Through the Puddles of Time

Chapter One

*Author's Note: Hi, everyone! I know it's been a while since my last story, but I have been overwhelmed with school work. Now that it's summer, though, I shall have plenty of time for quick updates here. This is my new multi-chapter story for the pairing Harry Potter/Tom Marvolo Riddle. It will contain mature content such as violence, sexual situations, and swear words. I hope you guys enjoy it!*

Night hunkers down over London, thick and heavy as sludge. It settles onto the city's rooftops, leaks in through its open windows, and slithers beneath closed doors. The night watches. The night waits. It is not disappointed.

Moments before, rain oozed from the midnight sky, but for now the rain has stopped. Only puddles remain, coating the street in reflective pools. The water looks like ink, black and glossy, as ominous as the sky above. The crisp scent of rain on asphalt still hangs in the air, a cleansing smell, but nothing about this city is clean. Not anymore.

The figures run down the alleyway, feet skidding, sliding across slick pavement. A man and a woman. They run as though death himself chases them, movements clumsy and panicked. But they aren't young anymore. Their movements are slow, old age clinging to their limbs, causing their muscles to ache and spasm. The woman seems to be ill as well. Sweat drips from her forehead, hot, feverish droplets from a fire burning beneath her skin. Her body shakes with each step, tremors running beneath wrinkled flesh. But she presses on, anyway. Her face, clearly that of a once handsome woman, is scrunched up in determination. Her brown eyes are slits of concentration. She is panting. She stumbles.

The man catches her, grabbing her elbow firmly to help stabilize her. Then he drags her on again. They can't afford to stop. Not now. Not with what they know is chasing them. The man seems to be the older of the two. Wrinkles crease his face into a sea of fine lines, crows' feet pointing like arrows at bright blue irises. But he seems to be the stronger of the pair despite his age. While the woman's limbs are thin and frail, more like bird bones than human arms and legs, the man is broad and stocky. His shoulders are wide. His legs are thick. Muscles cord beneath tan skin. He watches the woman nervously as they run, half-dragging, half-carrying her down the curving sidewalk. He hopes she will make it.

And then, behind the couple, just far enough down the street so as to still be invisible, people call out. A chorus of voices, mostly male, shout from the shadows. Their words echo between the dark houses, ricocheting off plaster walls. Sinister voices. Laughing voices. Jeering, howling, taunting. And they're getting closer.

The man tries to run faster, pushing the woman forwards as best he can, but her body has reached its limit. She stumbles again, and this time he has no choice but to either carry her or leave her behind. He hoists her up into his arms. Her head falls against his chest, too heavy for her weary neck to support any longer. Her skin is so hot beneath his fingertips. She's burning, her body melting from the inside out. But he can't stop. He runs.

Left foot.

Right foot.

Left foot.

Right—

He falters, lurching dangerously sideways towards the pavement. He's only just able to regain his balance before he hits the ground. He can't do this, can't run fast enough and carry her at the same time. His strength, the strength which has saved them both so many times before, is running out. He looks down, meets her brown eyes.

The voices behind them grow louder, and now words can be made out. Threats, insults, promises. Horrible words. Soon, they will be upon them.

The woman's flesh is on fire, but her eyes are calm as she looks up into the man's blue gaze.

"Ariana, I can't—" he begins, but she cuts him off, her voice smooth and unworried.

"Don't worry, Aberforth," she whispers. "It's coming. I can feel it. I can't contain it any longer. You should put me down now. Put me down and get back, as quickly as possible. Now! Put me down, now!" Her tone shifts then, filling with a horrible urgency. Aberforth doesn't hesitate. He lowers Ariana to the ground, gently cradling her head as he settles it onto the pavement. Then he leaps away from her, running up the steps of one of the neighboring houses to take shelter in its doorway.

Ariana tilts her head, allowing it to fall sideways until one of her cheeks is pressed against the damp sidewalk. Down the street, she can see the light from their wands illuminating the fronts of the houses. It glints in the puddles, replicated over and over again on the water's surface. But for now, they are just wand light and words. She hopes they will hurry. It's coming, coming now, and she can't stop it. She never could. She hopes it will do the right thing, attack the right people, but all she can do is hope. It rises in her belly, churning the contents of her stomach until she thinks she'll be sick. It burns, tightening her insides, causing her muscles to convulse and shudder. Then it's in her throat, her mouth, pouring out of her.

Her vision is going black, flickering out from the edges inwards, but she can see them round the corner. Their faces are jack-o-lanterns, leering, sadistic and exaggerated. She is relieved. They are within range. And then everything is dark and the magic explodes from her like shooting stars.

Aberforth watches from the doorway. He watches and he prays that the magic will spare him. There have been times in the past when it has not, times when it has hurt him, searing his flesh and sending pain cascading through his every nerve. Times when he has feared it might kill him, burn him up until nothing remains. But for now the magic seems uninterested in Aberforth. It shoots down the alleyway like a tidal wave, washing away everything in its path. It takes their smiles with it, tearing them up until they have nothing to smile with anymore. Aberforth forces himself not to look away. But he wants to. Even for someone who's seen as much war and torture as he has, this is horrible. The magic is primal, too primal even to be cruel. It has no intention, only instinct. It kills. It rips. It tears until the streets ooze red. There's a reason magic needs witches and wizards, why intent and words have to govern it and keep it in check. Magic without someone to control it is a terrible thing to behold. The idea that this magic, this deep, primitive force, comes from his baby sister is unfathomable. She is so sweet, so gentle, even after everything she's been through. Even now. But this darkness is a part of her.

It consumes the men. Then, as though bored, a child who has just finished off the last of its candy, the magic vanishes as though it never existed. Except they are dead.

Aberforth exhales at last, his body sagging with relief. He is alive. She is alive. It spared him. He leaves the cover of the doorway, teetering out into the street. Tenderly, he leans down and cradles the back of Ariana's head in his palm. He waits. He doesn't have to wait long. Soon enough, Ariana's eyes flicker open. For a moment she seems dazed, confused about where she is. Then she focuses in on Aberforth's face.

"Are you alright?" she asks. Her voice is thin, as though she has just inhaled a lot of smoke. Aberforth just nods.

"And them?"

"Dead," Aberforth says. "But more will come. We've only bought ourselves a little time." Ariana nods, struggling to sit up. Aberforth hurries to help, grabbing her shoulders to support her. She's panting, her breathing quick and shallow. Each exhale is accompanied by a rattling gurgle that makes Aberforth frown with worry.

"I know," wheezes Ariana. "But a little time may be all we need. I had another vision, Aberforth. A strong one this time. It was so clear, so real. I thought I could touch it. There was even a smell. Something fresh, maybe some kind of flower, I think. Jasmine, or honeysuckle maybe."

"What did you see?" asks Aberforth.

"I saw him," Ariana replies, and as she meets Aberforth's worried look her gaze is sharp and clear. "I saw the boy who's going to save us. He was so young, just a teenager, I think, by the look of him, but he knows how to stop them. Somehow, I just know. He has done it before, in their world, I think."

"In their world?" Aberforth repeats. He says the words slowly, as though rolling them around on his tongue to see what they taste like. "But how can some boy from another fucking world save us? How could he even get here? I have never heard of a way to cross between the worlds. No one even knows just how many other worlds are out there. This is bollocks."

"It's getting thin, the border," says Ariana. "I don't know why. But it's beginning to break. Soon, he'll be able to get through."

"But why would some kid from another world help us? Why would he care? If he's got any wits about him he'll want to stay the hell away from this bloody place. Live a little longer."

Ariana's pale fingers stretch through the air, as thin and white as a spider's web. She grips Aberforth's shoulder, giving him a comforting squeeze. But her muscles are still weak, her fingers limp and frail. He can barely feel it.

"Because he is a hero," she says softly. "It's in his nature. He won't be able to say no and just leave us like this."

"A hero?" scoffs Aberforth skeptically. "Not too many of those wandering around these days."

"You don't do yourself enough credit," murmurs Ariana, a tender smile lighting up her face. "But he is rare, I think. From what I saw, there's no one in this world quite like him."

-X-X-X-

"Harry! Hurry up, we're going to be late! And I don't fancy what Hermione will do to us if we don't show up at least sort of on time."

Harry sprints down the stairs, a flurry of limbs and clothing as he tries to tie his tie around the collar of a still unbuttoned shirt. George waits for him at the landing, looking surprisingly dapper and groomed in a sharp black suit. They've been roommates for almost a year now, ever since Harry's graduation from Hogwarts, neither of them ready to live alone yet. George's bright orange hair has been gelled back, away from his face. With his hair out of the way, the hole on the side of his head looks so obvious. But George doesn't seem to care. He smirks as Harry runs over to him, clearly amused at Harry's futile attempts to simultaneously button his shirt, put on his suit jacket, and tie an at least presentable knot on his tie.

"Ever heard of this little thing called magic?" George asks. "Might be handy."

Harry makes a face at him and continues buttoning his shirt.

"I think I can manage to at least get my own clothes on without it," he retorts.

"You sure about that, mate?" George replies with a smile. "Because you've just put that button into the wrong hole there."

"Oh, bugger." Harry waves his wand over his shirt, giving up. Right now, there isn't any time left to try and salvage his pride. They're late, and Harry doesn't even want to imagine what Hermione's face will look like if they're any later. His shirt flies into place, buttons snapping into their proper holes, and his deep green tie slithers around his neck like a snake, tying itself into a perfectly flat knot. Harry almost imagines it looks smug.

"All set?" asks George.

"Yeah," Harry nods.

"Let's go then."

The pair turns on the spot. A loud crack echoes around the now empty room, reverberating off the beige wallpaper. The two boys are gone.

Harry lands on wet ground. He's in the middle of a large field. Thick green grass spreads out in every direction, bounded by a neatly trimmed line of hedges. Every so often blue and purple flowers peek up from the green, looking around curiously. It's raining softly. Gentle droplets fall on Harry's exposed skin, leaving cool circles on his flesh. Distant music floats across the grass, wafting up into Harry's ears. A violin, playing slow, keening notes. Harry spins in a circle looking for the source of the music. He quickly finds it. On the other side of the field is an area of grass where the rain doesn't fall. Instead, the water seems to strike an invisible barrier and slide away. Harry can see the shape of the enclosed space by the way the water slithers across its surface: a neat dome. Within the bubble, rows of white chairs sit on either side of a broad aisle. At the end of the aisle is a lattice arch, covered in looping vines of white flowers. Harry can see a familiar patch of red hair waiting by the flowers, and a twinge of guilt stabs through him. He should be standing there, too, next to Ron. It is his job as best man, after all. And then a white clad figure steps into the empty aisle and Harry starts sprinting. He can see George already running several yards ahead of him. The ceremony has already started. Not only are Harry and George late, but they're super late. They're super late, and Harry is the best man. He has to be there. He can't miss his best friends' wedding.

The ground is soft and muddy beneath his feet, squelching audibly with each step. Harry knows that he must be ruining his nice dress shoes, but he doesn't have time to care. He has to run, has to get there in time to stand at Ron's side while he and Hermione make their vows. He has to. A large, glassy puddle pools in front of him, a miniature lake of rainwater. Harry briefly considers going around it to spare himself soaking pant legs, but there isn't enough time. He runs into the water. His foot comes down, his other foot already off the ground in preparation for his next step. But there is no next step. Instead of meeting solid ground and then rebounding, Harry's shoe just sinks down into nothingness. He doesn't even have time to cry out before he falls down into black.

It feels as though he'll never stop falling. The contents of Harry's stomach are churning, bubbling up and threatening to spew out of his throat in a stream of acrid vomit. Harry keeps his mouth clenched shut, trying to gain some control of his body. He's falling fast, too fast to be descending through water, and his skin feels perfectly dry. But he wouldn't swear that what he's falling through is air, either. He's falling so fast, faster than gravity alone is capable of, so fast that his lungs are flattened in his chest, unable to fill.

He needs to breathe.

He needs to breathe.

He needs to not vomit and breathe.

Harry's chest is burning, his throat is tight. He needs air, needs it now. And then Harry's head begins to grow fuzzy and light. His thoughts melt, losing recognizable shape and form. No words, no images, just need, primal and instinctive.

And then, just as Harry's mind begins to go as black as his surroundings, solid ground forms beneath his feet. Harry crashes down onto hard pavement with a thud. The impact hurts, sending a piercing pain shooting through his spine, but he finally isn't falling anymore. He isn't falling, and, at last, he can breathe. Harry gasps in a shallow breath and winces as his flattened lungs try to inflate. It takes several burning inhalations before his body is finally working normally again.

Harry lies there on the cold cement, eyes closed, still trying to keep the contents of his stomach in his body. Everything hurts. He's sure that in a few hours his entire body will be covered in bruises. And then, as Harry's body begins to settle, panic takes over. Harry forces himself to sit up, his hand automatically reaching for the pocket where he normally keeps his wand. His fingers curl around smooth wood, and Harry sighs, relieved. He still has his wand. He isn't entirely defenseless.

But as he sits up his head starts spinning. The world tips, tilting sideways, and Harry almost falls back down again. His ears are ringing, filled with a sharp, piercing whine. But no, it isn't Harry's ears. Something out there is actually making the sound: a loud, repetitive wail like that of a siren or an alarm. Harry focuses on the sound, trying to steady himself. It seems to be coming from all around him, emanating from the very air he's breathing. And then, finally, the world settles, ceasing its dizzying spirals. Harry is sitting in the middle of a dark street. It seems to be a residential area. Houses of various styles and ages sit in tight rows on either side of the street, their exterior walls practically touching they're so close. Some houses seem to be ancient, quaint little cottages; others are modern, all hard edges and glass. It would seem as though Harry is still in London, but there's no way to be certain. And the wailing sound is everywhere.

Then loud cracks cut across the noise and figures appear in the dark. One moment the street is empty, eerily deserted and black, the next, hooded men fill the street. They're everywhere, surrounding Harry on all sides. At least six of them. Wands raise from billowing sleeves, pointing at Harry. Incantations form on shadowy lips, and Harry's instincts kick into gear. Instantly he's rolling, tumbling out of the way as bright jets of red and green light scorch the pavement where he'd just been. His own wand is up and ready now and he leaps to his feet, spinning round to sink a stunner right into one of the cloaked men's chests. Then Harry jumps sideways again. He has to keep moving, has to keep changing the target until he can get to cover. Beams of light fill the air like fireworks, exploding mere inches from Harry's skin. Harry can almost feel the heat from some of them as they skim past.

He fires a few spells wildly, trying to provide himself some cover. One of them strikes home, nicking a man's shoulder and sending him flopping to the ground, stiff as a board. But there are still four assailants left, and Harry is too busy dodging to have time to run or find any cover. Harry spins, swirling away to the right to avoid a killing curse and pain blossoms in his arm as a different spell hits him. The skin on Harry's forearm splits, spurting red as his flesh is ripped apart by the magic. Harry stumbles, surprise and pain flickering across his face like the lines of static on old film. For a moment, he is exposed. His attackers aim their wands, smug, victorious. Then lights erupts from the dark of the houses. Spells shoot out from the shadows, striking the robed men, who crumple, dead, to the ground. And people are running out into the street.

Harry stiffens, his hand tightening around his wand, unsure if these newcomers are his friends simply because they attacked his enemies. Then the figures step into the fluorescent light of the streetlamps and Harry relaxes, relieved. He knows those faces. He is safe.

Neville, Seamus, and another boy Harry doesn't know jog onto the sidewalk. Their expressions are solemn, worried frowns forming thin creases between their eyebrows.

"Neville, Seamus," Harry calls. "What's going on? Who are these people?" Harry gestures at the limp figures peppering the ground. But to Harry's surprise, instead of their usual friendly greeting, Neville and Seamus' eyes go wide. They stare at Harry, a combination of shock and horror pooling in their white eyeballs. Instantly they stop walking towards him, their footsteps faltering, stuttering to a halt. And then Harry knows: something is wrong. Horribly, terribly, wrong. Their eyes as they watch him are distant and detached, the way a scientist would look at a rat in a maze. There's no familiarity there, no friendliness. These figures look like Seamus and Neville, but they are not Harry's friends.

What is going on? Could they have been obliviated? Or are these people not Neville and Seamus at all, but merely strangers in disguise, maybe people who've taken polyjuice potions to try and look like them. But why go to all that trouble only to stop pretending to be Harry's friends now?

"You know us?" asks Neville. His voice is low and smooth, guarded. Harry doesn't reply. Any response he could make might give something away, and until Harry knows exactly what he's dealing with, he can't afford to reveal anything to these people who look so much like his friends. Neville doesn't seem to need Harry to speak, though. Instead, he just squints slightly, taking in Harry's expression.

"You do, don't you?" he continues. "Or at least, you think you do. Crazy. So we exist there too, do we?" Harry's frown deepens. So we exist there too, do we? These are dangerous words, dripping with hints about Harry's situation that Harry is almost afraid to analyze. So these people are claiming to be Neville and Seamus, then, just—what? Different versions of Neville and Seamus? And if Harry's versions of Neville and Seamus exist there, then where exactly is here? Harry continues to say nothing, still unsure.

"Not feeling very chatty, huh?" says Neville, filling in Harry's silence. "Well, maybe that's for the best. We don't exactly have time to chit chat. At least, not here. They'll send more soon when they realize these guys aren't coming back. We have to get you somewhere secure."

Finally Harry speaks.

"They?" he asks.

"The Death Eaters, of course," answers Seamus. His voice is so familiar, every inflection a match for the Seamus Harry knows. But it's not. At least, it's not if Harry's interpreting what the Neville person had said right, or if it wasn't all just some big, elaborate lie.

"But this isn't the place to answer questions," interjects Neville. He steps forwards, holding his palm out towards Harry, clearly expecting Harry to take it. "We have to go now. We may not be able to handle the reinforcements so easily. Come on."

"Why on earth should I go anywhere with you?" snaps Harry, recoiling. His arm is hurting now, a deep throbbing pain. Blood oozes down over his wrist, warm and wet as it rolls over the curves of his palm to drip from his fingertips. He feels vulnerable. Injured, and vulnerable. And somewhere, deep down in the pit of Harry's stomach, Harry knows something is horribly wrong.

"Because," says Neville, his arm still outstretched, "we are the only people in this entire world who know who you are, Harry Potter. And our leader, Ariana, is the only person who can actually answer your questions."

The name pricks something inside Harry, nudging at memories buried deep. A spark of recognition.

"Ariana…" he repeats, turning the name into a question.

"Yes, Ariana," snaps Neville. Harry can see the other boy getting nervous now. His eyes are darting around the empty street, clearly worried that it won't be so empty in a minute. "Ariana Dumbledore. Now are you satisfied yet, because it really isn't safe here."

Ariana Dumbledore. Their leader. Ariana Dumbledore is alive, alive and well enough to lead someone, something. The information swirls sluggishly through Harry's brain, a worm inching through dense mud. This can't be real. Dumbledore's sister is dead. Very dead. She died long ago, back when Dumbledore was still young and involved with Grindlewald. Her death had been what had really scared him away from Grindlwald, what had guilted him into becoming the great man and savior he had become. Someone had killed Ariana that night, a spell that had missed its intended target and claimed her instead. But neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald had ever known who. And that fact had haunted Dumbledore for the rest of his life, that he might have been his sister's murderer. No, Ariana, is definitely dead. But there is no lie in Neville's face, only fear, growing up from nerves into panic.

"Potter," Neville shouts, and now Harry can hear the anxiety in his words, "we have to go now! They'll send someone else! They might even send—"

A loud crack splits the air, the largest balloon ever made popping. And now Neville is running towards Harry, running like his life depends on it, like both their lives depend on it. And they do. Because up the street is a figure Harry knows horribly well. A figure Harry has seen in his dreams for years, a figure Harry saw for the first time his second year of school. Tom Riddle stands on the rain soaked cement, tall and lean and painfully handsome. Sharp, defined jaw, high, chiseled cheekbones, straight, dark brows, and cherry red eyes. Eyes staring straight at Harry. Tom begins to raise his wand, an incantation blossoming on his lips, but arms are around Harry now, cradling him. And then the world vanishes with a bang.

*Author's Note: Well, there you guys have it! Chapter one! I hope you guys have enjoyed this first chapter! I have certain elements of the plot for this story already planned out, but I am open to requests if you guys have any. If you haven't read my previous HP/TMR stories, I hope you will. If you like this one, then you might like those, too. To those of you who are like: "but why are you writing a new HP/TMR fic instead of finishing Watching, Waiting," the answer is that I've taken several creative writing classes this year, and I feel that my writing style and abilities have developed a lot since writing that story. It just felt weird trying to continue it. This particular story is going to be longish one, I can already tell, but I do plan to have the entire thing written by the end of the summer. Please review with your comments and suggestions! I love to hear from you guys! Thanks so much for reading! :D*