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Published:
2019-10-28
Completed:
2020-01-01
Words:
73,172
Chapters:
26/26
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757
Kudos:
10,273
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2,874
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232,238

Custodarium

Summary:

Have you been missing a time travel Tomarry where Harry and Tom are on somewhat equal footing? Where Tom is a plausible budding political leader? Where Harry can stand up to him and their relationship doesn’t seem toxic? Where the surrounding events and characters don’t go unnoticed? I have, so I gave writing one a try.

“The war is over and the Wizarding Britain has been slowly rising from the ashes. Harry just wishes none of it ever happened – what will he do when he’s given a chance to change the past? Was Dumbledore right about “the power he knows not” after all?“

Notes:

A/N: I couldn't find enough well-thought-out time travel Tomarry fics, so I gave it a go myself. I tried to stay as true to canon as possible, but I moved one event to accomodate the story: In my version, Myrtle Warren died in June 1944 instead of 1943; Tom was therefore in his sixth year, Hagrid in his fourth year. Underage warning because Tom is sixteen.

Chapter Text

Harry Potter stood face to face with Remus Lupin, Nymphadora Tonks, Fred Weasley, Lavender Brown, Colin Creevey and more than forty other brave witches and wizards, some of whom he knew by name, some of whom he remembered seeing in the corridors, some of whom he didn’t recognise at all. But unlike Harry’s rapidly blinking eyes, theirs were unblinking... Unblinking, unmoving, dead.

It was the day of Hogwarts Reopening Ceremony and the memorial had just been revealed. It was a majestic sculpture set in the centre of the Entrance Courtyard. Fifty brass figures stood side by side, wands pointed towards the gate in a protective manner. At their feet lied a large golden plaque with their names, superscripted with the date of the battle and a large Latin Custodes de Hogwarts, “Guardians of Hogwarts”.

Snape was there, too. He wasn’t included in the original design, but the sculptor owled the concept to Harry, asking for his opinion, and Harry insisted that Severus Snape belonged there with the rest of the war heroes...

In fact, an awful lot of people asked for Harry’s opinions nowadays, most of which he was not as eager to give. The first few weeks after the battle flew by in a blur of funerals and Death Eater trials. Haunted by grief by day and nightmares by night, Harry was grateful to drown himself in work when the reconstruction finally started. His already broken heart throbbed when he saw the ruin of what used to be his first real home...

But all was not lost – crowdfunding, namely the very generous donations from Malfoy, Black and Potter vaults (the latter only accepted thanks to Harry’s stubbornness), secured enough manpower from Britain and abroad alike to make the castle pristine by the end of the summer.

Harry had spent most of the time working with Hermione and Professor Flitwick to restore the permanent charms in the Great Hall; make candles float again, repair the holes in the ceiling enchantment, reconnect the magical channels that made food from the kitchens appear on the tables, that sort of thing. It wasn’t overly complicated, but it required concentration, and that was just what Harry needed to take his mind off the bad stuff. He was fairly certain Headmistress McGonagall had assigned the task to him and Hermione for that reason and appreciated her thoughtfulness a lot.

Several fireplaces had been temporarily connected to the Floo Network for the helpers to go home each night, but there was an offer of accommodation in the Slytherin dormitories as the dungeons were the least damaged part of the castle. Harry took it – he was past petty house rivalry and he had nowhere he’d rather stay anyway: The Burrow was gloomy, Fred’s absence still almost palpable, and his shoddy attempt at a relationship with Ginny… That was a sad story of its own. Grimmauld Place was no better, and he wasn’t of the mind to go looking for a new home just yet. He was rarely alone at Hogwarts, the trip from the dungeons to the Great Hall was short enough not to bring out too many of his bad memories and seeing freshly repaired spots almost every time he’d made it was uplifting.

Still, he couldn’t keep himself distracted constantly. Oftentimes, a small event during the day, a mention, a situation, a sight would be the trigger and he would find himself spiralling, staring into the greenish shimmer of the Black Lake late into the night, suffocating on grief, anger, guilt or anxiety. He faced his demons valiantly, silently, because he was alive and that was more than he’d expected for months. It would feel ungrateful to complain… He clenched his teeth and waited for the restless sleep to claim him, so he could get back to work again tomorrow.

Today, though, Harry woke up in a strange room... Or rather, a very ordinary room, as far as wizarding residences went (reminded him of Ron’s), but he didn’t recognize it. Curious and curiously not completely freaked out, he left the room and took the stairs behind it to find himself in a cosy kitchen... Not that he’d noticed anything about it, because in its right corner stood a red-haired woman, waving a wand to manage the ingredients levitating around the stove. She glanced around her shoulder, smiling.

“Good morning, birthday boy! Slept well?”

His eyes widened in wonder, he wanted to say something, but he choked on his words and the scenery suddenly twisted. His mum was there again, and his dad, Sirius, Remus, as well as all of his friends, lifting their glasses for a toast. Another cut, he was with Ron, George and Fred, oh Merlin, they were about to prank the hell out of Malfoy and his cronies…

Harry woke up with a jolt, back in his bed in the dungeons, as tears filled his eyes from the sheer force of how much he wanted, needed to go back. Back to his parents, back to Remus and Sirius, back to the world where Voldemort never existed.

Although his internal voice begged and pleaded, no such luck. Sleep wouldn’t come to him again; it was almost time to get up anyway.

So he did, and now he was here, facing the life-sized likeness of his lost friends and losing the already fragile grip on his emotions all over again – this was going to be a long day. Hermione beside him squeezed his hand, she felt like a lifeline and he was just glad he refused the request to give a speech, because he knew he would be giving it in a broken, shaky voice and today was supposed to be about closure and new hope.

A banquet in the Great Hall followed, but Harry didn’t have much of an appetite. Besides, he’d made a little plan of his own for today and he wanted to get on with it – he usually tried not to stray from his route lest he saw more battle scars, brought out more nightmares... Today, however, the castle was proclaimed fully restored, and he wanted to bask in the normalcy to treat himself to a closure of his own.

Harry threw the Cloak of Invisibility over himself to make sure no one, not even the portraits, would interrupt his pilgrimage, and set off. He roamed around the ground floor, the courtyards, the Transfiguration classroom, he even made the trip to the Quidditch Pitch. Then the first floor, Defence and History classrooms, the Hospital wing... It was surreal how normal everything looked. He was taking it all in, trying to imprint the image into his mind, overwrite every bad memory.

Finally, he found himself on the seventh floor, staring at the wall opposite to the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. This was the venue of many of his nightmares, and today, he would face it. As per Hermione’s observations, the Room of Requirement had not been destroyed; it contained the Fiendfyre (as needed), forever lost were only the objects in the Room of Hidden Things... and Vincent Crabbe, of course. Harry wondered if it would feel like he was standing on the remains of a person, even if he summoned a different room.

Though apprehensive, he wanted to give it a try... What did he need at the moment? His mind kept drifting to that morning, the dream he had – a world without Voldemort. Lamentably, that was beyond the Room’s power, so he’d settled for a comfy, quiet room instead. Without Voldemort, with a cup of strong tea – damn, he definitely needed that.

Sure enough, after the third time he’d walked past, a door appeared. Harry took a deep breath, grabbed the handle and pushed. The room he found inside was just as he’d imagined – with cosy red armchairs, a conference table and an unlit fireplace, it was a miniature of the Gryffindor common room. On the conference table sat the desired cup of hot liquid. Harry slumped into the chair, took a sip and tried to sort his feelings.

He felt surprisingly good; soothed, peaceful, like there really were going to be brighter tomorrows and everything was going to be okay – was that the Room’s doing, too? Tired from the emotional strain and the lack of sleep, he must have dozed off, because when he came to, the sun was looming just above the horizon.

Harry got up, stretched, wrapped himself in the Cloak and slipped out of the Room, feeling like his mission had been a success. The trip down would be the start of a new chapter in his life, he told himself, a fitting start to the upcoming year of his return to Hogwarts to complete his education.

It felt so. Well, it felt a bit off, but it would for a while, right? Too casual.

He reached the Great Hall and peeked inside. He was a bit surprised to find it empty and cleaned up, but then again, a few hours must have passed since he’d left the banquet.

He absently cast a Tempus charm. Sparkles shot from his wand, forming an 18:46 in the air. Wow, he’d better find Ron and Hermione, they’d probably been probably worried since he snuck out on them like that.

He was about to cast a Patronus to find them when something in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he did a double take. Bellow, in smaller, now fading golden letters, the Tempus charm read 27 August 1943. What the hell? That couldn’t be right!

He re-cast the charm, but the error was still there. Chills ran down his spine as he quickly strode to the nearby Entrance Hall, to one of its windows that oversaw the Entrance Courtyard.

His heart shot to his throat at the sight: everything was there, the viaduct, the gate... but no memorial, the very memorial he had watched being revealed mere hours ago.

Panic swelling in his stomach, he cast a Patronus, succeeding out of habit despite the absurdity of the situation. A magnificent silver stag appeared before him.

“Tell Hermione,” he stammered, then steeled himself with a deep breath, “Tell her: ‘I need you to meet me by the front gate, it’s urgent.’”

But the stag only bowed its head sadly twice, then blinked out of existence, confirming Harry’s horrible premonition.

He stood there, dumbfounded. As it appeared, he really was in 1943.

A dream, then, this must be a dream.

Since he couldn’t think of any reliable way to prove or disprove that he was dreaming, he would just have to wait it out. This was better than his usual nightmares; way better, actually – it was wicked!

The familiar thrill of a budding adventure gradually replaced the panic in his mind. He could make use of this playground his mind had created – what would he do if he’d appeared over fifty years in the past? Harry’s mind was soon filled with possibilities: see Dumbledore again, get rid of Tom Riddle before he became Voldemort, stop the basilisk from hurting anyone, meet his ancestors, ...

Still, there was this annoying little voice in the back of his mind telling him that this felt too real to be a dream, that it wouldn’t be the first time his Potter luck defied the borders of what even wizards thought possible, and that maybe he should not take this too lightly.

Harry felt the Cloak’s pocket for the Marauder’s Map which he usually kept there and was relieved to hear the familiar rustle of parchment. He pulled it out and muttered the password. Black ink blossomed across the yellowish background. Harry examined it.

There were only four dots in the castle: Armando Dippet in the Headmaster’s Office, Galatea Merrythought and Isidor Rakepick in the Professor’s Quarters, Harrold Picardy on the school grounds. If Dumbledore was a Professor at this time (or rather in Harry’s mental image of this time), he wasn’t present.

By the dot of Harrold Picardy, Harry had noticed another anomaly – no Whomping Willow and no passage beneath it. Now that he thought about it, he remembered the tunnel was only constructed for Remus to sneak out into the Shrieking Shack… By this logic, shouldn’t the passage on the fourth floor that caved in in 1993 be clear now?

Harry decided to find out. He followed the Map until he reached a large, ornamental mirror. Now what? Since it was useless in his time, the twins never bothered to mention the opening mechanism. Harry gripped at the edges and struggled to push it aside. The mirror wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he tried. Groaning, he relaxed his arms and leant in to rest his head on the mirror surface...

…and fell right through, barely managing to stop himself from falling on his face.

“Lumos,” he whispered once he recovered from the fall.

He found himself at the top of a short staircase which led to a dusty medium-sized room, no doubt the place Sirius described as large enough to hold a meeting. The room ended in a significantly longer seemingly never-ending staircase.

Lots of stairs and two levelled passages later, Harry reached a liquescent, silvery surface he recognized as the inside of a one-sided magical illusion. Bracing himself, he stepped through and found himself at the bottom of the rock formation connecting Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, facing a plain stone wall of a house which upon walking around to see the front turned out to be the Three Broomsticks.