gagged, but Harry knew enough of the potion had got into his system. After catching his breath, Tom stood and faced Harry, eyes burning with rage.
“What did you do?” Tom demanded, face twisted in fury—his mouth etched in a deep, cutting scowl, eyes narrowed dangerously.
“You’ll see,” Harry said, standing too.
“What did you do?” Tom repeated, grabbing Harry in a bruising grip.
Harry winced, but he waited. Any second now and the potion should take effect…
“You’ll pay for this, you…” Tom trailed off. His dark eyes glazed over, expression going slack.
His grip weakened, and Harry took a step back, slipping from his grasp with ease. Tom’s shoulders drooped as he let out a soft sigh.
He blinked slowly, looking around as if it were his first time seeing. The harsh lines of anger on his face had vanished, and he looked as peaceful as he had when he was sleeping.
“Oh,” Tom exhaled softly, putting a hand to his chest as if feeling a physical sensation there.
“How do you feel?” Harry asked.
“I feel…” Tom trailed off, genuinely thinking of the answer as he continued to rub small circles against his chest. He swayed slightly on his feet. “Good.”
Gradually, like the sun rising behind a hill, a smile spread on Tom’s face. The expression was nothing like Harry had ever seen Tom wear, so different from his usual smirks or sneers. It was large and unashamed, like a child on Christmas morning.
Harry couldn’t help but gape at it. A smile like that on Tom Riddle’s face stuck out like a sore thumb. He might as well have had pink hair or a third eye—it would have been just as jarring.
He has dimples. Harry thought with a numb hysteria.
He knew he was the one who gave Tom the potion in the first place, but he hadn’t expected it to work this well. “You—you do?”
His eyes were glowing with a light Harry had never seen behind them. His pupils were blown huge, the brown irises practically nonexistent.
“I feel really good,” Tom said, before letting out a laugh, light and genuine. Nothing funny had happened, so it was truly a mark of how overwhelming the potion must’ve felt that his joy needed such a physical outlet.
Harry was shocked to hear such an innocent, joyous sound come out of Tom Riddle’s mouth. If he only heard it once, he might not have believed it, but once the first laugh left Tom’s lips, he seemed quite unable to stop the rest. Like the floodgates opening, Tom trembled as an endless stream of giggles poured from behind his smiling teeth.
The joy transformed his face. Obviously, Harry always thought Tom Riddle was attractive—with his dark hair and perfect cheekbones. (Could you blame him? Everyone with eyes would think he was attractive!) But normally, he was attractive in a dark and brooding sort of way. Now, his good looks came across entirely differently. The free, unabridged happiness written in his stretching, silly smile and sparkling eyes served to make him look nearly cute.
Harry cleared his throat, startled by his train of thought. Tom Riddle and ‘cute’ should never enter the same sentence. Ever.
Tom was beside himself. Clutching his sides, shoulders shaking, and bent over at the waist. It was weirdly contagious. Harry couldn’t resist when his own lips pulled upwards, into a matching curve.
“You’re the worst!” Tom gasped, in between laughs. “I hate you!” Though he surely meant the words, the potion made it impossible to properly express himself. The words lacked intensity, as did his expression.
A laugh of his own bubbled up in Harry’s throat. He pressed his fist against his mouth in an attempt to cover it, but it proved futile. For a moment, the two of them just stood there, laughing. No longer arch enemies, just two people having a difficult time containing their mirth.
“You poisoned me!” Tom accused, his grin never wavering.
Harry snorted. “You can hardly call this poison, it’s not going to kill you. Unless maybe you laugh to death.”
On second thought, Tom laughing to death seemed entirely plausible. Tom lowered himself to the floor, hugging his knees and throwing his head back.
The sight of Tom Riddle brought so low, not because of a duel but because of happiness of all things, was simply too good to be true. It made Harry feel oddly euphoric himself, head spinning slightly, as he soaked in all the details—the shape of his lips, the shake of his shoulders, the shade of pink his skin had turned—
—Not to mention the dimples. Harry was really hung up on that part.
Tom shifted, pressing his face against his knees, muffling the noise of his amusement. Just as Harry was trying to memorize the moment forever, the door burst open. Harry jumped, but Tom was too lost in his joy to notice.
Dumbledore stepped inside the room, looking more bewildered than Harry had ever seen him. The man was usually so in control no matter what, so to see him so utterly and thoroughly shocked was almost as rare as seeing Tom so happy.
Dumbledore regained control quickly enough. “Harry, are you quite alright?”
Harry realized what a mess he must look, his hair more tangled than usual and his face bloodied. That combined with the disaster of a room, and Tom Riddle's strange behavior—no wonder Dumbledore's forehead creased with concern.
The smile wiped from Harry’s face, he resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. “I’m fine, sir. Sorry, I heard you talking to the Weasleys earlier and I know I shouldn’t have snuck in here but—”
“No, I understand, Harry. Curiosity is only natural, and if anything it is my fault for speaking so loudly about secretive topics. It is quite the character flaw of mine. May I ask what is happening with Mr. Riddle, here?”
Dumbledore nodded towards Tom, on the floor and still giggling helplessly.
“I gave him the Elixir to Induce Euphoria.”
Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up. “I see. I hadn’t expected that potion to be quite so…effective.”
That was an understatement. Harry could only imagine the ache Tom must be feeling in his cheeks and sides by now.
“In fact, I had thought—gifted Occlumens that he is—he would be able to block most of the potion’s effects, and it would only cause a slight calming effect. Just enough to stop him from being quite so hostile while I question him. It appears my theory was incorrect.”
“It appears so,” Harry agreed. Dumbledore shot him an amused look before turning back to Tom.
“Tom, could we have a conversation?”
Somehow, Tom managed to get a hold of himself, though he still looked rather dazed, rocking back and forth slightly. Somewhere underneath the potion’s effects, some level of suspicion must’ve stirred, because he asked, “Who are you?”
“Don’t you recognize me, Tom?” Dumbledore asked, pleasant as ever. “I suppose I have a few extra wrinkles than you’re used to seeing.”
Tom blinked owlishly, no recognition. Then—“Dumbledore?”
“I see my youthful appearance has not completely eluded me. I want to ask you a few questions, Tom. What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here?”
Tom hummed softly. He began running his hands up and down the carpet, as if he were petting a cat. “The last thing I remember... I was in Divination. The professor was passing around samples of some experimental potion she brewed, one that was supposed to allow the drinker to see their future. I only took a small sip, but almost instantly I saw a flash of red eyes…a lightning bolt…and then I was here.”
Harry glanced towards Dumbledore, but he had no outward reaction to this statement. Harry fought the urge to flatten his bangs over his scar, feeling very lucky that Tom had not noticed it while they were fighting.
“Instead of simply showing you the future, it transported you into it,” Dumbledore said, scratching his beard. But Tom wasn’t really listening. He was still stroking the carpet, sighing contentedly.
It was quite a funny scene to witness. Even Dumbledore seemed to think so, amusement shining in his eyes.
“Are you feeling quite alright, Tom?” Dumbledore asked, unable to keep the humor from his voice.
“Very alright,” Tom confirmed. “It’s so soft.”
Dumbledore chuckled. Harry’s lips quirked upwards as well. They exchanged another look, bewildered and entertained.
“I must admit, I find you are much better company than I remember, Tom," Dumbledore told him. More seriously, he added. "Perhaps we’ll wait untill you’re a bit less distracted before discussing more serious matters. How does that sound to you?"
“Good," Tom said at once. Harry wasn't sure if he was answering Dumbledore's question, or just putting to words his current internal condition.
“Sir,” Harry began. “There’s something I don’t get. How can Tom and Voldemort both exist at the same time? Shouldn’t that be impossible?”
“A valid question, Harry. You see, with normal, linear time travel, you would be correct. It wouldn't be possible for two copies of the same person to exist at the same time. Tom Riddle coming to the future would cause a paradox—it would make it so Lord Voldemort would never exist in the first place. Of course, seeing as the two of them are very much existing, I think it’s safe to assume that this Tom Riddle came from a separate timeline entirely. You see, Harry, there's a theory that states there are an infinite number of timelines, some with countless differences, others with simply one. In Tom Riddle's universe, this Tom Riddle's universe, everything occurred exactly as it did in ours, leading up to the very moment that Tom Riddle fell through time. That alone was the difference. The concept may be difficult to grasp, but—”’
Harry fought the urge to yawn as boredom took over. He realized now that Tom had said the exact same thing earlier, just in far less words. Though he maintained eye contact with Dumbledore, he couldn't help but tune out the rest of his explanation. He kept nodding along, trying to at least look like he was paying attention.
“Does that make sense, Harry?” Dumbledore asked, snapping Harry back into focus.
“Er, yes sir.”
Dumbledore, apparently satisfied, cleared his throat. “I don’t believe we’ll make any more progress while he’s in this state, and, as it is, I have business elsewhere to take care of,” he said. “Come Harry, I believe it's time we leave Tom alone for the night.”
Harry nodded, though he felt oddly reluctant to leave. Seeing Tom Riddle so smiley was such a novel experience, one that he would likely never have again.
At least he could go tell Ron and Hermione what he had seen.
He stood, picking his Invisibility Cloak off the ground, and following Dumbledore out the door. He stole just one last glance, trying to forever solidify the moment in his memory of dark, brooding Tom Riddle staring up at the ceiling with such a big, goofy grin.
Harry smirked and turned away, thinking about how mortified Tom would be once the potion wore off.