47 Days to Change (a translation)

Summary:

Harry Potter and Tom Riddle are nemesis, born adversaries, prophesied leaders of opposite fractions.

2001 to 1932, forty-seven days to change the fate of the Dark Lord.

This is a 'Harry travels back in time to raise Tom' story. An unfortunate tale of one man's failed attempt to mold young Tom into a decent, law-biding citizen. Instead, as Fate will have it, young Tom grows up to become the same twisted psychopath, who is hell-bent on winning the love of his adoptive father. Harry's consent be damned.

Slash. LV/HP. TR/HP.

Dark!Tom. Light!Harry. No light bashing.

WARNING: DUB-CON/NON-CON (in later chapters; see end of chapter note for details.)

NOTE: This is a translation of a Chinese HP Fanfiction by Ink Emerald/墨玉绿.

I really like her story. It's a time travel fic done right. Her characterizations are fairly on point. Harry is tortured but sweet and Tom is deliciously evil. MUAHAHAHAHA.

Here's the link to the original story:

Title: [HP]47天改造

Author:墨玉绿

Link: www( ) jjwxc () net/ onebook() php?novelid=1888544

Replace () with . AND no space.

The author (墨玉绿) wants to put a disclaimer out - that her story is purely fictional, so please disregard all discrepancies from JKR's series and all historical inaccuracies. Due to her youthful inexperience... the views (regarding World War I/II, France, Britain and Germany) presented here may be highly inaccurate. She just wants to warn you in advance. So... no one go over to flame her, okay?

BETA: Paperthins

Book cover art by: the very talented Popuyund

Check out her tumbler at nyakata166 () tumblr () com/ image / 85502086159

Chapter 1

December 31, 1926

It was late December. Naturally, the streets of London were blanketed with snow. The city, still shadowed by the horrors of World War I, presented itself like a weak, old man desperately clinging onto the last visage of its former imperial glory. Its citizens hurried about, pulling their coats against the winds, unwilling to dwell in empty streets. Newspapers fluttered in the cold air; the date on them read December 31, 1926.

Today was the last day of the year 1926.

On a street corner, a thin dark-haired young man clutched a device around his neck, a pained expression on his dazed face. The delicately crafted trinket resembled a small hourglass, embedded with silver rings that were engraved with unreadable letters. If any wizard happened to pass-by at this exact moment, he was sure they would have recognized the object.

A Time-Turner.

Although compare to the standard Ministry-issued Time-Turners, this particular device seemed much smaller, more intricate, and wrapped in a mysterious sort of silver glow.

The young man stood in silence, watching as litters tumbled through the streets, until it came to a stop at the foot of a corroded limestone statue of the Virgin Mary.

This must be a mistake!

Icy winds swept through the young man's messy black hair, and its curly strands stuck on his round glasses, obscuring his eyes. The young man tightened his fists as he stared at the empty, unfamiliar streets. He felt lost.

Who could he turn to... in this era that was not his own?

"Your mission is to find his weakness," Hermione's words ringed in his head.

The brilliant Muggle-born witch gazed at him, with the sort of reverence reserved for something precious. Something like their last hope, the last bit of light before complete darkness.

Soon after Dumbledore's death, the Order of Phoenix had fallen. In three short years, the Dark had come into power. Voldemort returned triumphantly. The Light had lost.

Every battle was a struggle of desperation. Their forces grew weaker by day; allies and friends disappeared one-by-one. Until one night, perhaps due to pity of the Heavens, Harry managed to read Voldemort's mind once in his sleep, and found a crack in the Dark Lord's memories– the man has a fatal weakness.

"Find his weakness."

That was Harry's mission. It seemed simple enough, but also impossible. Weakness? What weakness? Was it a person? A thing? A spell? A weakness seemed too vague of a clue to go on.

After digging through every detail of Harry's vision, they finally found an entry point. 1946, Voldemort's twentieth birthday.

Thus was the plan. The Time-turner was supposed to take him back to 1946.

But... it made a mistake.

Harry Potter frowned, and carefully considered his circumstances.

Harry wasn't aware that from the moment he appeared in this deserted Muggle street, he had – inevitably, unintentionally – set off a chain of fated events. Fate had set rules. Things could change, but the end result would be no different. All Harry could do was to fight against its fateful currents, struggling in vain, hoping for a better outcome.

"Sir...sir," a weak voice called out.

Harry brushed his bangs from his glasses and looked to the source of the voice.

It came from a stumbling pregnant woman, her face as pale like the snow she had fallen into. She was weak, thin as a skeleton, with a fat tummy protruding from her bones. She could not support its weight as she fell over, clutching at a street lamp, begging for aid with despairing eyes.

"Madam!" Harry ran toward her. "What is the matter?"

Her situation looked bad. The snow beneath her feet became quickly coloured by blood, alarmingly dark amongst the white snow.

Harry stood by helplessly. He didn't dare to move her. He didn't know what to do.

"My child... my child," she whimpered. Her lips were dry and she could barely manage the strength to speak. "Take… Take me to an orphanage–"

"What?" Harry could barely hear what she was murmuring, but there was no time to think. He wrapped her in his cloak and carried her to a nearby inn.

The Innkeeper bristled upon seeing them, shocked by the amount of blood. Quickly, he summoned his wife. His wife instructed Harry to lay the woman down on the table, and hurried to prepare some bandages, scissors, and hot water.

"Stay awake. Think about the baby. You must stay awake for the baby," urged the Innkeeper's wife.

She continued to rub the woman's belly. Her pained cries grew quieter still, as if all her strength was needed just to stay alive. She trembled terribly.

After five long, agonizing hours, a baby's wail filled the room. Instantly, the cry seemed to have injected life back into the dim, damp room.

Harry smiled at the baby. He couldn't explain the joy he felt, for this child whom he did not know. Birth was such a remarkable thing! A cathartic thing to experience, especially for a man who had seen so many war and death. The baby cried softly, and in that moment, they all shared a mother's joy and love.

Harry had always liked children. They were such innocent and happy creatures, meant to be treasured and celebrated. Meant to be loved.

"My... child," whispered the woman. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

The Innkeeper's wife handed the small bundle to her. She looked at woman's pale face with worry.

The baby, like all babies, was a funny-looking little thing, thin and pink with wrinkled skin and covered in goo. But to his mother, he was the most beautiful thing in the world. She kissed his forehead with reverence.

"Sorry... That I cannot take care of you–" she touched her frost-bitten fingers to his closed eyelids.

That sentence seemed to take everything out of her. Her breathing became laboured, short. Death's bony fingers tightened its hold around her throat.

She gave him one last smile. Her dry lips bled with effort.

"You shall be called Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Once he heard the whispered name, Harry's mind turned blank.

What day is it? Harry's eyes searched madly through the room for anything with a date on it. Anything.

December 31, 1926.

There it was— printed on the last page of a calendar on the wall. That cursed date.

Harry stared numbly at the baby in his arms, testing the familiar yet obscene name on his tongue.

Tom Riddle... wasn't he suppose to be born in an orphanage?

Harry felt like he was struck by lighting. The baby felt heavy in his arms.

If it wasn't for his interference, Tom Riddle would have been born in an orphanage.

Harry Potter liked children, all children, all except this one... This one, he thought, should have been a still-born. The future Dark Lord, who terrorized the Wizarding world for so long, was currently sleeping in his arms. Harry could snap his little neck so easily, with a twist of his hands. Or Harry could simply let go, let the baby's soft flesh hit the pavement, and then... perhaps... he'll find out if Voldemort's bones break just like everyone else's.

If he kills Voldemort now, everything will be fixed. Everyone will be safe. No more broken families, no more wailing mothers, no more orphans... No more needs to search for any weakness. If he simply let go... everything will end.

Tortured by all the dark thoughts in his head, Harry closed his eyes.

He let go.

So frail and weightless was a baby's body. Its softness was no match for the hard pavement... Harry was ready, prepared to accept the sin of murdering an innocent child, if it meant sparing the thousands of death that will follow.

"SIR! THE BABY—"

A pair of strong hands managed to snatch the bundle just as it slipped from Harry's hands.

It was the Innkeeper's wife. She grabbed the baby tightly, gazing tenderly with worry.

"Here, here. I've got you—" she cooed, holding the baby like it was the most precious thing in the world.

Numbly, Harry handed the bundle to her. He watched the small, pink creature in her arms. His mind torn apart by conflict.

Tom, as if instantly sensing the changing of hands, startled awoke and wiggled restlessly. Once Harry stepped away from them, the baby started to cry, loud wails that seemed uncontainable in such a small body.

"It's alright, honey pie. Don't cry—" The woman rocked the baby gently, humming lullabies in her sweet tone.

But little Tom was stubborn. He wailed louder. The Innkeeper's wife looked confused. She tried to rock him faster, but it didn't work. The little baby raised his chubby fists from the blanket, as if resisting her touch.

The baby wailed with all his might. His monkey-like little face turned purple with effort. He coughed; he chocked; he wailed some more. His pitiful little mouth flapped in vain, as if he was protesting something that none of them could understand.

Harry looked upon the baby's purple cheeks. He could not see Voldemort in him. This was but a child, new to the world, untainted by ambitions and greed, pure as a new-born fawn. This was but a child, who, like all children, deserves to be loved.

Years ago, when Harry was thrashing in pain on the floor of the Ministry of Magic, he remembered Voldemort's blood-red eyes. Harry remembered every word that he said to the monster.

"You'll never understand love, Tom Riddle. You'll never see friendship. For that I pity you."

Harry remembered something flashing across that pale, skeletal face, briefly, for just a second, before all emotions became consumed by the Dark Lord's wrath. Something like an old wound exposed to the world, a moment of weakness and wistfulness. There was something buried deep in that black, empty heart of his— after all.

Would Tom Riddle have become Voldemort under different upbringing?

In the end, he was just another discarded orphan.

Unwanted, like Harry was.

Harry felt a lump rising in his throat. He raised his arms toward the woman.

"Here. Let me hold him."

The woman regarded him with uncertainty. But she was at her wit's end against the wailing creature, so she gave him up.

Something about Harry must be comforting to the baby. Instantly, the crying stopped. Little Tom gabbed Harry's sleeves, yawned contently, then closed his eyes.

"Oh my! He... he stopped," the woman looked at them with amazement. "Poor thing... Barely a day old and already motherless—"

Harry looked at the little bundle in his arms. Pink skin and spongy fingers. Tiny fists grasped tightly onto his sleeves, like it was something precious, a security blanket that brought great comfort. Harry felt a warmness blooming in his heart.

How could he feel so much for such a tiny thing? How could he ever think about harming this precious boy? Once was a terrible mistake.

Never again.

If he could change Tom's birth place, then why couldn't he change more? If there was an alternative to murdering an innocent baby, however difficult the path, Harry was determined to follow it through.

Harry kissed the baby's cheek. The child's warm skin tickled against his lips, a tenderness that seared into his memory forever.

"Ma'am," Harry nodded to woman hovering about. He could tell she was quite taking with Tom. "Can... can you take him in?"

The innkeeper's wife froze, blinking nervously. "Me...me?"

"Can you?" Harry hugged the baby tighter, equally nervous.

"Our... our family is rather poor. We... we won't meet the standard for adaption," she murmured shyly. Her head hung low in shame.

"But are you willing?" Harry pressed.

"OF COURSE!" She squealed. Her brown eyes shone with absolute delight. Her face could barely contain her excitement.

A child! That was all she ever wanted! You see, she had trouble conceiving and her family was too poor to gain adaption approvals. Yet... she never gave up her dream of being a mother.

Of course, she was willing to take him in... Such a precious, little boy.

Her little boy.

Harry watched as tears of happiness poured down her face. He tightened his hold around Tom.

— A woman like her will make a wonderful mother. She will take good care of you.

Harry handed Tom to the woman. Tom, the ever-so-clever little boy, seemed to sense his eminent departure and began screaming in protest.

Harry patted the baby's soft cheeks, then bowed toward mother and son.

"I must be on my way, ma'am."

Tom must have heard him. He screamed so loud that his voice cracked.

Harry fastened his cloak and disappeared into the streets. Snow blurred his shape, then he was gone.

The baby's pathetic wail seemed to follow his every step, dissipating into the empty, snow-covered street.

TN:

This is a very important WARNING! Read it please.

There will be NON-CON/DUB-CON element later in the fic (in about chapter 80). Reader discretion is advised.

So due to the mature subject matter, I think I will only post the latter chapters on AO3 (that's from chapter 80 and onwards). I'll give notice when/if we get there. And I will put specific warnings in front of each chapter.