The train station was empty. Sometimes when he visited, it was full of people. Sometimes he would even see a familiar face or two but it was strangely empty and quiet. The place was devoid of life and he could feel the cold seeping through his clothes.

Harry shivered.

So he found himself a corner and sat, waiting for the inevitable train or the pull that would put him back to his body. He waited. He tapped his foot.

It was always something or the other.

He tried to remember how he died this time. There were fanatics who attacked. As an auror, he had to do his job of course. Instead of saving himself, he did the saving people thing. He prioritized evacuating the citizens out of the ministry. He managed to get a hold of the assailants' wands and was about to tie them up when one of them got close enough to stab him through the chest.

Multiple times it seemed.

Harry stared at the mess of his clothes. The blood looked very fresh against his white clothes.

He inspected how many stab wounds he sustained. "Five… six…"

He sighed, feeling too old and weary. He wondered if he should bother coming back. Surely, even the Ministry would be wary if he came back from the dead. Not aging was one thing, but returning from the dead was another. Then, after what felt like hours, he heard soft footsteps.

"Harry, my boy."

Harry looked at the approaching man. He frowned. It seemed like Albus was revisiting his younger days, and instead of his usual grandfatherly look, he had golden orange hair. He was still old looking, but a tad younger than what he remembered the headmaster should be.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry greeted.

"It's been awhile. How is everything?" The small seat began to widen, and the old headmaster sat beside him.

"Where do I start?"

The headmaster unwrapped a piece of candy, and offered one to him. Harry wondered if eating candy while he was dead would do anything to his body, he accepted it anyway. The visage of Albus flickered for a moment, and he heard a train approach.

"Tell me about your family."

Harry felt something constrict in his chest and then began, "Ginny and I separated. It's been that way for a few years. The kids are all grown up and Albus, ah not you… My son, Albus Severus. He's getting married. I might have a grandchild soon!" Harry tried to feel happy and excited but deflated, "I feel like I'm going to live forever sometimes and it's weird you know, when you take a look at your son and he looks older than you."

To this, Dumbledore nodded sagely, as if he knew everything.

The train was almost there. The sound of the train passing through the tracks and the breaks wheezing against the wind filled the quietness. The horns blew and the doors opened. Several footsteps and disjointed murmuring echoed here and there.

"I tried to fix things. I wore glamours, changed my voice… but it felt like it was all a lie and it got tiring… So I stopped showing myself to people. I had a brilliant idea of wearing a mask."

Dumbledore laughed, "Ahh, the perils of having eternal youth. Tell me more."

Harry fingered his white bloodstained robes, "I got back to work. Funny how no one really questioned why I would wear a mask but it made things easier. I apprehended a lot of the remaining fanatics. They called themselves the new order, and used a variation of the dark mark. And I know… I do understand they are fighting for a cause that they think is right but… they're going at it the wrong way. I don't know why they resort to violence."

Albus combed a hand through his short beard, "Some say the end justifies the means. Many people are willing to go through the bloody path if it gets them closer to their goal faster than they could ever do by doing things peacefully."

Harry frowned at this and bit his lip, "Even if it makes them evil?"

The headmaster laughed, "A matter of perspective, Harry. When I was younger, I thought the same and perhaps if Ariana hadn't died, the world would be very different now."

The train began to whistle, and blurs of white and gray were moving towards it.

"…You should get on the train Harry. You don't want to stay here for longer than you should."

Harry stood up, green eyes narrowed. "Do you know where it leads?"

Albus chewed on his lemon drop for a bit before answering, "Being the master of death is quite tricky, but I assure you, it will never do anything for you that you do not want."

Harry turned away and began thinking out loud, "So are you saying that I wanted to die? That I wanted this to happen to me?"

When he looked back, Albus was gone.

He heard the faint voice calling out, "All aboard! All aboard!"

He woke up, freezing and in pain. A whimper left his throat. Then he noticed how small his hands were. They were almost blue with cuts and bruises that littered around.

He was dying.

He coughed out blood and crawled out of what seemed like a box. His lower half was soaked with water and blood and a part of him knew that it was on purpose. Someone left him there to die in the dumps.

Harry panicked, knowing this was a mistake, he willed for his magic to help him and almost smiled when he felt it there, barely but it wouldn't follow him. It didn't jump to his command as easily as before. All he could do was pathetically crawl with his arms. It was the only part of him that he could move.

His cheeks rubbed against the pavement but he forced himself to move. The snow was cold, and almost inviting. He was so tired.

He managed to get out of the dark street into the light and heard someone scream.

Harry saw the face of a concerned woman, and that was the last of it.

Warmth. His head felt like it was going to burst but the rest of him felt strangely warm. So warm.

"That's because you have a fever."

Harry blinked, "I said that out loud."

"Yes, you did."

Green eyes adjusted to the sudden light. Curtains were opened to see the frosty white of winter. He was in a rather run down room, and Harry tried to ignore very hard… who was it that just talked to him. The other boy was looking out into the same dreary landscape of white. His presence was very magnetic.

"Your name?" The smooth voice asked, high pitched in all ways a child's voice should sound. Then, the boy turned to look at him, arms crossed.

Harry stared at him. Even as a child, Tom Riddle was majestic. His power and magic roiled about him in an almost obscene way. It was too gigantic of a force to be contained by a small body. He wasn't Voldemort though. Tom's face was unmarred by all the atrocities that he's done and it almost felt like the boy was innocent, like an angel.

Tom tapped his fingers impatiently, "I asked for your name."

Harry tried to calm down. His fever addled mind coupled with the raging headache did nothing for his sudden racing heart. He felt like he was hyperventilating, and he gasped.

Tom Riddle looked concerned, and came closer until then there was a hand on his forehead.

All throughout Harry was screaming 'Too close. This can't be real.' In his head.

But all he could do was gasp like a fish out of water. If he could, Harry would've been very mortified at how he was reacting but as it was, he was panicking at the repercussions of where he was and what he was doing in the PAST with the not-yet dark lord.

Tom expertly maneuvered Harry's body until he was sitting up a bit and pillows were placed behind the sick boy, to prevent him from lying down.

Then a glass of water was placed next to his lips. "Drink."

Harry drank it, and it felt like it was the first time he's tasted water. He finished it too fast, droplets falling down his chin. Tom wiped it off with a small towel, almost annoyed.

Another glass was offered and this time, Harry managed to remember he had hands, and with shaking hands, he took the offered glass and began taking slower sips. He watched the other boy from underneath his lashes.

"They told me, you might not like your name." Tom struggled for the words, "that you might hate it… because of what happened."

Harry lowered the glass, wincing as his head hurt. A flash of an abusive man appeared. Fat just like his uncle but a touch more violent. Grotesque. He shivered as he remembered being used like a slave. He was an orphan who was picked up from the streets. At first it was fine, but soon enough it became a pattern bottles being thrown at his feet, being whipped and caned, and tortured for no reason. One drunken night, the man had gone too far, asking friends to join in, which led to his supposed death. He was nine.

They put him in a box, and poured water over his body, hoping it would freeze enough in the cold weather. Harry reached out for his neck, remembering how he was strangled there, and he tried to fight back.

And then, he flinched when a hand clasped his. Tom lowered his other hand until it was back on the bed. Harry found himself looking back at blue eyes and so much power.

"They caught him. He won't hurt you anymore."

Harry tried to make sense of his feelings, but he was altogether too shocked to speak up. After a moment, and realizing that he was staring too much, Harry looked away. Tom let go of his hands and from the bedside, lifted a tray with a bowl of sludge and placed it on his lap.

"It's disgusting, I know… but it's food."

Harry felt his eyebrow's knit.

"Why are you being so nice? You don't even know me." Harry was positively… almost hopeful… that maybe… maybe there was some goodness in Tom Riddle or he hit himself too hard and was having one big nightmare.

Tom for a moment, looked troubled.

"It was a task to take care of you… The others took turns too." Harry knew the boy wanted to say something else but waved it off. "The doctor said you'll be fine but you wouldn't wake up. You were asleep for almost a week."

Harry tried to suppress the other bout of panic. He bit the inside of his cheek repeatedly, wondering if he could wake up in his own time. When he realized that it was not working, he felt his throat clam up and something began to sting.

Tom Riddle looked at him as if he wanted to say something more, like he was visibly restraining himself. Harry could feel the magic, excited but troubled before subsiding, settling lazily around the angelic boy whose lips were opening, "Now you're awake. Eat."

Harry took the spoon and attacked the sludge, and tried to swallow. He was definitely crying by now. He blamed the child's body and the child's memory and his apparent helplessness of not being able to do anything yet.

The sludge was tasteless and gooey but it was food so, he tried to distract himself with it.

Then Harry smiled, his voice all broken but earnest, "Thank you, for taking care of me. You can call me… Harry."

Harry held out his hand, noticing the fading bruises the tiny cuts that remained. Tom took it, very gently. "I'm Tom. Tom Riddle."