For one blissful moment, Harry was back at Hogwarts, slowly coming to awareness in the ruby four poster bed he'd come to know intimately in his 6 years there. It was the comfiest bed he'd ever known. Between the single at 4 Privet Drive, the mattress thin and misshapen from Dudley's prior use, and the tight packed earth beneath a tent that gave him a stiff neck no matter how he slept, there wasn't much competition.
But then he truly woke up. Eyes opened suddenly to take in what wasn't the Gryffindor dorms but a plain bedroom with the fuzzy outline of oak furniture and yellow walls and he felt his frenzied heart sink into the mattress below him. Harry breathed deeply, shakily, trying to gather himself like a viscous potion as he grabbed his glasses off the side table and put them on. The false hope that half consciousness often served him was so much worse than dreaming of happier times. Even when he stumbled across a thought or action during the daytime that transported him so vividly to a moment long gone, he still knew (on some level) what was real and what was fantasy. Dreams were worse because for one horrible, joyous moment, he couldn't tell the difference and the consequent landing into reality was almost enough to break every thread he'd wound tightly through his wavering sanity.
Propped up on an elbow, the soft dawning light underneath the opaque brown curtains caught his notice, he watched the curtains move slightly in an invisible breeze and how the weak light would swell to fill the shadowed space then fade away. The daylight felt like a betrayal. To watch the world carry on, even one he didn't know, while he'd lost more in his short twenty two years than others knew in their lifetime was exhausting to confront with every recurrent morning. He tilted his head upwards, mussed hair caressing his cheeks like a raven's wings and blinked harshly as he felt the familiar sting of grief. The shadowed view of the plain beige ceiling appeared to blur through the sudden upheaval of unshed tears that he knew wouldn't touch his cheeks, he rubbed his eyes anyway. He wanted to cry, to have that emotional release, Merlin he wanted to but the tears never transitioned from the primary burn and the frustration left him both taught and slack with unwound emotions, like the temperamental fishing rod Uncle Vernon used to own that never saw more than a pond. He hadn't cried since the day he left his two closest friends far away in the future.
He'd been so resolute when they'd finally succeeded, the Time Turner Hermione had kept ahold of for the many years of rebel life accompanied by desperate, hopeful tinkering, and then with the discovered knowledge that it would be a one way trip, he had been so sure of his decision as well as the consequences that came with it. Yet when he'd spun the golden trinket and the world shifted around him into one so familiar and foreign, he'd immediately tried to go back. He'd scrambled with the circled treasure, turning it and turning it forwards and forwards in the hope it would work it's bygone magic just one more time and he could get back to his friends because even if the life of fugitives is all he had to go back to it was still a life. A life with people Harry loved more fiercely and deeply with every friend they lost. What was the point in playing the hero? Now, for once in his life, he wanted to be selfish.
But the world didn't spin again and with a guttural yell of anguish he threw the cause of his grief violently at the cobbled pavement, as soon as it left his fingers he tried to catch it but it was too late. It broke. The glass shattered and the precious dust glittered in the sparkling winter sunlight before disappearing. He completely broke down, his knees giving out as he wept into his palms and screamed at the clouded sky until his voice grew hoarse and useless.
He didn't know how he'd pulled himself together, but he did; patting himself down to clutch at his old moleskine pouch and his flimsy wand (it was never the same after Hermione accidentally broke it during the fight at the burrow, the multiple attempts at repair all rushed and subpar), the only worldly possessions that he thought to bring and stubbornly clamoured to his feet, eyes sore and jeans mucky. Harry wandered through the quiet streets of endlessly joined houses that appeared to harbour no signs of life, a large white board on a final stretch of property suggested it to be an estate of empty dwellings. With no idea of where he was or where he was supposed to go he simply kept walking, pace brisk and shoulders coiled underneath his shoddy jacket because he knew if he stopped he'd stop for good.
He finally made it to some sort of road full of odd looking cars and people dressed in a similar fashion to Aunt Petunia's much loved historical dramas. Confronted with the inevitable truth before his eyes and the permanence that rode the ship of realisation he tucked himself up in a bricked alcove, head spinning and hands shaking as he watched those supposed to be long dead walk and live. He remained there until dark, unwilling to face the world in the scrutiny of daytime and only when the street lamps flickered to life, the winter wind harsher with no gentle sun to offset the bite, he trudged down the street, wishing he had a Felix Felicis to show him what to do next.
Walking alongside the rows of buildings, the metal signs extended on their sides like stretching limbs that reflected the dim city light, he couldn't believe it when the familiar entrance to Diagon Alley entered his vision. Harry dawdled, wildly unsure if he should enter the Wizarding world so soon but the call of a warm meal and a bed surrounded by magic and familiarity lured him into the Leaky Cauldron. The few Wizards and Witches didn't even glance up at his entrance, too invested in their hushed conversations or their firewhiskey, only the bartender eyed him as he stepped through the door.
He spent a week there, simply existing and nothing more. In fact, it had been a few days into laying on the rented room's squeaky four poster bed staring at the wrinkled ceiling, mind blank and body cold despite the warm duvet, before an epiphany came to him. How to deal with Tom hadn't been decided before he'd made his journey across time. Hermione, pragmatic as always, had laid down the benefits of providing Tom a mentor in morals and magic while Ron had preferred to 'just off the bastard'. Harry had been undecided at the time but the remembered late night discussion brought back to life the reason for his rash decision. Harry's ravaged future and all those sacrificed, living and dead, could be prevented; all it would take is one death.
He stayed for another few days until he found and bought a muggle countryside house from a man who didn't care for paperwork with money he'd taken out of his vault before the Gringotts bank was destroyed in the future. The Goblins' decision to remain neutral in the war and not to turn him and his friends away led to their attack. He still blamed himself for that, no matter what his friends had said, how could he not? The money was never even used. The bank served as a lesson to anyone who was still wavering and from that point no one was brave or stupid enough to harbour any rebels, no matter the cost. The homely purchase was a selfish one, he could no longer bear to stay in the rented room that served a constant wizarding reminder of his childhood in a different time. It also offered itself as a safe house if he got caught for the murder of an orphan but with the state of the economy, both muggle and magical, Harry doubted the police would bat an eye.
He'd been so grimly determined, but he should have known better. Years of killing the faceless enemies that look like death itself could not prepare you for the killing of a child, no matter who that child turned out to be. And so he became the guardian to a kid whose future haunted his days and nights and he had no one to blame but his own good conscience.
Harry rubbed his eyes until lights appeared behind his lids like spellwork, he leaned upright with a sigh. He just wanted to remain in bed, shackled by his own will but he couldn't, he had a responsibility now and if that realisation somehow made it a bit easier to fathom getting out of bed, for not his own sake but another's, it was quickly squashed with the remembered promise to go christmas shopping. He groaned as he flopped back on the bed. Why Harry, Why? Kicking the tangled covers off, he trudged to the small suite and washed his face vigorously. Turning the stiff tap back off he caught his eye in the adjacent mirror and wished he hadn't. He hadn't shaved since the weeks after his arrival, though it amounted to nothing more than fluff, it made him appear rougher. His tangled hair now brushed the back of his neck though it never seemed to grow out further, his fringe curled into his eyes and tickled his nose but never fell below his chin. It seemed his magic still remembered Aunt Petunia shaving off his hair when it became matted from her lack of care. Now it refused to grow out as well as be cut. The length made him look a lot like Sirius. Harry swallowed thickly, the memory still ached despite being over half a decade ago. He hadn't looked at himself this closely in years, he hadn't the time nor the energy. The shadowed circles beneath his eyes, while always prevalent in adolescence, seemed to have seeped into his very soul since being on the run and even now he struggled to look at his harrowed gaze without either despairing over the cause of flinching away from the familiar killing curse green.
He fled to the bedroom to rummage through his wardrobe, trying not to focus on the past as he dressed absentmindedly in his typical oversized jeans though, he belatedly realised he'd pulled his knitted Weasley jumper on during the dark mental wonderings. Now fully present, Harry gazed at the red weaving pattern that wasn't perfect but was lovingly crafted all the same. Clutching the lumpy wool in cold hands he found his vision blurring once again. He pressed his face into the wiry fabric, trying to breathe through the pain that was now a constant hitch in his breath and a drag on his heart. Nearly all the Weasley's had perished, either cut down in battle or fading away in the Order's makeshift recovery beds. Only Ron, George and Arthur had survived, their own grief seeming to fuel their will to live if only to kill as many enemies as possible in their families memory.
It seemed that now he was as still and safe as could be, his mind was now trying to process all he'd experienced even though he couldn't break down, not yet, not with a child that needed his care and especially not while said child was in the house. Later, he pleaded. How much later? The voice demanded. Later, he promised himself firmly. He'd done so all his life, he could manage a bit longer. Setting his shoulders, Harry left his room and took to the stairs to start making breakfast, almost crumpling on his first step downwards as his hip throbbed fiercely from last night's accident. Ignoring it as he was used to doing so when pain was concerned, he continued, jaw tight and hand glued to the banister. Halfway down he smelt cooked eggs and ran the rest of the way down, skidding on the landing rug and rushing through the living room to the kitchen to see Tom on a stool dishing up scrambled eggs.
"Tom!" His exclamation startled the boy and he dropped the pan on the counter with a bang as he spun round. Harry marched forwards and took the pan, not wanting the heated steel to leave a mark. Tom slowly stood down from the stool, gaze flickering between Harry and the pan.
"Why were you cooking?" Harry asked, bewildered, as he shook the steel culprit pointedly. Tom's body unfurled as his brows furrowed defensively.
"I was hungry," he said, arms crossed. Harry glanced at the two steaming plates and back at the boy whose frown only deepened. "Your welcome," he sneered, grabbing a plate with the decidedly smaller portion and settling at the far end of the table where his drink and cutlery already resided. Harry noticed a matching display in the vacant seat. Harry snapped his gaping jaw shut as he watched Tom daintily begin to eat, weak hand clutching the fork awkwardly and strong hand cutting the eggs as was done in high society. The realisation that Tom must have learned these manners from a book made his heart twist. He hesitantly grabbed his own food and sat, Tom didn't spare a glance until Harry leaned over the table to scrape some of his hefty portion onto Tom's with a wet slap. Tom stared, jaw loose before snapping tight.
"Do you not like eggs?" he asked, faux pleasantly, knife scraping forcibly against the ceramic as he continued to eat. Harry followed suit, stabbing the eggs with a fork.
"They're fine, you didn't need to give me more than you though," he said while munching, and they were fine, a tad undercooked and of course quite bland but there wasn't much you could add to eggs so Harry shrugged and continued to eat with perhaps more gusto than necessary.
"But you are an adult and so need more food," the voice drifted over the clinking cutlery and Harry paused. Tom glanced up briefly before reaching for his glass and sipping on it. Gold streaks from the rising sun had started to spread through the large window and across the wooden kitchen, making both of their glasses of water glisten and softening Tom's appearance to something almost angelic. It took a moment to find his voice.
"But you're a child, children need more food to grow," he argued, he didn't want Tom to be stuck shorter than the boy could be. Or, if Harry was being honest with himself, denied any food that he could want. Tom slowly rested his glass back on the table with a blank stare that looked too old on his young face.
"Fine." He said, picking up his cutlery and continuing to eat. Harry hesitantly followed, feeling like he'd said the wrong thing. Clinks and scrapes filled the kitchen, the faint twittering of the morning birds joining the song of the voiceless. Tom seemed to relax the longer the quiet continued, his posture slouching slightly and his elbows beginning to rest on the table as the fork became the favoured utensil. Harry wouldn't be so bold as to say Tom felt comfortable, he doubted Tom would ever trust anyone enough to not be forever tense and vigilant, but his presence seemed to bother the boy less with the gentle buffer of quiet between them. Harry chewed the last piece of egg and laid his fork to rest, Tom looked up at the sound.
"The eggs were very nice, thank you," Harry said softly, Tom's lips twitched at the praise but he didn't smile,"How about I help you with breakfast next time? I don't want you having an accident." Tom's mouth tightened, appearing to bite his tongue to restrain himself. Harry frowned worriedly at the display.
"I'm capable of cooking breakfast, the matrons taught us that much." Tom spat instead, collecting his cup and plate together with sharp movements.
"Still..." but Tom had already begun to rise, having left the egg that Harry had given him uneaten and strode to the sink, snatching Harry's things as he passed to dump them in the sink. Harry turned his neck to stare after him.
"We'll need more food than eggs and potatoes." Tom demanded, standing on his toes to plug the sink and twist the hot water tap on.
"Oh, of course," Harry could only say dumbly as he watched a child preparing to wash dishes. The sense of deja vu jolted him to standing and he rushed over and forcefully twisted the tap off. Tom flinched violently then slowly turned round, their eyes met, the boy's young and scared of a man with untold powers and the man's old and sorrowed with the evidence of a life no child should live.
"I'll wash up," He spoke hoarsely, nudging Tom aside who rushed to abide, "you go and get ready." Harry turned the cold water on to tepid the steaming basin and stood to wait.
"We're still going out?" Tom asked quietly over the hushing water. Harry blinked, when had he said otherwise?
"Yes?"
Tom stared, then came to an apparent conclusion because he nodded.
"Good," He spoke, and walked calmly out of the kitchen, the thumping of the stairs where the only signal to the boy's coltish running. Harry smiled sadly at the hidden joy as he turned the tap off and began the breakfast clean up.