{Disclaimer} Anything you recognize, JKR owns.

Funny thing about Time. The general consensus is that Time is linear. Once a point in Time has passed, it's over, done, nothing you can do about it. You are physically past that point in Time. And now, we have the world of the wizards, where magic exists, and "the past" is no longer untouchable.

The majority of Time Turners were made with the idea that Time is linear. And thus, the further back you go in time, the more energy is needed to get you there. Time Turners made with this idea only have enough energy to go back a day, perhaps two without special tweaking.

Now, let me ask you this: what if someone made a Time Turner that didn't think of Time as linear? What if this person, say, thought there was only one truth to Time: the Now. And in this one truth to Time lies all the secrets of the past, all the worries about the future. Memory is a powerful thing – unconscious Memory especially – and it is the key to this Time Turner. This Time Turner has the power to bring Memories into the Now, while having the power to also keep the person wearing it in this new-old Now. In doing so, it creates a new dimension of Reality.

{...}

At age ten, Harry hadn't given much thought to time travel.

Instead, his daily thoughts consisted of daffodils, carnations, petunias, lilies; of how much dish soap he would have to use before the bottle ran out; of broken bits of Aunt Petunia's favorite plate; and of how much homework Dudley would finish by morning (the amount of which he himself would do only a little more of). Occasionally, he would smile to himself over a shrunk sweater, silently wonder how his hair grew back so quickly, and talk to snakes at the zoo. These happenings – as well as many similar, unexplainable ones – would often end him locked in his small cupboard under the stairs.

By the time he emerged from his cupboard (for which he was in there for letting a Brazilian boa constrictor loose from the zoo), Aunt Petunia informed him that summer holidays had started and instructed him to weed the garden and hem the bushes. Being summer holidays, Harry wasn't surprised to hear Dudley's and Piers's loud guffaws, along with Dennis', Gordon's, and Malcolm's individual laughs – each varying mixtures of snickering, snorting, and annoying, boyish giggling – come from upstairs. He worked quickly, having plenty of practice through the years of how to identify weeds and pull them without bringing up huge chunks of dirt or harming the flowers. Despite many of the flowers sharing his aunt's name, Harry liked gardening. He was outside and away from Dudley and his aunt and uncle. He wasn't told what not to think, wasn't constantly hounded by insults and criticisms.

Of course, that wasn't always true.

As it happened, Dudley had two rooms. One for all his toys, gadgets, electronics (that usually ended up broken); the other, for where he slept. Both of these were upstairs. The latter was in the front right of the house, the former in the back right. In the hallway, the doors were right next to each other – the rooms adjacent. Dudley and his gang spent most of their indoor time in his toy room, which had a window facing the back yard. Now, in placing her flowers, Petunia had been smart. None of her flowers were in a six foot radius of Dudley's window. Instead, the wall underneath it was hedged by small bushes.

These bushes were in need of a hemming, as Harry had been locked in his cupboard for much longer than he had ever been before and Petunia, despite her efforts, hadn't done the best job at hemming them herself (Harry figured it was because she had been out of practice for so long), not to mention the growth since her last attempt. After finishing the weeds, the sun was high in the sky. Harry grabbed the clippers and started to clip away at an uneven bush.

Harry didn't understand what was so important about keeping a bush trimmed. It was like his hair – always growing back. Sometimes he wondered what would happen if he stopped hemming the bushes all-together. What would happen if he stopped getting hair cuts? He was engrossed in his thoughts and didn't hear the door open until it was slammed shut. A quick glance to the door instead showed him the round bulge of Dudley's stomach, along with four ten-year-old silhouettes.

Harry didn't need to think twice. He dropped the clippers and ran.

A part of Harry told him that it was useless. Dudley's gang was so close already (the loud squishes of young feet against fresh grass told him so), and his only chance of escape was to jump a high wooden fence or somehow find a way to sneak past them to get into the house. Harry didn't like to listen to this part of him.

Instead, he dashed to the end of the yard, the gang at his tail. As he was rapidly nearing the tall fence, he quickly pivoted to run along the side of the fence (his hastily made plan was to run in a large circle and hope the gang was dumb enough to follow him in a straight line so by the time he was heading to the door, they would all be behind him) and fell. Now, he didn't just fall on himself, oh no, he practically flew at the fence. Harry didn't even have time to brace himself before the impending impact, and before he knew it, his face met freshly mowed grass, and his legs felt the tickle of flower petals. But wait, what had just happened? Harry pushed himself from the earth, and glanced behind him.

There was Mr. Jones' side of the fence, painted white.

Mr. Jones was their neighbor. A widower, who's son and his family came to visit him on Christmas and his birthday. Harry hadn't actually set eyes on him, as Mr. Jones never left his house. He hired people to take care of his yard, fetch his groceries, and anything else that required going outside. Harry often contemplated what it would be like to work for Mr. Jones. He figured it would be similar to what he did for his aunt and uncle, but he'd be paid for it. With this thought in mind, Harry stood up.

"What was that?" Harry jumped at the sound of Piers' voice from the other side of the fence, and froze, hoping they wouldn't realize where he was.

"Magic. That's what that was," Malcolm's voice replied.

"Don't be stupid. There's no such thing as magic!" Dennis' was shrill, scared. Harry thought he probably said that to reassure himself more than anything.

"Then what the heck do you – Dudley!" The sound of a door slam, and the hurried swoosh of multiple sneakers against grass. The sound of a door opening, swinging, swinging, slamming.

Harry let out an audible sigh of relief. He turned back to the yard he was in, finding it well-trimmed with flowers lining the fence. As soon as he realized where he was standing – in the flowers – he quickly stepped out to avoid causing further damage. Like Harry's own back yard, the only way to get in and out of it was through the back door of the house.

Harry turned around to face the fence he had fell through. He reached out his right hand to touch the fence. It was solid. Harry placed his left hand on the fence next to his right. Still solid. Harry started to panic, feeling the area of the fence that he must have fell through.

He started to move across the wall, to feel the other sections, when he saw something glint at him from underneath the flowers to his right. Momentarily distracted, he moved to his right, knelt down before where he remembered seeing the mysterious glinting, and pulled back the flowers.

A golden necklace with a small hourglass inside it rested on the ground. Harry thought it was one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen. He reached out and picked it up gently. It was splotched with dirt, most of the gold covered with a filmy layer, but Harry thought it only made the necklace even more beautiful. He wondered how someone with a garden so pristine and well-kept could have something like this laying around in the dirt.

"What the bloody blazes are you doing over there, boy?" Uncle Vernon's voice reached his ears in the form of harsh whispers. Harry hastily slid the necklace in the pocket of his oversized jeans and quickly glanced up at his uncle, who was tall enough to look at him from over the fence and so red in the face he was almost purple. "Get back over here! Now! Before Mr. Jones realizes you're here."

"I can't," Harry whispered back.

"Oh, yes, you can," Vernon threw his arms over the fence, "Hold on, you worthless freak."

Harry, knowing better than to disobey his uncle, grabbed both of Vernon's hands, which in turn tightened to a death grip on his. Vernon pulled, and Harry was lifted up and over the fence before being dropped – more like thrown, Harry would say – on the ground.

"In. The. Cupboard." Vernon ground out, his eyes so narrow Harry could only see scrunched up eyelid.

It was just that morning that he'd been let out, and already he was back in. As he headed towards the familiar staircase, Harry's thoughts entertained the idea of running away. Before he could tell himself the idea was stupid, Harry was rushing to the door.

"GET BACK HERE, YOU WORTHLESS FREAK!"

Harry didn't dare look back, not as he flung open the door, not as he ravaged Aunt Petunia's flowers by trampling through the yard, not as he tried to avoid tripping over his too-large jeans as he sprinted down the sidewalk. He heard his uncle's enraged cursing, could almost feel the lumbering man waddle down the street after him, could hear his aunt's surprised shriek and Dudley's gang calling his name in the background. As it happened, Harry's youth gave him the advantage over his overweight and extremely pissed off uncle. Already Harry could tell that his uncle's footsteps were getting quieter, his voice further away as Harry's own feet pounded against the concrete.

"YOU'LL REGRET THIS, YOU LITTLE – "

Harry heard a hard 'thud', another of Petunia's shrieks (although this one sounded a bit like she was calling his uncle's name), Dudley's exclamation of "Daddy!", and his gang's chorus of "Mr. Dursley!". Seven pairs of feet were pounding down the sidewalk now, but not towards Harry. Still, Harry felt no sense of relief as he continued to race down the street. He was waiting for Petunia's shocked sobbing, Dudley's loud whining, and Vernon's moaning and groaning to fade into nothing. But that never came, at least not until after Harry heard four pairs of sneakers race after him in the distance. It was just like the gang's favorite game, Harry Hunting, except that this time, they were angry. They were no longer just bored and feeling sadistic, no. They were out for revenge, and Harry knew it. Thinking this, he figured there was no room left for doubt in his mind, because he could never go back to the Dursley's.

His vision started to blur, and only then did Harry realize he was crying. He kept running, his forearm wedging in between his face and his glasses to wipe the telling tears away. Why was he crying? Finally, he had been brave enough to run out of the place he had disliked for so long. Surely, there was no reason for him to be sad about it. Especially now, when Dudley's gang was planning on giving him the beating of a lifetime. So, he kept running, and the tears eventually stopped.

When they did, Harry realized that many of the neighbors must have stepped outside their houses to see what was going on, because he heard a few of their voices calling out to him. He thought he heard something about the police being called as he passed a house, but that only made him run faster.

He didn't want to go back. He wouldn't.

He ran, and he ran, and he ran. There was no room for thought, not when he was focusing so hard on the sounds around him, behind him. It was after about fifteen minutes of running that he heard what he'd wanted to:

"Fine, leave! No one liked you anyway!"

One of the four pairs of sneakers slowed, and finally stopped. From the voice, Harry knew it was Gordon. And just like that, the other three slowed as well, and began shouting insults at him and making sure it was very clear that he wouldn't be missed.

Harry smiled, and kept running.

{...}

After Dudley's gang was out of sight, Harry started to walk. His legs trembled slightly from running so long, and his thoughts run amok. What was he going to do? He had no place left to go. It was summer holiday, so the school would be closed. All the neighbors would just give him back to the Dursleys, and he didn't want that. He didn't even have any clothes, any belongings. Then Harry remembered the golden necklace.

He dug into his pocket, and pulled it out. It was still as beautiful as when he first found it, although the dirt was smudged. Without thinking, he wiped the dirt off on his shirt. He inspected it, and found dirt wedged in tiny crevices that Harry realized made words. Flip me thrice.

Harry flipped the necklace three times. Nothing happened. Then Harry flipped the inner layer of the necklace three times. Nothing happened. Harry frowned, then thought that maybe the necklace wouldn't work until he put it on, so he quickly slipped it over his head and flipped the necklace three times. Still, nothing happened. Harry stopped walking, then flipped the inner layer of the necklace three times. The first thing Harry noticed was that the necklace had disappeared into a puff of smoke, and when he looked up, he realized so did everything else.

Smoke was everywhere. White smoke, black smoke, every shade of gray that he ever imagined, or hadn't imagined. And as smoothly as the smoke appeared, so did color. There was yellow smoke, red smoke, blue smoke, purple, green, orange, blue-green, red-violet, yellow-orange – every sort of color he'd learned of in school, and then some. Harry looked back down at where the necklace was supposed to be, and saw the most beautiful golden smoke sift through his hands.

Harry wondered what was going on, and came to the answer quickly: magic. This was magic. This was what his aunt and uncle were so afraid of. This was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life. Harry decided he liked magic.

Slowly, but quickly, the smoke started to become shapes. It started beneath him: rectangle. Then to his side: human silhouette. Then to his front: gate. A gate with words. Harry craned his neck, and watched, transfixed, as the gate became more solid, more real. The words weren't fully solid yet, but Harry could make out "WOOL'S ORPHAN GE" (the "A" in "ORPHANAGE" had become loose and was hanging nearly upside down). After deciphering that, Harry took a moment to look around, and realized that the smoke was nearly done forming. He was on a street, busier than what he was used to, with people dressed like they were from an earlier time, and types of cars he hadn't seen before. Behind the gate was a tall building, which Harry assumed must be the orphanage. He looked back down at his hands, and watched the last of the golden smoke take the familiar shape of the necklace he found in Mr. Jones' garden.

Although this time, Harry noticed something different. The crevices in which the dirt was stuck had disappeared. The edge was smooth.

He looked back up at the gate. Aunt Marge had repeatedly let him know that the Dursleys should have taken him to an orphanage instead of house him themselves. And now, here he was. If there was any place he could run to since leaving the Dursleys, it would be an orphanage.

Harry wanted to keep the necklace a secret, so he took it off and slid it carefully into his jean pocket. It had found him a solution, one he wouldn't soon forget. He was very grateful, and a possessive part of him didn't want the other children messing with it. The necklace knew what it was doing when it had been found by Harry, he thought. It must have known that it could help him and he could keep it safe.

Harry had every intention to keep the necklace safe.

Harry confidently walked up to the gate, and opened it. He noticed that the sky was cloudy, when before it had been sunny. Briefly, he wondered just how far away from Privet Drive he was. He continued his trek, marching straight up to the door. When it came time to knock, he faltered. What was he going to say? "Hello, my name is Harry Potter and my parents died in a car crash when I was one – that's where I got this cool scar – and I've been forced to live with my horrid aunt and uncle since then and they were mean and horrid so I decided to run away and now I'm here. Please let me stay." Even to him, it sounded ridiculous. They would probably try and send him back. Best not to mention Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon.

After gulping, Harry rapped the door, hoping it would be enough to let them know he was here. Suddenly, he wondered if he was even supposed to knock. Maybe he could just walk right in and tell them he was an orphan who needed a place to stay. He wondered if orphanages had such things as visiting hours, and if so, when were they? Then, Harry's wondering about orphanages took a decidedly unpleasant turn. What if they didn't have room for him and told him he had to find another place? What if living in an orphanage was actually worse than living with Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon? What if there was a bully worse than Dudley? What if there was a bigger gang that went Harry Hunting? What if they were meaner? What if –

The door clicked open.

It was a girl. Older than Harry, but not quite an adult. Her gaze went out to the street a second before glancing down at the small boy. "No parents?"

Harry shook his head, "No relatives, either."

"Better come inside, then," she gestured for him to do so. He did, and stood to the side of the doorway as she closed it behind him.

"MRS. COLE!" She bellowed into the black and white hallway in front of them. Harry could spot a staircase at the end, which was illuminated by the light shining in from the window above the landing area. "MRS. COLE! Oh, come on, we better find her," she grabbed his wrist, and Harry couldn't help but notice how strong her grip was. She lead him down the hallway, knocking on each of the doors and asking the people within if they had seen Mrs. Cole. The girl peeked into an office (at least Harry assumed that was an office; he'd never actually seen one before) that was empty; a kitchen area in which a kind older man smiled at them; a small cafeteria that was also empty; a nursery full of toddlers, babies, and their caretakers; and a classroom full of learning material for all different ages. After getting answers of "haven't seen her since this mornin'", "she was down here just a bit ago", and "she's upstairs", the girl yanked Harry towards the staircase. "MRS. COLE!" The girl bellowed once again, this time as she made her way to the landing.

"Yes, I hear you, Agatha!" A harassed-looking woman shot back as she made her way down the stairs to meet the young girl on the landing. "What is it?" Just as the question left her mouth, she spotted Harry. "Oh." Mrs. Cole's sharp features became worn, as if she had to deal with this situation every other day. For all Harry knew, she did. "What happened to his parents?"

"They died in a car crash." Harry supplied.

"He doesn't have any relatives, either. Or at least he says," Agatha said.

"Right, well, thank you, Agatha. I'll handle it from here." At Mrs. Cole's dismissal, Agatha headed back down the stairs. "Now," Mrs. Cole's sharp features then turned on Harry, "just who are you?"

Harry bowed his head, "Harry Potter."

"Well, Harry Potter, my name is Eleanor Cole, and I'm this orphanage's matron. That girl is Agatha Williams. She helps me keep things clean."

Harry's response was tentative. "Okay."

"Right. Come on, then," she started down the stairs, and Harry followed her into the office. She took a seat behind a cluttered desk, gesturing for Harry to sit across from her. As he did so, the chair shifted its weight onto its front three legs. Mrs. Cole was shuffling through her desk drawers. Eventually, she found what she wanted, laid the paper out on the desk, and scribbled something down.

"Do you have a middle name, Harry?" Mrs. Cole began.

"James. Harry James," Harry answered.

"Harry James Potter," she murmured to herself, then turned back to her paper to scribble some more. "Any idea what your shirt size is, Harry?"

Harry had noticed that all the orphans he saw wore gray tunics. He figured they'd be better to wear than Dudley's old hand-me-downs. "No."

"What about your trouser size?"

"No."

"Right, then. How old are you, Harry?"

"Ten."

"When's your birthday?"

"July the thirty-first."

"Almost eleven, then." Mrs. Cole said, more to herself than him. She looked up at him and Harry could tell she was studying him intently. He pressed down the bangs resting over his scar. After a long while, she spoke. "I need to check something, Harry. I'll be right back." Mrs. Cole stood from her desk, and made her way to the door. "AGATHA!" She bellowed as soon as she was at the doorway.

Harry could hear the girl's footsteps. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Get Harry some clothes. If I'm not back by the time you're through, bring him to Martha," with that settled, Mrs. Cole hurried along her way.

Agatha poked her head into the office. "You heard Mrs. Cole?"

Harry nodded.

"Come along, then," Harry followed Agatha to one of the doors she hadn't opened in her rush to find Mrs. Cole. Apparently, it was a laundry room. There were a few piles of clothes about, divided between the folded and the not folded. Harry spied a large, round, heavy-duty bucket with something that looked like some sort of mixture between a fan and the inside of a vacuum cleaner hanging over it. He spied another bucket with a lid, this one looking even more sturdy than the last. Agatha leafed through the folded piles, glancing back at Harry every now and then. She pulled a gray tunic out of one of the piles, and handed it to Harry. "Try this on."

Harry wondered if Agatha had to do this often, because that tunic fit better than anything he'd ever worn before. Then again, he'd been wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs for all of his life.

"That looks about right." She pulled out two more, roughly the same size as the first and put them aside. She moved on to a second pile, and began leafing through it. This time, she pulled out a pair of trousers. "Try these on."

Harry was glad to already be wearing a tunic as he discarded Dudley's too-big jeans and put on the trousers Agatha gave him.

"Lift up your tunic." As soon as Harry did, Agatha dug a finger in between his skin and his trousers and tugged once, twice, three times. Her hands then made their way down to flap the bottom hem, "You'll grow into them."

Considering Harry'd worn worse-fitting clothes, he was quite content with his new trousers. Even if they didn't fit him as well as the tunic did, he had a belt he could wear.

Agatha began leafing through the trousers pile again, pulling out two more pairs roughly the same size. She moved on to a pile of what Harry could only think of as extremely old-fashioned underwear, and pulled out two identical pairs. They were bodysuits, pale and not quite the white they'd been when new. She gathered the extra tunics on her way to a giant pile of socks, from which she plucked three pairs. She handed the lot to him. "Here, these'll go in your wardrobe. Make sure to mark all of them with your initials. Petra Johnson and I will be doing your laundry every three days. If your laundry's not in the hamper when we come, it won't get clean. Got it?"

Harry nodded and took the clothes she handed to him. He grabbed the discarded hand-me-downs and followed her out of the laundry room and up the stairs. Harry heard muffled voices from behind the closest door to the stairwell, and saw a few older orphans moving a wardrobe down the hallway, as well as several younger ones dash past them toward Harry and Agatha. Agatha opened the door, and Harry could make out a cold voice instructing an orphan (or at least Harry assumed the person was an orphan) not to play outside for a couple days.

"Yes, Martha," the young voice that replied didn't sound too happy about its fate. The group of younger orphans dashed past Harry and Agatha and down the steps.

Harry barely registered what the cold voice said next, as he was watching the young orphans disappear down the stairs. "DON'T RUN INDOORS!" He heard Agatha shout after them.

A girl of about six slowly made her way out of the room, pouting as she passed Agatha and Harry in the doorway. Agatha glared down the stairs for a moment before centering herself and taking a few steps into the room. The room had a desk close to the left wall, with a chair behind it and a chair in front of it, a bookshelf on the wall across from the door, two cots against the right wall and chairs on either side of them. The cold-voiced woman, Martha, was standing next to the chair the young girl had occupied – the one facing the wall behind the desk.

"Doctor, this is Harry Potter. Mrs. Cole told me to bring him up here."

Martha eyed the small form of Harry behind Agatha, "Harry Potter, is it? You're excused, Agatha."

Harry nodded and watched Agatha as she quietly stepped around him and out the door.

"Strip down to your undergarments," Martha's command brought Harry's attention back to the room, "You can put your clothes on one of the cots. You won't be needing them until I'm through with you."

Harry compiled without protest. He'd never been to a doctor before. He wondered if they all made children strip down to their underwear. A large pile of clothes (including the ones he hadn't been wearing) was discarded on the cot closest to Harry. Being in only his y-fronts, Harry felt slightly embarrassed. He noticed Martha's eyes do a quick study of the state he was in, and only then was the feeling put at ease, as the woman held a strict, professional air about her. She made it seem like it wasn't a big deal, which it probably wasn't to her.

Of course, that was the moment Mrs. Cole walked into the room. She glanced from Harry to Martha. "Your analysis?" The matron asked the doctor.

Martha turned her gaze to Eleanor. "Underfed, but the majority of the ones we get are. How old is he?"

It was like Harry wasn't even in the room, let alone in just his y-fronts. "Ten, almost eleven."

Harry watched as Martha lifted her gaze to share a look with Mrs. Cole. He wondered what was so significant about his age. After a moment, the doctor spoke, "Small for his age. I haven't gotten around to checking how accurate a prescription those glasses are, and I doubt they're spot on."

"They'll have to do for now," Mrs. Cole looked at Harry, and unconsciously he stood up straighter at being addressed, "you're able to see all right?"

"Yeah, fine," Harry answered.

"Of course he's going to say that. He probably doesn't remember what it's like to see normally," Martha said.

"Well, at least we know he's not going around completely blind because of our lack of funds," Mrs. Cole returned, "Now is there anything else you need him for or may I go ahead and show him to his room?"

Martha leveled Eleanor with a cool stare before addressing Harry, "Put on your clothes and wait in the hallway for Mrs. Cole." Harry obliged quickly by dressing, grabbing the pile of leftover clothes, and dashing out the door. The hallway was empty.

"Find him another room, Eleanor." Perhaps because there wasn't any noise in the hallway, Harry could clearly hear Martha from behind the door.

"Martha, I understand your feelings, but you know as well as I there is no other room. I've just spoken with Tom. He's assured me he understands the situation."

"It would be in both of their best interests to find Harry another room."

"I refuse to make exceptions for him, Martha. He is just as much an orphan as the rest of them, no matter how much we suspect he scares the other children."

There was a pause. "I have no hope of swaying your mind, do I?"

"No, you don't. At least not in this matter."

Martha's tone spoke of defeat, "Well, it is your call."

"Yes, it is. If you'll excuse me," Harry heard the door open and saw Mrs. Cole step out of the doctor's office. Only now did Harry notice how severe her appearance was. "Come along, Harry."

Harry followed Mrs. Cole down the hallway, wondering what the exchange he'd overheard was about. Apparently, he was going to share a room with a boy named "Tom". The idea of a roommate was very much okay with Harry, considering he'd rather have a room and share it than not have a room at all. He was apprehensive about this "Tom", though. Martha seemed convinced it wouldn't be a good idea for Harry and Tom to share a room, but then again, Mrs. Cole said that Tom said it was okay. Harry didn't know what to think. Truthfully, he was rather confused and overwhelmed by the whole situation. Mrs. Cole stopped in front of a door like any of the others, far down the hallway. Harry stopped beside her.

Mrs. Cole knocked on the door three times before turning the knob herself and opening the door to allow Harry entry. From what Harry could see, there were two twin beds (Harry thought they looked more like the cots in Martha's room than anything he'd seen at the Dursleys'), two bedside tables, and two wardrobes. There was also a boy on one of the beds. His hair was black, like Harry's, but neat, unlike Harry's. He was pale, and had a book out in front of him.

"This is to be your room," Mrs. Cole's voice brought Harry's attention back to her. She then looked to the boy on the bed, "Tom." The boy met her gaze, then looked at Harry, and assessed. "Tom, this is your new roommate, Harry Potter. Harry, this is your new roommate, Tom Riddle."

The boys eyes locked. Tom's eyes were dark, but from the distance, Harry couldn't tell the exact color they were. Tom was also nice to look at. If Tom had been a girl, Harry would've said he was pretty.

"A pleasure to meet you, Harry."

"Yeah. Nice to meet you too, Tom."

With that over, Mrs. Cole continued, "Your belongings go in your wardrobe," she gestured to the small wardrobe on the right, "and remember to label your new clothes with your initials. Supper will start at six o'clock sharp. Welcome to Wool's Orphanage, Harry." Mrs. Cole grimaced, which made her look even more severe. As Mrs. Cole started back down the hallway, Harry realized she might have been trying to smile at him.

"Thank you," he sent after her retreating back. After which, Harry stepped into the room, and shut the door behind him. Once he took a few steps into the room, Harry noticed a good-sized wicker basket in the corner. He looked at Tom, "Do you have a marker?"

Tom didn't look up from his book. "No."

Harry started toward his wardrobe. "A pen?" And opened it with one hand, only to let his new pile of clothes plop down in front of him.

Tom's tone was apprehensive, "No," and only when Harry glanced over at him did Harry realize Tom was staring at him.

"Um, do you know where I could find one?"

Tom regarded Harry a moment before answering, "No."

Harry turned away from the other orphan and searched his wardrobe. It was simple: a thin open area to hang clothes, and two small drawers underneath. Harry grabbed the clothes he inherited from Dudley and threw them into the bottom drawer. They landed with a click. Only then did Harry remember the necklace, and he quickly shut the drawer. Harry wanted to keep the necklace a secret, and it would stay safe in there. Harry had no intention of wearing those clothes again, so there was no need to have Agatha clean them, either.

Harry glanced back at the boy with the book on the bed. There was something about Tom that Harry found familiar. He had a crazy thought that maybe they were long-lost brothers who had been separated when Harry's parents died. Maybe the Dursleys sent Tom to an orphanage under the name "Riddle" so they would only have to deal with one child, and that was why they couldn't bring Harry to an orphanage – because he would reunite with his brother! After all, if he reunited with his brother, he'd be happy, and the Dursleys certainly didn't want Harry's happiness.

A part of Harry knew the idea was far-fetched, but there was a larger part of Harry that enjoyed the story. Harry always wanted a brother.

"I'm going to look for a pen," Harry announced to his long-lost brother, closed his wardrobe doors, and headed out the door.

{Notes} I plan for this story to be pretty long. Ideas and predictions are welcome, as well as constructive criticism.