Astrasia: Well first fic and all that, no need to be kind if you think it's worth your time to review though. I can take it! :P And as a warning, in later chapters it will be Yaoi, slash, whatever you want to call it. If you're not fond of it, consider this your last warning because I won't be held responsible.

Disclaimer: Anything you recognise probably belongs to JK. Rowling.

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November 5, 1998, Russia.

Harry Potter.

It was a name that meant nearly everything to the wizarding world of today. The Boy Who Lived, their Savior, the leader of The Golden Trio. Practically their God. Or so the Daily Prophet had practically been proclaiming since the second of May 1998.

On the back of an autobiography somewhere, written by a certain Rita Skeeter so probably not all that accurate, were the words that had become the slogan of the Battle of Hogwarts.

"I know that you are preparing to fight. Your efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood. Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and you will be rewarded. You have until midnight."

It was more than a little ironic that the words chosen by the Dark Lord were chosen for the most drama and drivel-filled book in existence. Where the blonde animagus had probably taken five years off his age to add to the melodrama.

After that battle, the Weasleys had become the poster-family for war victims. A statue was dedicated to Severus Snape in St. Mungo's, apparently he had sent rare and difficult to make potions there during his time at Hogwarts. Hermione returned to Hogwarts for her seventh year, along with Ron of course. Professor McGonagall became Headmistress of Hogwarts, and for some reason unknown, banned Witch Weekly on Hogwarts grounds.

Harry had lasted two weeks into his Seventh year before he had tired of everything.

Suddenly, the entire world had turned into a pack of Colin Creeveys. It was as if the world had sensed his irritatingly adorable absence and decided to take his place. Without the cute factor. Around every corner, cameras flashed in his face and reporters that made Skeeter look tame practically assaulted his person.

It had gotten to the stage whereby McGonagall nearly had to reinforce the old barriers from the war when Harry decided to call it quits and go underground.

For whatever had possessed him at the time, Harry had moved to a secluded forest in central Russia. His only contact with the outside world being the trips he made to Diagon Alley every fortnight for supplies. After a great deal of research, Harry had imitated the wards around Hogwarts and improved them so nobody except those who he wanted to find him could do so.

It had been a hassle to evict the old hag Babayaga, who despite being around since medieval times was certainly not as dead as the rumours would lead one to believe, especially when her house grew legs and started dodging his spells, but the job had been done eventually.

"Harry dear boy, you must stop living like this. Hiding away does nobody any good." The familiar, kindly voice of Albus Dumbledore chided the green-eyed boy fondly from the wall, where the normally-empty portrait hung.

"Professor Dumbledore, it's good to see you again. How did Gryffindor do against Slytherin in the last match?" Harry, ignoring the old man's words, asked enthusiastically. He really missed the sport, probably more than he missed most people.

"Slytherin annihilated them, I'm sorry to say. Minerva was quite upset about it too, she really startled Fawkes. I'm not sure he has ever heard such strong language." Dumbledore was stroking his sabled beard in amusement, watching as Harry bustled around the cluttered living room pretending to clean. By now the ex-Headmaster had resigned himself to the fact that no matter what title or awards you give a teenage boy, he will never clean unless under an Imperius.

"Ron again? You can say it, Hermione dropped by last week to complain about his confidence or something. I stopped listening after a while." Harry mused, hiding a spare sock underneath an overstuffed cushion that probably didn't belong to the mottled grey couch it was perched on.

"Yes, something to that effect. But I believe it would be bad form to repeat the words of the Headmistress exactly." Dumbledore's eyes twinkled a little and the corner of his mouth twitched. Harry smothered a smirk, he really wanted to know what the Scottish woman had to say about his red-haired friend but knew better than to push his old Professor.

The portrait Dumbledore was currently occupying was one of a pair. The other was in it's rightful place in the Headmistress' office. McGonogall had given Harry the other to keep in contact, and to set him work from the seventh year course and more. Harry, the Headmistress had discovered, might not have had the best aptitude for written exams but had wandwork comparable only to the great Dumbledore himself.

After the war, Harry had busied himself in more... active pursuits in magic. Wards, hexes, spells, jinxes... Anything that occupied his mind from the burning, nagging sensation that filled it when left alone too long.

"I have a theory." The out-of-the-blue statement, while completely characteristic of Albus Dumbledore, threw Harry off for a moment before he blinked twice, stupidly, and waited for the professor to continue.

"You still feel as if you have something you need to do, yes?" The question was meant kindly, but it still irritated the young wizard, who nodded anyway. Yes he felt as if there was something he needed to do, it was always there at the back of his mind, digging away like some sort of parasitic insect that just wouldn't go away.

"You are only eighteen. An adult in both the world of Muggles and Wizards. But in my eyes you are still a child. A child that had immense pressure thrust upon him at a young age, and now that it's gone you have nothing to occupy your mind with. You understand this don't you? That in this world, there is nothing left that you have to do. And rather a lot of things you can do." Dumbledore paced around within his frame slowly, only encouraging the idea forming in Harry's head that this portrait wanted something from him.

"I guess. I mean, Voldemort's gone now. Kingsley captured most of the Death Eaters. Ron is going to marry Hermione." Harry frowned, not sure why none of this made him... happy. Sure, he was content and he would rather all of the latter happened but the emptiness just wouldn't leave.

"Harry you are a great wizard. Greater than you think you are, especially now. Few wizards as great as you were content to sit as idle as I had. Merlin, Grindelwald, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, even Slytherin and Tom Riddle himself are perfectly good examples. My dear boy, you are simply bored out of your mind." The older wizard laced his fingers together triumphantly, looking as if this revelation would up and prevent world hunger.

"Er, I still don't want to go out there Professor. Unlike Lockhart, I find handing out autographs boring." Harry sighed, thinking this was just another attempt of the slightly batty old Headmaster to get him out of the house.

"My dear boy, I believe I said this world has nothing for you." Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling almost mischievously, but a sense of elation thrummed through Harry's chest. This might actually be going somewhere useful for a change.

"Do you remember, during the brief time you spent running through the Department of Mysteries, the Time Room?" The elder wizard's head inclined slightly, and a pecualiar shine took over his half-moon spectacles.

"Um, yeah. That was the place where the Death Eater's head got stuck in that weird bell jar. The one that had the egg... hummingbird thing in it. The room was filled with clocks." Harry supplied, feeling a little foolish about not knowing a little more, but was surprised when the Professor nodded contentedly.

"Good, good. Do you remember what Ms. Granger once told you about her Time Turner?" This question seemed so off-topic that Harry's head swam a little, but he nodded feebly. He never would forget any adventure of theirs that involved Sirius Black after all.

"Yeah. She said not to let your past-self see you... but I did that and I'm fine... And not to change things too much or you will mess time up. Or something." Harry mumbled, not really sure how else to put it. Dumbledore didn't seem bothered by the unprecise information, but rather hummed triumphantly as Harry waited expectantly.

"Yes my dear boy. But how did the bell jar make sense? Watching time itself rewind, as long as it is contained within that bell jar, should not theoretically be allowed to happen." Harry's head was starting to hurt. He never did enjoy it when Dumbledore tried to make him think. The old man put far too much effort into that nowadays.

"Er... Was there some sort of ward around it? No, definitely not. I've studied those a good bit. Um... I give up?" Harry chanced his arm, tiring of the game quickly.

"Use your head, that is why you have it. Now, how do muggles remove the effect of an object's mass from an area?" Harry gave up in his efforts to convince Dumbledore to tell him anything, and just went with it.

"They use a vacuum, right? Suck all the air out of something until there's nothing left and seal it fast." Harry answered, running a hand through his messy hair distractedly before removing it quickly. A habit the boy-who-lived noticed he had in common with his father. Since seeing his father in action in the pensieve, and how much of a prat he looked doing it, had convinced him to try to stop.

"Yes, now would you consider that vacuum a part of the world around it?"

"No, I guess not. If there's no normal gravity and air and stuff."

"And in this vacuum you can see a bowling ball and a feather fall from the same height at the same speed, whereas out in the 'real world' such a thing is generally impossible."

"Yeah, I guess. Did you take Muggle Studies, Professor?"

"The bell jar is the same as that vacuum. Once tampered with enough, it disobeys laws of magic. what do you suppose would happen if someone reversed the effects of the bell jar? Say, the charm effected everything outside itself rather than in?" Dumbledore laced his fingers together once more, and Harry was starting to get an idea where this was going. Finally.

"Wouldn't time outside the bell jar reverse? And then go forward again, and repeat all over again. And everything inside the bell jar..." Recognition must have dawned on the scarred boy's face, because Dumbledore smiled benignly.

"Would stay the same. So a person could, with the right materials, travel to a different time period. But, if a person travels in this way, they are ripped from their own time. They exist in their chosen time line much more substantially than using a time turner. Your being will be laced into the new timeline, and effectively create an entirely different world just by your presence." Dumbledore explained jovially.

Harry frowned, the area just behind his temple beginning to throb.

"So any changes made back then..." Harry figured, trying to follow the genius' line of thought.

"Will have no effect on this now." Dumbledore's clear blue eyes twinkled delightedly, watching the cogs turn in Harry's brain with satisfaction.

"And I have a feeling you already know what I am going to ask you to do." The merriness was gone from the portrait's voice, and Harry found himself leaning forward to hear what the old man had to say.

Maybe it was the old 'Hero Complex' acting up, but for some reason the idea of having something solid to do, a purpose made him want to agree to whatever the aged portrait had to tell him. What was a 'hero' without anything to do anyway?

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September 1, 1938, Hogwarts Castle.

Tom Marvolo Riddle felt ridiculously out of place, yet remarkably at home at the same time. Himself and countless other first years were standing in an awkwardly shuffling line behind a man the young boy had already learned to dislike. Albus Dumbledore, who is apparently the Transfiguration Professor at Hogwarts, and the Deputy Headmaster.

The eyes of hundreds of students, all older than they were, were watching with mild interest as the first years scuffled quickly after the auburn-haired man with an odd fashion sense.

Older, but not better. A snide voice reminded Tom quickly. It was probably true. He was smarter, and better than all those muggle children that were older than him. It stands to reason that he is probably similarly gifted in the magical arts, seeing as none of the other first years seemed to have tried any of the spells in the school books yet.

Tom himself hadn't been able to wait. He had put his wand to very good use before the Ministry thought to put the Trace on poor orphan Riddle. Dennis Bishop could attest to it, if he ever loosened the tongue that had been tied since Tom's first, wandless experiment on that boy and little Amy Benson.

"-virtues
In the ones they had to teach.

By Gryffindor, the bravest were
Prized far beyond the rest;
For Ravenclaw, the cleverest
Would always be the best;

For Hufflepuff, hard workers were
Most worthy of admission;
And power-hungry Slytherin
Loved those of great ambition.
While still alive they did divide
Their favourites from the throng,
Yet how to pick the worthy ones
When they were dead and gone?

Twas Gryffindor who found the way,
He whipped me off his head
The founders put some brains in me
So I could choose instead!

Now slip me snug about your ears,
I've never yet been wrong,
I'll have a look inside your mind
And tell where you belong!"

Tom Riddle allowed his eyes to snap back to where a mouldy-looking hat had finished singing, and cringed in disgust when he realised he had to put it on his head. The were probably traces of the bubonic plague still living in it.

The shrewd first year allowed his eyes to scan the Great Hall, or more particularly the Head table where the teachers sat. Each of the teachers were sitting in the assigned seats for their subject, as was custom for the Welcoming Feast. Or so said Hogwarts: A History when Tom had read it.

The Potions Professor was a large man, nearly as round as he was tall, with a seamy brow and sparse blonde hair. A transparent ghost was drifting dazedly three feet above the History of Magic post. Of course there was Dumbledore, who he recognised, who taught Transfiguration... A wizened-looking old lady was sitting in the Defense Against the Dark Arts spot, but directly next to her was a seat that didn't belong. A young man with wild dark hair and slightly lop-sided glasses sat, watching the Sorting with avid amusement.

"Malfoy, Abraxas!" The first name for Sorting was called out by the Headmaster, who had led the first years into the Great Hall himself. Armando Dippet, a harmless sort but hardly the most inspiring Headmaster Hogwarts had seen. He was ancient now, soon to enter his two hundred and nineties.

Tom allowed his eyes to slide from the young man to watch the Sorting curiously, having only read about the proceedings beforehand. There had been an oddly hushed silence and quiet whispers when the name had been called out. A tall boy, about four inches over Tom himself who was not himself short, with high aristocratic cheekbones, light silvery hair and an uneasy expression sat on the rickety stool. The Sorting Hat perched perfectly on his head, pausing only a moment before announcing 'Slytherin' to the now-relieved-looking boy.

'Slytherin,' Tom thought as the line shortened considerably before him. 'It seems it is the only house with a bit of... bite to it.' Especially when looking at the Hufflepuff table. If there ever looked to be a useless lot it was them, with their blank eyes and overly-white smiles that nearly blinded the rest of the Hall.

The Sorting appeared to have an unusual order to it. Where it had once been alphabetical, it seemed parentage had come to play a certain part. Tom noticed this quickly as the children dressed in the newest clothes, walking with the easiest gait, were called first. There was something there he didn't know, and Tom hated not knowing anything.

The line dwindled, and Tom was quickly left standing with children that had been born into purely Muggle families. He could tell by the way they fidgeted, and the flash of Muggle clothes they wore beneath their robes when they moved too suddenly.

"Riddle, Tom!" There was no hush upon his name being called out as there had been for the Malfoy. To them, Tom was another normal kid who would be another average student. The way the Sorting Hat fell over his ears, it hadn't fallen over Malfoy's, the way the other students brushed him off... It all infuriated him.

To the point where he ignored the murmurs of the Hat in his head and continued his furious train of thought.

Until it occurred to him. Nobody here would ever know about what he had done in the orphanage, execpt the fool Dumbledorre but even he didn't know the extent, so why shouldn't he go along with it? Poor orphan Riddle was about to become the best student Hogwarts had ever seen. And glean every last drop of information he could from them while he's at it..

'Well there's certainly no doubt about where you're going.' Tom, who hadn't been listening to the Hat until this point, focused solely on the hat as the rip near it's brim opened wide.

"Slytherin!"

Now the Great Hall was quiet. The same hushed quiet it had been when Malfoy's name had been called out, but for a different reason. Suddenly, as Tom Riddle turned to face the Slytherin table, he realised just how many of those people who had the newest of everthing were sitting there.

Pretending to look surprised and a little embarrassed, Tom allowed his eyes to slide to the floor and fidgeted with his sleeve as he had seen the other children do. This seemed to appease the majority of the Slytherins, who lost interest fairly quickly and went back to watching the Sorting. Tom slid quickly into one of the few remaining seats, noting with a hidden smirk that Malfoy was sitting next to him.

Tom felt a prickling sensation on the back of his neck and, slowly so as not to arouse too much suspicion, turned to face whoever was staring at him so intensely. It was the young man who was sitting next to the DADA Professor. His forest green eyes didn't look away as they met Tom's own, he only quirked a brow at the expression on Tom's face. The first year reschooled his expression quickly, not letting any of his suspicious thoughts show.

The eleven year old scowled just as quickly again when the man smirked, and a lock of hair shifted on his forehead. Tom's eyes must have widened upon seeing the lightening-shaped scar, because the Professor (that must be what he is) grinned and patted his hair down securely again before turning to talk animatedly with the DADA Professor next to him.

Tom, noting with irritation that he had been dismissed, turned to make small-talk with the tall blonde boy that had been watching the exchange with a bemused expression on his face.

Hogwarts, Tom decided, would have to grow used to the idea that this eleven year old was going to turn it upside-down.

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Astrasia: Well is it good, bad, worth updating at all? I'd really appreciate any feedback, and thanks to anyone who bothered reading to the end of this chapter!