A/N: Thanks so much for all the reviews. I'm glad people are still interested in this!

Some people have expressed impatience at Harry's time in the present, but when I wrote 'slow-moving HP/TMR' I meant, SLOOOOOOW. Like, the slowest of slow burns. Tom and Harry will interact again soon enough, but first things first. Evolution. XDD

Warnings: very little Tom

The glass was smooth and cool in his hands, the silver strand of memory a shimmering, opalescent hue. Harry watched the memory cling to the curve of the glass, thumbed the stopper, and did his level best to ignore the growing ache in his chest.

He missed Ron and Hermione fiercely. Hermione and Ron being absent from his life was like taking a bludger to the chest; his ribs twinged as he tried to breathe, tried to push away the pain of their absence and focus on the positives—the future (fleeting as he will his time to be there) his life, Ginny and Mrs. Weasley. George and Mr. Weasley. Luna. An unexpected letter from Neville had warmed his heart—getting my Herbology certification, Neville wrote, and Harry's thoughts wrenched at how much he'd already missed.

Harry sunk into the comfort that was his shoddy, run-down flat, swept floorboards dusted with chalk and made slippery with a thin layer of candle wax. He held his invisibility cloak close to his chest, savored the heady flavor of a chocolate frog melting on his tongue and forced himself not to regret his decision. Ron and Hermione were already in 1926.

Harry only wished he was there with them.

He missed the way Ron would grin and slap him on the back, the way Hermione's bushy curls would bounce as she walked and the way she would roll her eyes whenever Harry or Ron said something particularly short-sighted. He missed their banter and their jokes and the comfort that came from being close to them.

Luna tried. Oh, Merlin, but she tried, in her strangely supportive way, to be enough of a distraction while he worked on The Ginny Problem. Harry was infinitely thankful for Luna's presence and the way she trusted him implicitly, refusing to pressure him into speaking truths he wasn't quite ready to give.

Luna provided Harry with the space he needed, speaking only of trivialities, topics of non-import. It made the days easier to bear, at any rate, and the guilt churning in the back of his mind was a distant thing, as intangible as the memory of a gleaming sword slicing through the mouth of a basilisk or the bristly touch of the Sorting Hat flopping over his eyes while its booming voice echoed into the contours of his mind at eleven years of age.

It was strange, though, seeking only Luna for company. Harry wanted to confide in Ginny, yearned for her company (in more ways than one) but just like with Luna, they could only speak in trivialities. Could only talk about Weasley's Wizard Wheezes or Quidditch or the Ministry. Anything that wasn't important.

(But it was important, the Ministry, more important than Harry wanted to admit, because Voldemort was dead—had collapsed, small and feeble and lifeless, limbs askew and body broken all from the force of a rebounded Avada Kedavra. Yet his ideology—his dreams and ambitions kept lingering on, festering in people's minds even though the Dark Lord should have lost—how do you kill an idea, Harry wondered, again and again and again.)

Any topic that wasn't them—Harry and Ginny—was the only safe thing to broach and Harry found himself stuck. Stuck trying to change it. Stuck with his feelings of relief because he didn't want to deal with Ginny or his issues. He just wanted… well it didn't matter, Harry decided as his fingers tightened around the vial in his palm. He had to fix it. He'd already traveled to the past, experienced his vision going gray, blood sluicing his face warm, and the feeling leaving his limbs. Had his legs crushed beneath rubble as he was trapped in the horrifying aftermath of an air raid. Saw what happened when a trust barely formed was suddenly shattered beneath the debilitating force of heart breaking memories and grief.

Grief, Harry mused, recalling the flash of bright blue eyes hidden behind half-moon spectacles. The memory seemed to warm in his palm.

"Right," Harry muttered, then said a bit louder, "Luna."

The blonde girl startled, looking up from the map spread across the dining table. It was peppered with pins that sparkled like stars, and for a moment, the sight was distinctly disorienting.

Harry sighed. Giving Luna his attention once more, Harry waited in silence as Luna blinked wide eyes at him; she immediately began fingering the chain of butter-beer caps around her neck, twisting them around ink-spattered knuckles. Her turnip earrings glinted faintly in the light, and Harry offered up a brief smile with a shrug of his shoulders.

"Sorry, Luna. I didn't mean to startle you."

"No need to worry," Luna replied airily. "I needed a break anyway. Sometimes the nargles make my brain go all fuzzy when I'm tracking the migration patterns of the Crumple-Horned Snorkack and I end up researching lethifolds or the mating habits of hinkypuffs instead."

"Right," Harry said slowly. "Say, Luna, why do you think Hermione chose you to help me?"

Luna smiled pleasantly. "I can't say for certain, Harry, but I'm positive she has her reasons." Luna's head cocked to the side, the way Fang's did whenever he was eying a particularly rare steak. "But you should trust her, all the same."

"I do," Harry said. "It's just…" He gestured vaguely to the vial going warm in his hand. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do. It's like I'm playing a Quidditch match and all of a sudden my broom has disappeared out from under me."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," Luna lilted, dream-like and slow. "In my experience, Ginny Weasley is a rather excellent flier."

Harry blinked. "Um."

"Ginny Weasley," Luna repeated. "She plays Quidditch as well, you know."

Harry didn't understand what Luna was getting at. She was being vague again, talking around a truth Harry was too close to see.

"I know," Harry said after a decade long moment. Suddenly the metaphor seemed stretched thin between them, unable to hold the weight it was given. Or perhaps it wasn't too weak, but too strong, too heavy, the brutal force of a mountain troll careening toward solid ground after being bludgeoned over the head with a club.

Harry swallowed thickly. There was no use thinking about it now. The conversation would just make his head hurt.

(Harry remembered McGonagall's stern face looking back at him while he bristled beneath her chastisement, his anger for Umbridge coalescing into a sharp pinpoint of light in his mind. Words that weren't his own spewed from his mouth without thought—it means the Ministry is interfering at Hogwarts—and McGonagall's dry reply, 'well I'm glad you listen to Hermione Granger, at any rate.' There was the sickening notion he was incapable of seeing beyond the surface, unable to understand people's true intentions unless they ran parallel to his own.)

(he only ever understood Ron and Hermione in the end, only understood the cold terror that made Voldemort lash out at him, again and again)

(blood of the enemy, forcefully taken)

"All right," Luna said sagely, glancing back at her map. "I'm glad you understand now, Harry. It is rather uncomfortable being in the middle of your lover's quarrel."

Harry cringed and immediately swallowed down the instinctive burst of denial. It's not a lover's quarrel, he wanted to bellow, but Luna was not Ron or Hermione. Opening up enough to let loose his irritation… it chafed at him, made little quivers of unease dance along his skin. He felt so wrong-footed, unaware of where the conversation had even shifted. Harry rubbed at his scar in agitation.

"Right," he said with some severity. "Well, good luck with your search. I'm just…" Harry gestured to the back room. "I'll be over there."

"Oh." Luna pulled a pin from the stitching of her robe to jam it into the map. "Will you be living in the pensieve again?"

Harry scowled. "I don't—" The words came forth in a sharp burst of fury. But it was Luna. He forced himself to calm down. "No, Luna, I'm not."

"It's just curious, is all," Luna continued in that same vague tone of voice that made Harry think she wasn't paying very much attention to him at all. "You could be making memories with friends but instead it seems as though you'd much rather exist within the memories of others." Her blonde hair slid in stringy strands over her shoulder as she traced the edge of the map with her fingers. "I imagine the memories must be much happier than the ones you have here."

They weren't, not in the least. Dumbledore's memories weren't wrought with happiness, but with a particular brand of terror brought on by the Muggle war. The way Dumbledore saw the world distorted the memories only slightly; they were as true as Dumbledore perceived them to be, but that didn't mean they were happy. As a matter of course, it seemed that Dumbledore only recorded his most troubling memories, which meant Harry hardly saw pleasant memories at all. Dumbledore hid his tension well, but it was obvious in the lilt of his voice, the set of his expression.

Harry wasn't reliving happy memories. But they were important memories, even if they weren't his.

A knot of discomfort wedged itself beneath the concave of Harry's sternum. Luna's words felt particularly damning and accusatory even though her voice held no judgment. And that was the thing—Luna never judged, just made vague statements founded in truth; living in the pensieve, Luna said, because Harry wasn't living in the present. Harry missed Ron and Hermione, but left them in the past. Harry wanted Ginny's company, but chose to research and examine Dumbledore's old memories from top to bottom instead of making an effort. Neville wanted to see him, but Harry hid himself away in flat with only Luna as occasional company. Her words were like sharply pointed arrows, even if they held all the softness of Buckbeak's downy feathers.

"Luna…" Harry began through a surge of self-loathing. "I… I am trying to make memories. New ones. Better ones. With the way things are…"

"The attacks and disruptions in the Ministry, you mean." She nodded. "My father just ran an article about it in the Quibbler. I see why that might be a problem."

Harry shrugged. "If that's what you want to call it. Look, Voldemort died, but… things haven't gotten better. They just continue to get worse. People are still being murdered, Luna, and after Voldemort died it was supposed to stop. You know what's been going on with the Dark creatures and pureblood families. You know about the horrible incidents with all those muggles."

"I understand Harry." Luna twisted her necklace in a tight circle around her fingers. "My mum was like you, you know. She wanted to change things too. Her theoretical spells backfired, though. I can't imagine that time travel would be any more stable."

(Dangerous things happen to those who meddle with time, and the words were like a vengeful spirit, haunting him, haunting him, haunting him.)

"We still have to try," Harry pressed, neatly side-stepping Luna's caution with half-hearted determination. He perched himself on a stool at the end of the table. The stool wobbled precariously, but Harry simply shifted his weight, balancing on two of the four legs. He hated that he didn't truly believe it.

Luna made a curious noise. "Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Trying?"

And there it was—another Luna Lovegood truth packaged in an innocently worded question. Harry tipped forward, planting both of his feet firmly on the ground.

"Because if you were trying," Luna continued, "I think Ginny Weasley would be standing in the room with us."

It wasn't a rebuke. Harry knew that. Even so, he felt his hackles raising and ire burning wild like the blistering flames of a fiendfyre. Luna's honesty wasn't a blunt force, but it was hardly subtle either. Much like he'd been with Ginny, Harry suddenly found himself contemplating the urge to dive across the room and create a chasm of space between them—to walk away, to disappear, to sink face first into a memory of the second world war, to do anything other than be in that room with Luna.

(Ginny's always knew how to catch Harry's anger straight on, but Luna saw right through him, saw right through everyone. Harry wasn't quite sure what to do with that.)

"I don't want to talk about Ginny." Harry's statement was abrupt, final. It didn't faze Luna in the least.

"All right," she answered agreeably. "What would you like to talk about?"

Nothing, Harry growled internally, but the thought of sinking into his own solitude was repellant. "I don't know."

Luna smiled, her lips curving into a soft line that settled on her features like a vague smudge in an oil painting.

"Not many people do." She pulled her wand from her pocket and pressed it to the edge of her map. One by one, each of the sparkling pins flattened to the surface, bleeding into the thick roll of parchment and merging with inky lines in the fabric. Luna said, "But if I were Harry Potter and not Luna Lovegood, I might start the conversation with something important."

Something important. There were too many things that were important, too many things cluttering up the trenches of Harry's mind, a convoluted web of truth and lies as restricting as the meaty vines of a Devil's Snare. The truth was, Harry couldn't speak his story. Not if he didn't want to be carted off to Azkaban for tampering with illegal magic. Yet the severity of the consequences of his actions were buried under another truth—Hermione had chosen Luna, had deemed her trustworthy enough to yank Harry out of the disaster his stay in the past was turning out to be. Luna was still here, treating Harry as she always treated him. With kindness. With friendship. Understanding.

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"I have to kill him."

There was moment, slight though it was, where it seemed to Harry that Luna bit back a quick response. Then she said, her voice soft and comforting, "Oh, Harry, I don't think you should kill anyone."

Harry shook his head. "You don't understand," he insisted. The memory of Tom's hate was visceral, so potent, Harry wished he could forget it. Voldemort was always trying to kill him. This time was no different. It bothered Harry to realize that he wanted it to be.

I don't want him to want to kill. He's only twelve.

(You were eleven, a ruthless voice whispered. Eleven and all it took was a touch. A man burned so hot he turned to ash because of you.)

"I have to kill him before he tries to kill me. I don't have a choice."

Luna kept quiet in lieu of answering, her eyes roving all over Harry's run-down flat; the lop-sided sofa and patchy rug, the bookshelves crammed to the brim with old textbooks, the chalk-dusted floor and mounds of melted candle wax, the end tables stacked with empty teacups and plates littered with the stale crusts of sandwiches and half-eaten scones. An empty owl cage was jammed into the corner of the room with clean sheets of newspaper lining the bottom tray. Harry could almost picture the sad picture his flat painted in Luna's mind. Then again, Harry conceded, Luna wasn't exactly normal. She hardly saw the world the way others did.

Finally, Luna asked, "Him?"

Harry gestured helplessly, his gaze catching on the vial of memories in his palm. "Tom Riddle." At Luna's unchanging look, he amended, "Voldemort."

Luna made a vague sound in the back of her throat. "Are you certain?"

"What?" Harry asked, bemused. "Of course I'm certain of Voldemort. Why would you ask me that?"

"Well, it must be quite difficult traveling through time to change Lord Voldemort. I only wonder if you say you have to kill him because it's easier, not because it's necessary."

Harry breathed. It was the same question he asked himself more than once, even when he was stuck in the past and staring Tom's hate straight in the face. What is right versus was it easy. Befriending Tom Riddle should have been easy, but Harry found himself tripping over the boy's volatile emotions, running counter to everything the boy was. When Harry saw that wicked gleam in Tom's eye, despite the promise he made to do his best, Harry fell to the instinctive urge to fight back, to sit on his grief and hold it close and let it guide him.

Because it's easier, warned Luna, not because it's necessary.

"He threatened to kill me," Harry said slowly. "He's twelve."

"Draco Malfoy threatened to kill all the school's muggleborn students in my first year and brought Death Eaters in Hogwarts my fifth," Luna recalled, tone nonchalant. "I think you still saved him, at least once."

More than once, Harry distantly remembered, words echoing in his mind on a feedback loop. Sectumsempra, came the guilty memory, but that was quickly replaced by Hermione's stinging curse morphing his features and Malfoy lying for him in the face of his aunt's fanatic lunacy. Then came the terrifying heat of Crabbe's Fiendfyre licking at his back as Harry's sweaty hand gripped Malfoy tight and hauled him onto his broom in the crumbling haven that was the Room of Requirement.

Harry brushed the memories aside. "First year?"

"The Chamber of Secrets," Luna elaborated then promptly began rolling up her scroll. "It was terribly frightening. There was rooster blood on the walls and Mrs. Norris had just been petrified."

So had Hermione. Justin Finch-Fletchey. Colin Creevey and Sir Nicholas. But Harry could hear Malfoy's words, stark and clear in the ringing silence of the corridor, emerging from a distant fog that had thickened with age; you'll be next mudbloods. Somehow, the familiarity of that childhood cruelty eased Harry's discomfort with the conversation by small increments.

Malfoy had been awful; a stuck-up, snobbish prat whom Harry enjoyed hexing whenever he got the chance. Still, comparing Malfoy and Tom Riddle didn't sit well with him. The sentiment, however, remained the same. They were children shaped by their environment and experience, taught to believe in the ugly side of the Wizarding World. Ancient, hateful pureblood rhetoric promoting the dehumanization and exclusion of muggleborns and Malfoy had been spouting it since he was a boy. That didn't make him evil, exactly. Just ignorant.

Harry had to trust that Tom, despite his frightening façade of apathy and his complete inability to take responsibility for his own cruelty, wasn't either.

"All right," Harry muttered, staring at the silver strand of memory. "You're right. It would be easiest. But if it becomes necessary—"

"Life is hard now, but this world isn't so bad," Luna said. "Maybe one day you might want to live in it."

There was something off about the memory.

Harry had tried to pinpoint the discrepancy, chase the feeling twisting his stomach in knots, but the sensation of free-falling refused to abate no matter how many times he viewed the scene. His ignorance felt dangerous, as sharp as the jagged edge of a serrated blade.

Frustrated, Harry paced the perimeter of the remembered classroom, ignored the auburn-haired professor instructing a baby-faced Hufflepuff girl (a body crumpling in a flash of green, blue eyes going hollow and blank, the bright glitter of stars sparkling in the sky, and there was rage and fury and desperation and hate) peered into the face of students sitting at their desks dutifully practicing their wand movements and clenched his hands into fists at his side.

It was no use. He could find nothing incriminating—just a room full of Hufflepuffs and Slytherins. Tom, or what Dumbledore remembered of Tom, sat primly in his seat, surrounded by his group of—Harry hesitated to use the words friends after he saw the way Tom treated Avery and Lestrange—peers, unnaturally silent, his expression intent as he flipped through his Transfigurations textbook. Tom had already completed the in-class assignment and his rat was a perfect water goblet, a beautiful mixture of silver and gold that looked so polished it gleamed.

Harry tracked the movement as Avery turned in his seat, quietly calling Tom's name. Tom looked up, his dark eyes heavy, the lines of his face set in bland neutrality Harry assumed was bred of boredom rather than disinterest.

"You've finished already?" Avery asked, somewhat bitter. Tom's lips curved handsomely at the corners, his dark eyes glinting coldly in his pale face.

"It was hardly difficult," Tom answered softly. "I can teach you if you'd like."

Avery flinched. "N-no, that's all right. I've got it."

Tom's smile only grew.

Avery turned away to lean heavily on the sickly looking boy next to him before shifting away and jabbing his wand at his copper rat viciously.

Tom's deskmate—a mousy faced boy Harry didn't know the name of—prodded Tom in the shoulder and said with a laugh, "Avery's just jealous is all, Tom. Don't mind him."

"I do wonder," Tom mused, turning back to his book.

And that was it. The memory wavered, going wispy at the edges. The pensieve spat Harry back out into his bedroom. Huffing in agitation, Harry ran a hand through his bangs, collapsing onto the tangled mess of sheets on his spring mattress.

He didn't know what he was looking for. Unlike all the other memories Dumbledore kept of Tom, this hardly seemed to be a pivotal moment of Tom's life or a memory that shaped Harry's future in the creation of the Horcruxes. It was simply… a memory. Another day at school. Nothing distinct. Nothing special.

Yet Harry couldn't shake the impression that Dumbledore had preserved this memory for a very particular reason. He felt it instinctively as he viewed the memory; something was wrong, even if Harry was unable to determine what, exactly, left the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end or the rush of adrenaline coursing through his body. An acute sense of paranoia kept Harry's eyes trained on Tom, despite the way the coolness of Tom's face gave nothing away.

The presence of his ignorance was a vexing, bitter pill to swallow—an obstacle Harry was hard-pressed to overcome. He could recite the interaction of the students word for word, but in the end, he was useless in explaining why that interaction was poignant.

They're twelve, Harry reminded himself wearily. Twelve-year-olds weren't meant to be this difficult to read.

Sighing, Harry pushed himself from his bed and stumbled through his flat and into the kitchen. His stomach rumbled with hunger-pains, so he hastily reheated some leftover Shepard's Pie that Mrs. Weasley had thrust into his arms the last time he'd seen her. The linoleum was cool beneath his bare feet, and he mulled over the memory as he reveled in the savory flavors of meat and mash, cataloging faces and reactions, thinking over the small circle of people Tom surrounded himself with.

Avery was Tom's usual company, but seeing how cruelly Tom usually treated him, Harry wasn't surprised Avery regarded Tom with both resentment and awe. And, most obviously, a healthy dose of fear.

The second boy, mousy and unremarkable as he was, was a new addition. Harry made a point never to enter Tom's classrooms during lessons, for fear of his guilt and grief overwhelming him.

(he couldn't face Dumbledore, not when the memory of his death was still so fresh, a raw gaping wound that hardly closed over even after that meeting in the realm close to death, even after some of his questions were answered while others remained shrouded in mystery, even after—)

So. The mousy-faced boy was new, but his interaction with Tom hardly called for alarm. The boy was jocular, teasing, but kept his peace until Avery attempted to draw Tom into conversation. Then and only then had Tom's desk-mate sought to engage in dialogue and the interaction was startlingly brief.

By all accounts, the memory should not have evoked such a deep feeling of alarm in Harry.

It did anyway.

"What did you see Hermione?" Harry muttered to himself as he finished off his Shepard's Pie and rinsed the container in the sink. "What am I missing?"

For once, Harry was unable to imagine Hermione's response. The room was silent, the floor cold.

Harry settled regretfully in the quiet, searching for an epiphany that wouldn't come.

Luna's letter came about a week later, on the tail-end of another tedious day filled with no answers or clarity. After filling a saucer with water and feeding a dusky brown barn owl some treats, Harry scanned the contents and found himself grinning in bemusement; I thought I found the den, but a vampire dazzled me and led me astray, Luna wrote, but in doing so, I've also discovered another curious individual hunting the Crumple-Horned Snorkack as well.

Luna seemed well enamored of the mysterious bloke, whoever he was, and Harry was chuffed. It was nice, seeing his friends so happily living their lives, despite the violent skirmishes that continued to pepper parts of the Wizarding communities. The Prophet had just released another article about an attack in London; the body count was in the double-digits. Three children, aged seven to twelve, and eight adults had been found tortured and killed. All of them were Muggleborns or Muggles. The littlest girl hadn't died, but her eyes were blank, glassy and unseeing, her body non-responsive. Catatonic, the report read, but it didn't take Hermione to point out the obviousness of the situation.

Dementor's Kiss, Harry deduced at once. Sickness roiled about in the pit of his stomach. Harry was forced to discard his breakfast and disappeared back into the pensieve, only to slam face first into the wall of his own ignorance once more; the puzzle of the memory was incomplete, a hazy mishmash of pieces Harry was incapable of fitting together.

He spent the better part of the day brooding alone until Luna's letter arrived—and what was once anger and bitterness over the current state of the world had shifted to melancholy and loneliness, a distinct urge to seek out friends and loved ones halting Harry in his tracks as he struggled just to breathe.

The owl was still perched in the gilded cage, so Harry crushed his emotions underfoot and wrestled back some semblance of control. His hand shook as he penned a letter on a scrap of parchment. Harry dropped a few sickles into the leather money pouch fastened to the owl's leg, offering up a tremulous smile and another fistful of treats.

"Andromeda Tonks, please," Harry said, cracking open a window. The owl blinked wide eyes at him and finished off a treat before spreading its wings and gliding toward the window.

Harry could not pinpoint the sudden urge or desire to see Andy, or deal with the assessing cant of her gaze, but he needed someone, and as much as he knew he needed to speak to Hermione, to Ron, to Ginny or Luna or George or Neville—he wanted to see Teddy, too.

How long has it been, he wondered distantly, collapsing onto his musty sofa. He propped his feet up and slung an arm over his face.

Months, he wagered, but was still too frightened to look.

Teddy must be so big; with Remus's eyes but Tonks's multi-colored hair and perhaps even her smile—Harry choked on another wave of grief, felt his body shake, slowly coming apart at the seams.

This is why, he told himself. This is why I'm changing it. So Teddy can have his parents again. So Dementors can't run wild and give people a Dementor's Kiss.

So he could look at a world whole and unbroken, not struggling to function. A world where children didn't have to die for an idea steeped in vitriol and hatred, insecurities and fear.

(So he could be whole and unbroken—he thought he could manage grief, understood it, but it blind-sided him, again and again—even when there was so much left to fight for.)

Harry wasn't sure how long he stayed there, but by the time Andromeda's response arrived, day had bled into night and his back ached with stiffness.

Harry, the letter read. Teddy would be glad to see you. He's free for visitors tomorrow morning at eleven; you don't mind watching him while I take off for a few, do you? I've errands to run at the Ministry and Diagon Alley that will take the afternoon. Just let me know by Floo. No need to send a letter. I'm so happy to hear from you. It's been a while.

Yours,

Andy

Already Harry could feel himself settling. Teddy was easy. No matter how distant Harry considered himself to be, Andy always found a way to make room for Harry. Ensured that Teddy knew he was loved, even if his parents weren't around to do so.

I wonder if it would be the same after we've changed it, Harry mused, striding toward his closet to stuff himself into a light coat. He didn't have a fireplace in his flat, a fact Andy was well aware of, so Harry would have to go to Diagon Alley. Brave the masses after weeks of self-imposed solitude.

Or, Harry determined in a sudden pique of unrelenting masochism, he could just visit Ginny.

Mrs. Weasley was in the middle of clearing dishes from the dining table when Harry arrived, but hastily ushered him into a seat. She shoved a bowl of savory stew and warm pieces of fresh bread slathered in creamy butter in his face. Thanking her ruefully, Harry dug into his meal, feeling his insides warm with pleasure; Mrs. Weasley was the best cook. Sometimes Harry found himself wondering if his mum would have been the same, but the more he pondered it, the less Harry could see it. The thought was fleeting at best and easily dismissed in favor of spooning a pearl onion into his mouth and biting through the soft sphere.

Ginny ghosted through the kitchen sometime during Harry's second bowl, pausing long enough to stare at him with a flat expression.

"Hullo Ginny," Harry greeted awkwardly.

"Harry."

"Uh…" Harry balked, quickly shoving another spoonful of food into his face. He didn't know what to say. Eying her carefully, Harry took a moment to observe her; her hair was wet, hanging in a damp curtain over shoulder, and her face was fresh and clean of make-up. She smelled fragrant, like springtime and vanilla, forcing Harry to fight down the instinctive urge to got to her and press himself flush against the soft slopes of her body.

She must have sensed the direction his thoughts were wandering in, because Ginny's eyes flashed, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"It's nice of you to come and visit," she said briskly. "I hope you were nice to mum."

Harry frowned. "I'm always nice to your mum."

Ginny snorted, then gestured to Mrs. Weasley's magical clock. All the Weasley names were pointed toward 'home' with the exception of Ron and Hermione's, which read 'out of country.' Fred's minute hand had been removed completely after his death, hanging in the frame next to the clock. "Your hand has been spinning endlessly for the past week. Mum's been beside herself with worry. It was only thanks to Luna that we knew everything was fine at all."

"I was at my flat."

Ginny stared at Harry like she was attempting to pinpoint the lie in his words. Finding nothing, she shrugged then continued to the pantry, pulling out a cord of licorice wands.

"So," Ginny started.

"Er," Harry said.

Ginny sighed. "I'm not feeling up to dancing around you today, Harry. Sorry." With that, Ginny spun on her heel and headed toward the exit.

Harry cursed. "Ginny, please, wait!" He called, coming halfway out of his seat. She waited. "I'm sorry. At first I just came over here to use the Floo so I could talk to Andy about seeing Teddy, but now—"

She rounded on him. "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Do what?"

"I don't know, Harry. Connect with people. Settle in." She frowned. "What's the point if all you do is leave?"

"I don't understand," Harry said, bristling in agitation. He heard the slight in her words, clear as day, and it immediately put him on the defensive. "I just want to see him, is all. What's wrong with that?"

"What's wrong—with what you plan to do, is that really fair to Andy? To Teddy? Who, if you remember, is your godson—"

"If we do this right, he won't even remember!" Harry bellowed hotly.

He saw the fury in Ginny break open in an instant. She hurled her licorice wands at his face with all the force of a Quaffle slicing through the air. Harry darted out of the way, seeker fast, but Ginny's ire was a spectacle, bubbling and frothing like a potion about to erupt.

"And that makes it better?" she demanded fiercely, brown eyes glittering like hard diamonds. "You didn't remember Sirius, either, but it still hurt you to know that he was out there, that he chose revenge instead of staying with you—"

"It's not the same," Harry denied, shaking hard. "It's not the same thing at all. And Sirius—he would understand. He would support my decision. This isn't about revenge, Ginny."

"No," she replied, dangerously soft. "It's just another excuse for you to leave again."

"What are you on about?" Harry glowered. "I'm not leaving—"

"All you do is leave!" Ginny shouted. "Things get hard and that's the first thing you do—"

"I have responsibilities—"

"The world isn't just yours to save, Harry!" Ginny threw her hair over her shoulder, water droplets arcing through the air. "Stop taking this all on your shoulders like you're the only competent wizard in this world and let some of us shoulder the burden—"

Ginny was beautiful, Harry realized through his anger. Even in her fury she was beautiful, but he had never felt more distant from her than he did in that moment, as if an impassable chasm had split the ground before him, leaving both he and Ginny worlds apart.

With a sudden burst of understanding, Harry acknowledged what he had always known to be true; Ginny would never understand him on this. It was the truth that kept them separate from one another, that kept them dancing around each other in an uncomfortable tangle of want and desire and grief and anger…

It's not supposed to be this hard, Harry thought, anger bleeding out of him in slow increments. They were supposed to work. They were supposed to mesh. Harry's relationship with Ginny was meant to remain as simple as it had been in his sixth year, where they fit together so seamlessly. But they didn't, not any longer. Harry couldn't deny it any longer.

He felt—hollow. Sad. Incapable of fighting. Incapable of matching Ginny, emotion for emotion. Maybe she was right. Maybe he did leave.

But, just like with the Horcruxes, he had his reasons. Reasons he believed in, even if he struggled to bring them to fruition.

"You're right," Harry said faintly, dropping into the chair and burying his face in his hands. "What you said to your mum. We're really finished, aren't we?"

Ginny made a noise in her throat, keeping silent for a long moment. Harry felt her eyes on him, a steady pressure that made his skin itch.

Then Ginny drew out a chair, falling into it with a soft sigh.

"I'm tired, Harry," she answered, completely honest. "Sometimes it's nice being with you. Other times it's awful. Most of my time is spent waiting. Waiting for you to notice me. Waiting for you to save the world. Waiting for you to come back to me. Waiting for you to realize that what we have is enough. All I've ever done is wait for you and I'm tired." She paused and reached forward, taking Harry's hands into hers. Her skin was soft, Harry noted, tracing the line of her fingers with his eyes. They were dusted with freckles the color of brown sugar, but none of the fire that Harry felt at her beauty erupted inside of him. None of his desire. It fell flat. Non-existent. "I'm not going to wait anymore, Harry. I'm done. So yes. That's it. We're finished with each other."

Harry nodded. Mustering a courage he thought he lost entirely, he offered Ginny a weak smile. "I really do love you, you know."

"I know." She looked confident as she said the words, but the sadness in her face was obvious, painted in broad strokes in her eyes. "I loved you too. But it's different now. It's—"

"—not enough." Harry sighed as Ginny nodded her agreement in solemn silence. He knew he couldn't hold off any longer; Ginny was right in two respects. One, they were finished. And two—

Harry almost couldn't bear to think it, but he had to.

I leave, he admitted to himself. Just as Ginny said, when things get rough, I leave.

(For the greater good, a cruel voice whispered, but the only good his actions served were his own.)

And Ginny… well. She wasn't the only person who was made to wait. Ron and Hermione were waiting for him to succeed. Luna was waiting for him to man up. Mrs. Weasley was waiting for him to come home safe. Teddy was waiting for him to be a good godfather. And Tom—

Even if he was unaware of it, Tom was waiting too. Waiting for him to grow up. To stop living in his grief. In memories of the war and loss and Voldemort. Tom was waiting for Harry to stop living in the past.

Harry stifled a bitter laugh at the irony.

"Ginny," he said, meeting her gaze. "I have to go back." She sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes glistening wetly for the first time since Harry returned. He squeezed her hands reassuringly. "Ron and Hermione are waiting for me. Even if I don't do what I set out to, I have to go back for them."

"Will you—" She dashed furiously at her eyes. Harry could see her pushing down the well of sadness struggling to overtake her, and her irritation at her own perceived weakness. "I am not going to cry over you, Harry Potter," Ginny refused hotly, taking a deep breath. "Will you tell me why? What's so important that you need to risk Azkaban by breaking wizarding law to travel through time?"

Harry swallowed. He had kept the secret so close to his chest, it was difficult to let it out. But, well, Luna already knew his reasons. Harry supposed it was only fair Ginny did as well.

"Tom Riddle," he confessed quietly. "We've gone back to save Tom Riddle from—the Dark Arts. Himself. Becoming Lord Voldemort." Harry shrugged, somewhat helplessly. "Loneliness and hate, I suppose."

"Oh," Ginny said, going quiet. She stared at him blankly.

Panicked and not knowing why, Harry rushed to explain, "With everything that's been happening with the Ministry—the Muggle deaths, and the conservative pure-bloods protests and riots, the dark creature attacks—Ron, Hermione and I thought—Voldemort died, but his ideas—"

"I understand," Ginny interrupted. "It's quite noble of you, Harry."

Harry paused, unable to parse Ginny's words. She sat back in her chair for a long moment saying nothing, her expression completely shuttered. Harry waited, unsure of what to do next. It wasn't that Ginny made him uncomfortable, not any more than usual, but she wasn't emoting. Harry was unused to a Ginny who didn't wear her intentions on her sleeve. Her eyes darted vaguely around the room, taking in the dishes in the sink, the clock on the wall, and the kettle on the wood stove before her unnerving blankness frosted over into something more recognizable.

"Well," she said, a bit coolly. "It's a good thing you told me."

Harry blinked at her. "What? Why?"

"Because," she said, eyes flat and voice toneless. "Aside from you and Dumbledore, I know Tom Riddle better than anyone."

The world slid to a slow halt.

Harry inhaled. Exhaled. Once, then twice, then three times. Oh, he thought, right. His breath went still in his lungs. His blood felt like ice in his veins, frosty and crushing like the depths of the Black Lake or the fatal chill of a Dementor's touch. Of course. I'm an idiot.

"The Chamber of Secrets." Harry breathed. "The Diary Horcrux. You were possessed."

"I was possessed," Ginny agreed. Her words were utterly joyless.

Then again, so were Harry's. But Harry could finally see the brilliance in Hermione's choice. The pieces slid together like a beautiful mosaic, Luna and Ginny, two pictures coming together to create a new and devastatingly poignant whole.

"Hermione really is the brightest witch of her age," Harry murmured faintly.

"Can't argue that." Ginny eyed him carefully. "I suppose you'll want me to tell you all about Tom Riddle," she said, voice brittle but not resentful.

Harry nodded. "Please."

Ginny hesitated for just a second. "All right. I'll tell you everything," she said, and proceeded to do just that.