DISCLAIMER: The following story is based on situations and characters from the Harry Potter books which are created and owned by J. K. Rowling, and various other publishers, including, but not limited to Warner Bros., Inc., Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, and Raincoat Books. No use other than entertainment is intended and no financial gain is being made. No trademark or copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Written for Tomarry BigBang 2016. This story is complete and cross-posted on A03.

Chapter 1: Infiltration

"Maybe you shouldn't apply for Auror training."

Her words were final.

Hermione's stare didn't waver and there was a steady, relentless confidence in her gaze that he found oddly soothing.

She could do that. With a few words Hermione would pull him out of his self-induced pity party, and Harry could think it all over. But that didn't mean his problems vanished at once, although he knew she meant well.

His headache came back just as swiftly, digging at his mental composure with the uncanny force of a sledgehammer. But nowadays, that was his life. An endless endurance test.

Sighing, Harry tried to think. Just think.

He had no clue how people decided what to do with their lives after finishing school or how easily they could stick by it. Everyone around him seemed to know everything and perhaps that was the tragedy of it all. Not knowing what to do after having been told what to do all his life. As usual, he was an exception to the rules.

Sipping his tea, Harry stared at the letter in his hand, anxiety muddling his thoughts. Hermione was saying something else, probably something extremely important, but his awareness flickered like a dying flame these days, especially today.

No surprise there, as he was simply too overwhelmed with his NEWTs results.

O's and E's littered the parchment and Harry's eyes were practically glued to that tiny, little O right next to the word Potions. If Snape were still alive, that alone would've been enough to give him a heart attack.

It was great, though. His work bore results, a reward for the agony he put himself through.

Harry's 8th year had been filled with so much studying that he finally felt like he'd achieved something on his own. But now that achievement weighed tons and it didn't help that Hermione already knew what she wanted to do. Hermione and Ginny and Neville and Parvati and Dean and...

"Harry?"

Months after killing Voldemort, it seemed that no matter what Harry envisioned for his future, that man would always be the pinnacle of his existence. And it was just sad.

"Harry?" she called again, tilting her head to the side.

Startled, he gave her a small smile and put the letter down.

"It's alright. I'm just confused right now." Harry didn't need her worry on top of his own. "It's all a bit of mess, to be honest."

"Really?" she asked dryly. Hermione, having known him for so long, was no fool. His attempts to distract her rarely worked. And that was rather annoying.

She crossed her arms, completely unimpressed, and he was tempted to sigh again.

The clock above the mantelpiece chimed and Kreacher appeared, serving more tea for them.

Grimmauld Place still depressed most people, which is why Harry rarely got visitors these days. But the environment suited his mood perfectly.

"You know, with your grades you could basically do everything," Hermione began, not relenting.

It was true, of course. But Harry doubted his grades would matter. Even if he received Trolls, most people would have hired him on his name alone.

"And you can't?" he teased, looking pointedly at her letter. His friend blushed, but the glimmer of pride in her eyes was unmistakable.

"Of course, but I mean you could try out a few things. And if you don't like it, you can always do something else. It's not like you have to decide now what to do for the rest of your life." Reaching for another biscuit, Hermione continued. "Most people our age try a few things, before making a final decision. I strongly suspect that even Ron won't be an Auror forever."

Ah yes, Ron. Harry examined her frown, reminding himself that she hadn't been pleased with Ron's career choice, if her drawn eyebrows were an indication. In fact, he could tell that Hermione would like nothing more than for Ron to quit.

Having a boyfriend who risked his life on a daily basis didn't sound like much fun and Harry understood her frustration, her fears. This is how Ginny must have felt like during the war. Not that it mattered anymore, Harry thought with a twinge of frustration. Besides, Ron had started a year earlier, opting to use his war hero status instead of going back to school. It suited him well.

The redhead was happy with Auror training, going through the academy with the ease of someone destined to fight.

Perhaps Hermione was right, though. Perhaps he wouldn't do it forever. But it would take a hell of a lot of time for Ron to find something else that made him just as happy. And that's why she wouldn't interfere.

"Being an Auror," his friend murmured, fidgeting slightly, "It's a commitment for life."

"I know." Harry sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. "But Ron's fine and you will start law school next week. And Neville will go back to teach and Ginny is training with the Harpies. Honestly Hermione, what am I supposed to do?"

Distracted from her worries about Ron, the witch simply stared at him.

"You're not supposed to do anything. You just do what makes you happy. It's not something others can expect of you."

Harry wanted to laugh. "Pray tell, what makes me happy?" He held up his hand, stalling her. "Killing Dark Lords? Playing Quidditch? It's the only two things I'm good at."

"You know that's not true." Hermione scoffed, looking at him as if she thought he'd said something particularly stupid.

But he didn't care. Bitterness gnawed at his insides, spreading like an illness that couldn't be cured.

This influence, this self-loathing tainted his every decision, even now. Harry bit his lips. He was only good at DADA because he'd been forced to be good at it. Otherwise, being average would've meant certain death. And Quidditch? Just the thought of more groupies following him around made him shudder with revulsion.

Besides, good marks at school didn't really indicate talent or even passion. And that's what he apparently lacked.

His best friend shook her head, brown curls flying everywhere.

"Being good at something and doing something because it makes you happy are two different things. You know that," she said, eyes hard.

Yes, he kind of did. But it didn't help.

Hermione turned her head, looking outside the kitchen for a moment. The charmed windows didn't let much light in and it was getting rather late. They'd been sitting here for hours, after getting their results, throwing suggestions back and forth.

Her fingers tapped lightly against the table, and Harry steeled himself for another round of Hermione's wisdom.

"I'm good a Potions," she began. "It doesn't mean I would want to spend the rest of my life bent over a cauldron, inhaling poisonous fumes."

"I get your point," he said. "But it doesn't change my situation. I just don't know…"

Silence fell between them, and Harry didn't want to look up, didn't want to see the pity in her expression. He just didn't know what made him happy. He'd never attempted to discover it, twisted as his mind was these days.

Hermione sighed, picking up her results and pocketing the letter. She stood, leaving her seat to close the distance between them. Giving Harry a one-armed hug, Hermione smiled at him, the message clear. She'd always be there for him, no matter what.

"You'll find something. Even if we have to make a list of all the career options that exist in the wizarding world."

"Right." Harry chuckled, letting go of her. Warmth spread through his bones and Harry smiled in return, the motion easier than it had been in months. A life without his friends by his side would've been unbearable.

Trust her to do a proper research, though. No doubt, he would be presented with a truckload of parchment soon, listing everything he could do.

"I have to go." Glancing at her watch, Hermione straightened. "Entrance exams at 8 tomorrow. I'll see you next week."

"Good luck." Harry waved her off and with a last indecipherable look she left the kitchen. Harry stared at his rapidly cooling cup of tea and his letter and knew that he would have to make a decision soon if he didn't want to spend the rest of his life alone at Grimmauld Place, miserable and in the company of an equally miserable Walburga Black.

And Kreacher, of course.

Meeting Draco Malfoy at Flourish & Blotts the next day didn't exactly improve his mood, but it changed his boring routine at least. The blonde was shopping all by himself, ignoring the blatant stares, the whispering. The hatred.

He walked with his head held high and it startled Harry so much that he couldn't help it. He stared.

Gone was the pallor and defeated posture that had characterized the young wizard after his trial. Instead, Malfoy had picked himself up, finished his community service and attended Hogwarts with Harry for their 8th year, getting his NEWTs.

It was admirable. From hitting the lowest point in your life to this? Harry could find it in himself to respect Malfoy for that.

Shaking his head, Harry forced himself to concentrate on the book he'd picked up from the shelf. He had no time to waste, especially not on people like Draco Malfoy; changed or not.

The book cover was unremarkable.

Blood Wards, Security and Defense.

He needed his own books at home for cross-referencing, but this particular one contained updated spells on warding that would help Harry in the long run.

Grimmauld Place didn't have stable wards anymore, not since Dumbledore and Sirius had died. And oddly enough, that thought wasn't accompanied by the usual pain. Instead, numbness spread over him, diluting the memories enough for Harry to carry on, to remind himself that nothing could be changed about that.

Clutching the book in his hands, Harry focused.

Warding took up most of his time and concentration. He would need to work on those wards in order to keep the house protected.

With a final glance at the index, he closed the cover and put the book on top of the pile he was already carrying with him. Heading for the counter, Harry tried to ignore the silence, uncomfortably aware that other customers must have noticed his presence, now that he wasn't actively hiding behind bookshelves. The clerk clearly did, gaping at the Boy Who Lived. The man hadn't even noticed Harry's arrival at first, too busy keeping an eye on customers like Malfoy.

"I would like to buy these," Harry said, waiting patiently for the man to regain his wits.

Eyes trailed upward, briefly glancing at his forehead, before the clerk muttered something, reaching for the books.

"Mr. Potter. Please, you don't need to pay for-,"
Harry sighed.

"No." He hated going to Diagon Alley these days, receiving this special treatment, which was even worse than before. After killing Voldemort, people apparently thought he was the second coming of Merlin or something.

Throwing a few Galleons on the desk, he packed away his purchase, ignoring the man's spluttering. He'd probably given him more Galleons than necessary. Oh, well.

"Have a nice day." And with that Harry left, already fed up.

Malfoy was standing near the entrance, watching him intently, but his expression remained closed off, every bit as pure-blooded as one would imagine. Harry nodded at him and Malfoy greeted him in return and that was that. This forced politeness marked their changed relationship, but Harry knew that actually talking to Malfoy would exhaust him too much.

Stepping outside, Harry inhaled the fresh air, rainfall having washed away the stench of summer heat. The new term would start in a couple of months and with a slight feeling of loss, Harry remembered that this year he would no longer attend Hogwarts, would never ride the Hogwarts express as a student.

It was his first year of utter freedom, but somehow it tasted bitter. It tasted like loss.

It tasted like eternity. Tom Riddle stared at the vacant expression of Hepzibah Smith.

Blood rushed through his veins in anticipation, his life force a single source of heady euphoria. He felt himself slipping.

Debasing himself to this point had been worth it, though. Holding the cup and the locket in his hands he gazed at what soon would turn out to be another step towards immortality.

He was already immortal. Had defeated death twice, but twice would never be enough. Flimsy protections like that could be invoked by anyone and he didn't abide by any rules.

The faint sunlight hit gleaming metal and his eyes reflected on the surface. Tom breathed out, lips parting slightly. He needed to ground himself, find that place inside his mind that pushed away the triumph and greed and hunger and the constant call for more.

It worked well enough. As usual, his Occlumency barriers rushed forward with frightening ease, fortifying existing barriers against the onslaught of unnecessary emotions. And with nothing but a small smile, he pocketed the objects, making sure that nothing inside the house would hint at his involvement in Smith's death.

He stared at her corpse for a moment, disgust clawing at his senses. Kissing her hand had nearly made him throw up.

In fact, Smith was just another proof at how revolting most humans seemed to be; their vapid, feeble minds incapable of forming coherent thoughts, too desperate, holding onto people or wealth as if that would somehow make their lives more meaningful. They were people who preached about friendship and love or dreamed of riches that only distracted them from the very reality of their lives. Their inevitable end. Bones and dust. Maggots eating at their rotting flesh. That's what would happen.

Humanity was the worst.

Tom turned away, heading for the door. He did not want to think about it anymore. Turning his back on the house, he focused instead on what lay in front him. A better future.

Walking swiftly across the meadow, he directed his steps to the forest, knowing that he would need to walk for a bit before he could attempt to Apparate away. Aurors these days tended to search every corner for evidence and he'd rather not leave behind any magical trace near Smith's house.

The cold turned sharp and cloying and his breath evaporated in the air. Mist hung above the ground and Tom adjusted his robe, avoiding leaving imprints.

He liked moments like this. Moments when nothing interrupted his thoughts and the only witness to his actions was the fading sunlight, the glittering stars that would slowly but surely cover the sky, chasing exhausting days away. Back at school, Tom had enjoyed walking the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest and that hadn't changed in the slightest.

Still, wearing a mask tended to irritate him, even if it was more bearable around his followers. With no Dumbledore and no other teacher in sight, Tom could bask in utter freedom in a way that made him think of all the possibilities, all the dreams he could now taste on his lips. Working at Borgin and Burkes was also a thing of the past, now that he'd killed Smith.

He could disappear.

His lips twitched and he could already feel his composure dissolving at the idea of leaving Britain behind for good, exploring new areas of magic in safety of the Dark, away from home. Not just the weekly travels he'd done in the past, but years of exploration that would inevitably turn him into the most powerful wizard alive.

Tomorrow, he would be gone. And with that delightful outlook, Tom reached his destination, swiftly Disapparting.

The morning came just as fast, and Tom woke, blinking at the conjured light hanging above his head.

He turned around, sitting up slowly and adjusting his sleeping attire. Sleep was another one of those necessities that irked him to no end, but some limitations couldn't be broken yet and Tom would have to continue on as usual. A look outside showed that it was still relatively dark and he knew he had about two hours left before the Portkey would take him to Albania.

So with newfound determination, he began to dress himself, wandlessly fixing everything that needed to be fixed. Time passed quickly, too quickly for his taste. Packing the last items away, Tom checked the house, aware that it would take years before he returned to Little Hangleton.

A small part inside him whispered of a different future, one where he could abandon this place altogether, sever all ties to his Muggle father and the past that came with it. Common sense dictated that he should just burn the house down and be done with it.

Tom's fingers clenched around the material of his travelling cloak.

Burn it down.

Yes, perhaps one day he would.

But for now, patience yielded better results.

Crossing the threshold to the living room, he frowned in thought, trying to ignore the small pile of gifts his followers have sent him today. They often tended to do that, hoping against hope that he would notice their pathetic attempts to ingratiate themselves with him, hoping that he would bestow them with his attention. The pile was carefully stacked near the fireplace, books and other items having appeared out of thin air. Tom usually allowed it, if only to see what kind of riches and family heirlooms his followers would give up for him.

But today he had different plans and indulgence demanded a price he couldn't pay.

And then he saw another unpleasant item, lying innocently on the coffee table.

Most of his followers knew that sending letters, if they didn't contain useful information, equaled pain.

They should know he hated wasting time on trivial information, especially in the morning.
But of course, Abraxas Malfoy overstepped his boundaries, as usual.

There was a letter which at some point must have been deposited by that house-elf he'd acquired from Malfoy. Speaking of Malfoy, the letter bore his seal. Summoning the parchment, he held it up, lips thinning in displeasure.

My Lord,
the gift I have sent you has been part of the family collection for centuries. I fervently hope you find it as useful as legends claim it is.
We never managed to figure out how to make it work.
Regards,
Abraxas Malfoy

Raising an eyebrow, Tom stared at the carefully written words, detecting no particular motive other than the usual. Abraxas had been rather vague, though.

Glancing sideways, he inspected the pile, annoyed that he was once again wasting precious time just to deal with the antics of his followers.

He quickly made out the small package bearing the Malfoy crest and Tom sighed, drawing his wand. A spell later and the summoned item hovered near his hand while he used complex detection charms to see whether it was in any way cursed. He was no fool and follower or not, Abraxas didn't deserve any consideration.

Nothing showed, but if anything, that made him more suspicious. Narrowing his eyes, he lowered his bag, opting to unwrap the gift.

His magic worked in precise motions and it revealed a small box, black, except for an inscription in grey, fading letters. Odd.

Tom's pulse quickened and his reaction puzzled him even more.

The Soul. That was all it said.

So Abraxas wasn't as useless in giving gifts, as he thought. Tom hadn't bothered to tell his followers anything about soul magic or his interests in Horcruxes, but that didn't mean that some of them remained ignorant, pets that they were, though.

Raising his head, he cast Tempus and noticed he had about half an hour left, before he needed to leave. Deciding at once, Tom reached for the top lid, slowly lifting it to see inside.

A necklace. Nothing more.

The resemblance was uncanny, although he didn't think it was the real thing.

The pendant looked awfully like one of the time turners from the ministry, but attached to it was a small orb, kind of like a miniature crystal ball with swirling shadows inside it that reminded him of Divination lessons. The same inscription covered its surface.

Apparently, the object carried a legend that no Malfoy managed to solve and that's another reason the blonde must have decided to give it to him; flattering Tom while sating his own curiosity.
Well, well, well.

Later, in the safety of his new hideout, he would have the time to solve this mystery, so he didn't hesitate. Closing the lid, Tom pocketed the item, certain that he would need to study the material of the pendant before even attempting to touch it. Curses weren't the only thing that could be deadly.

Evidently, so was lack of attention.

Suddenly the room began to glow and light emanated from where he'd stored the gift. Tom had no time to panic, no time to react properly before everything turned white, a blinding energy that coalesced around him, taking him away without warning.

More than a year had passed since graduating and Harry hadn't experienced the same revelation that everyone else around him had experienced. Hermione's pitying stares didn't help either.

Asking Neville why he'd chosen a career as a teacher only got him responses like "I enjoy teaching." Or Ginny's "I love Quidditch."

Love. What did Harry love? Maybe there was some kind of manual for that and he'd just missed out.

Dumbledore had once called Harry's ability to love one of his greatest assets. And maybe it was true in terms of loving people, making friends and all that.

But to truly love doing something, something that satisfied you? Well, nothing had changed. He still didn't know.

Perhaps the only thing that Harry indulged in nowadays was reading, although Ron's horrifying reaction to Harry's new hobby plus his girlfriend's approval just made it all the more entertaining.

He'd learned a lot about warding, though. A lot that hadn't ever been taught at Hogwarts, such as gaining the abilities to protect not just houses or objects from prying eyes, but to make it possible to tie said objects to him, keeping them obscured under a veil of secrecy.

True, he didn't exactly love practicing that kind of magic. He didn't love warding, per se. Most of the stuff bordered on Dark Arts, but Harry didn't have the patience to argue against it anymore. Not since warding had helped him keep his privacy.

Sadly enough, he couldn't hide away from the world either and that's why he did help out from time to time, when the ministry demanded it.

Today was one of those days. Shortly before Christmas, Harry was called to the Minister's office.

Seeing Kingsley again, didn't come as a surprise, since Harry was often asked for his opinion regarding public matters of interest, but the last time he saw him, the Minister hadn't seem nearly as frazzled and disturbed as he was today.

Portraits of former Ministers peered down at them and Harry was strangely reminded of Hogwarts.

"I'm sorry I had to call you again, Harry," Kingsley began, putting the book he'd been consulting away.

Everything around this place looked meticulous, from the neatly arranged bookcases to the thick folders lining the shelves near the window. Charmed light brightened the office, giving the illusion of warmth and comfort, something the ministry desperately lacked. Minister Shacklebolt made a habit out of collecting old Muggle records from famous musicians, keeping them on display in a glass cabinet. The purebloods visiting him must've had a blast, being reminded how much had changed since the war.

"I thought it was best to let you in on a few issues we've had recently," he continued, returning to his seat.

"It's fine," Harry replied. "I'm not exactly busy." And that was an understatement, if there ever was one.

Predictably, Kingsley glanced up at him, not even bothering to hide his concern, but in Harry's opinion there was nothing to be concerned about. It was his business and he would deal with it.

"I heard you rejected the offer," the Minister said, leaning forward. "My colleagues over at the DMLE were quite disappointed, I must say."

Imagine that.

Harry nodded grimly, secretly pleased. Just the thought of wearing the scarlet robes and chasing Dark wizards across the streets made his stomach turn. He had enough of this. Why wouldn't people let this go?

"Yeah. Ron wasn't happy," Harry offered quickly, not inclined to delve into this further. Ron had looked gutted, when Harry told him the news that he wouldn't be joining the Aurors. But it couldn't be helped. His decision was final. Not even Kingsley's pointed remarks would sway him.

Shacklebolt leaned his elbows against the armrests, inspecting him further. "We have a few internships at other departments left. I'm sure they would be happy to welcome you."

'For all the wrong reasons', Harry thought darkly. If Kingsley had just called him to play job advisor, Harry was slowly but surely losing his patience. Everyone either wanted to mess with him, and when he tried to explain that he didn't know what to do, they just waved him off, or shrugged awkwardly, as if life was so easy.

"I appreciate that you want to help, sir," Harry voiced eventually, trying to break the silence which had suddenly wormed its way into the conversation. "I really do. But we should perhaps focus on what's going on at the ministry."

Kingsley's lips formed a thin line and Harry could imagine the man would pursue this topic anyway. If not today, then at the next meeting and so on.

Perhaps Harry was being ungrateful right now. Hell, he definitely was. But sometimes it was just too exhausting to care about everyone's feelings.

"Very well, then," the man said. His look told Harry everything. "In any case, what I'm about to discuss with you, should not be discussed lightly outside this office."

Harry nodded and Kingsley stared at something behind Harry's shoulder, perhaps making sure that the silencing charms still remained intact.

"It concerns the Wizengamot and the recent changes I've tried to implement."

Curious now, Harry leaned forward.

Changes? He hadn't known much about that. The Minister slouched forward, appearing tired. Whatever it was, it seemed both time-consuming and unhealthy, since Kingsley had never looked anything less than a formidable warrior.

"Changes, sir?" Harry asked carefully.

"Indeed." The man sighed. "I've replaced several key figures of the Wizengamot with new lawyers, Muggleborn lawyers to be precise."

Oh.

"The others weren't happy about that," Harry concluded and the Minister nodded, his expression serious. "Voldemort's short regime and control of the Wizengamot managed to instill even more prejudice against Muggleborns, and many members thrived off his propaganda, Harry."

Kingsley's eyes shone, a sadness weighing him down, which made his composure slip. Harry couldn't imagine how difficult it must be to fight against these people, who, by all accounts, have been members of the Wizengamot since before Kingsley and Harry were born.

They must think his authority as Minister didn't count nearly as much.

"They filled their pockets with money, while taking on cases against people with the slightest bit of Muggle background. Now that you won, that money flow stopped abruptly and we managed to persecute several purebloods of their crimes. But not all of them."

"They didn't bribe the ministry like Malfoy did, did they?" Harry asked, alarmed. Surely, Kingsley wouldn't allow it.

The man grimaced in distaste.

"Of course not. I rooted it all out last year, but my predecessors didn't seem inclined to do anything, which is why there are still ancient laws protecting these people from being persecuted. It would take years to change the legal system."

Swallowing the sudden pressure in his throat, Harry tried to focus. They didn't have years. For all the sacrifices he made, Kingsley Shacklebolt could stop being Minister next year, if the pressure against him demanded it. And then what?

"What should we do then?" he couldn't help asking.

What should he do? He tried to think of a solution but came up with nothing.

But the Minister did, if his benign expression was anything to go by.

"As you know, we don't have a parliamentary system. Not like the Muggle world," Kingsley explained stoically. "The public can't voice its opinion in a way that is legally binding and they can't vote for new members. It's what I want to change."

Okay.

Harry gaped at him. There was no other way to react to that.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister since 1998, over two years in office, had just proposed to overthrow the entire British wizarding system, disregarding centuries of laws and traditions in favor of a new world.

A much better world, Harry thought, reeling. It was true. They didn't have parties and the public almost had zero influence over who governed their country. It's what Harry always wondered about, especially since his trial in 5th year.

"I know what you're thinking." Kingsley chuckled, amused. "It's the kind of proposal Albus Dumbledore would've given me a pat on the back for, basically saying 'dream, on'."

"He wouldn't say that." Harry could imagine it, though.

"Still," the man said, sobering. "We don't have that much time to work behind the scenes and I know that you're thinking about your own direction in life."

"I'm not going to become a politician." The words flew out of his mouth and even the thought of becoming one was hilarious. He'd just turned 20 this year and no one would take him seriously. Boy Who Lived or not.

Kingsley shook his head. "It's not what I want you to do. Only you can decide that. Besides, you're the only one I can trust to see this through the end, no matter what career path you will take."

"I don't understand," Harry replied, gripping his armrests tightly.

But the Minister suddenly stood, rounding the desk until he reached Harry. Leaning forward, strong hands touched his shoulders in a show of support. Harry couldn't decide whether he wanted to flee or succumb to his sudden exhaustion.

"All I want you to do," Kingsley murmured, "is to fight for a better wizarding world. Continue to fight for it, no matter what happens." He smiled nervously, but the strength in his hands didn't leave him.

Something about the way he said those words didn't seem alright. But Harry couldn't pinpoint what. He nodded, though, easily agreeing, since his friends remained the most important people in his life. And Harry would do everything, absolutely everything to make sure they were safe and happy.

He landed on the ground, his back connecting with a hard surface that shot pain through his bones, making him gasp involuntarily.

Despite the physical distraction, Tom's mind sharpened, realizing that this situation was most unusual, since it took complex magic to overwhelm him like this. If he got his hands on Abraxas, he would skin him alive.

The change in temperature hit him at once and without hesitation he forced his muscles to obey him, gripping his wand tightly in the direction of the fading, strange light that now seemed to escape him.

He had been pulled outside, the experience unlike any travelling method Tom had ever used.

The gift couldn't have been a Portkey. His spells would have detected it.

Hoisting himself upwards, he attempted to catalogue his surroundings. Attempted, but couldn't.

Tom was forced to duck, moving sideways as a red spell shot past him, hitting what appeared to be stone with deadly precision.

His body still ached from the impact.

He was not alone.

"It can't be real," a voice uttered, shocked and another spell hit the spot where Tom's leg had been just a second ago.

He was under attack.

"You-,"

Tom hissed, using his arms to push away from what appeared to be a headstone. His eyes scanned the area, and the familiarity of this place confused him even more. He had been transported to the graveyard at Little Hangleton. But why?

Tilting his head sideways, he used a slashing motion, his wand erecting a dark blue barrier, which reflected the incoming curse, forcing his attacker to step sideways.

Dark eyes narrowed, watching the figure closely. The magic collided, static energy partially obscuring his features, but Tom saw that he wasn't standing that far away from him.

In fact, the sight alone almost made him pause in his defense.

Flowers lay at the man's feet, evidently having been dropped at Tom's untimely appearance. The stranger must've wanted to visit someone's grave, although it didn't explain his hostile behavior. And no one ever visited this place.

The barrier between them held, but it cleared, transparent energy humming with contained power.

Standing in front of him was a man. Fairly young, from what Tom could see, and dressed in odd trousers and a black jacket. Muggle clothes, of the kind that Tom would call indecent. He'd never seen anything like it, nor had he seen a respectable person wearing such form-fitting attire.

But what distracted him the most were the man's features, his face etched in horror and bright green eyes rapidly blinking behind round glasses, as if to deny what was in front of him.

The stranger was appealing, but Tom would never let himself get distracted by physical appearances.

It was the man's magic and more importantly, his emotions, that assaulted him at once.

Hatred, confusion, followed by despair and back to hatred.

The attacker was an open book.

Good.

Tom's lips curled upward.

It was morbid to find graveyards fascinating.

Harry thought that after attending so many funerals two and half a years ago, he would be keeping his distance from places of mourning and death.

Unfortunately, these days it became more necessary to seek the comfort of permanent silence, to find rest and to clear his mind in a place that didn't talk back.

And if his friends knew that tonight he was paying his respects to Merope Gaunt, that he'd actually ordered her grave to be installed, they would have most likely called St. Mungo's.

Harry didn't really care. Months of contemplating his future, self-imposed isolation and a strange melancholic air hanging over his neck like a noose had driven him to visit Little Hangleton on New Year's Eve, declining parties and all that rot.

Pretending to be happy these days made him feel like a fraud.

The night's sky would have been beautiful if not for the very real nightmare Harry seemed to have fallen into.

Tom Riddle was staring at him, standing in the shadows of his mother's grave, just as handsome and just as terrifying as Harry remembered from Dumbledore's memories.

It couldn't be.

It just couldn't.

Harry had watched the bastard die, had watched his emaciated form being hit by the rebounding killing curse, watched as the light faded from eerie crimson eyes, ending Harry's lifelong torment.

The monster couldn't have created more Horcruxes.

It just wasn't feasible.

So why?

Why was Tom Riddle here?

His wand hand shook, and the urge to pinch himself grew with every second that passed between them in silence.

Why? Why was this stuff always happening to him?

Harry readied himself, knowing he only had two options left. Either he could pretend this was an elaborate dream and ignore the issue entirely, or...

...or he could fight.

Memories of 4th year stirred inside his mind, dreadful images of cauldrons and blood, and flesh making his heart beat faster. Harry felt cold sweat bathing his skin, but he had no choice. Somehow he didn't think this Tom Riddle would politely answer his questions if he simply asked.

He didn't look like a ghost. He used magic, as powerful and effective as it had always been.

Please, let this be a nightmare.

The holly wand drew an arc and Harry focused, shutting out the why and how. Magic rushed forward, eagerly obeying him as it formed the spell necessary to break Riddle's shield. White light hit dark magic at once, and the ominous crack that reverberated through the air made his hair stand on end.

Unfortunately, his victory was short-lived, because Riddle transfigured the broken stones around him into deadly black fire, which attacked him at once. Transfiguring objects into pure elements?

And still, he wasn't saying anything. Just considering him. Using his infamous power like it was nothing.

Merlin, Harry couldn't lose against him. Couldn't lose the Elder Wand's allegiance, although it was still safely ensconced with Dumbledore.

Moving around, Harry's spell connected with it, water crashing against pure heat and making steam obscure his vision.

"It's not every day, I get attacked without warning. You might want to explain yourself," Riddle said, finally breaking that stalemate between them, his posture calm, confident. In control.

Harry Disapparated, reappearing behind Riddle and using the momentum to shoot an Impedimenta at him.

Riddle blocked it with frightening ease. "Assault is illegal."

"So is that spell you just used," Harry shot back and Riddle's lips tightened.

Suddenly there were knives appearing out of thin air, rushing at him.

Was he a Horcrux? Harry thought, blocking the knives with a minor dark spell. He was real, deadly. Made of bones and flesh and so much magic...

The man didn't feel like one, although Harry couldn't exactly tell how he knew that. The ability to feel and detect Horcruxes had died with him, after all.

Instead of backing down, Harry closed the distance between them, risking much. Riddle wouldn't be able to parade around as innocent, with the magic he was now using. And he was angered and startled enough to make Harry suspicious. Maybe the Boy Who Lived wasn't even dealing with a man who knew him.

Riddle had no idea.

No taunts, no whispered threats followed Harry. Just magic. He saw an opening, ducking low before swiping the man's legs underneath him. They both tumbled forward, but Riddle rolled them both over instantly, his left leg digging into Harry's wand arm.

If Riddle had no idea, had no recognition of Harry or the final battle, or anything really, that meant he was defending himself…against him.

Fuck. The second scenario was worse.

A familiar yew wand was now pointing at his face. With another flick Riddle would be able to disarm him, But that wand. That wand had been destroyed by the ministry, on Kingsley Shacklebolt's orders, in fact. Harry had been present, had witnessed its destruction and the ministry's order to burn Voldemort's corpse, to scatter the ashes across the sea.

No place of worship should exist for his escaped followers.

Instincts taking over, Harry did the only thing he could do in the situation. His left hand shot out, and the wandless spell pushed Riddle away from him. Counting on Riddle's surprise, Harry picked up his own wand again and made vines grow out of the earth, making sure that they would keep Riddle entangled. Devious as the man was, he still managed to hit Harry with a curse that temporarily made his left leg feel numb, as if every muscle had suddenly vanished. Harry coughed, angrily looking down at the wizard.

Still, the irony wasn't missed on him. Tied to the ground, Tom was now lying right in front of his mother's grave, his impenetrable mask gone.

The familiar rage danced with surprise and for a moment Harry relished in it, feeling the power he had over Tom Riddle, if only for a few seconds. No doubt, the man would use his own wandless magic against him, and soon.

Harry stared at him coolly.

"Stupefy!"

And Riddle, future Dark Lord or Horcrux, slumped bonelessly to the ground, his features contorting into unbound fury, before smoothing out.

Harmless as a kitten.

"Kreacher!" Harry called, gasping for breath. He could barely stand. Thankfully, his house-elf didn't need everything explained. Kreacher appeared, took a look at the unconscious man lying on the ground and Harry smirked. "Take him home and make sure he can't escape."

"Yes, Master Harry."

The two popped out of the place and Harry looked around him, grimacing at the wreckage; the cemetery and more importantly, Merope's empty grave having been turned inside out. Stones blocked the small path and figures of angels missed heads or wings. He would need to repair it, before the Muggle police noticed a thing.

But Harry needed some answers first. And a drink.