Disclaimer: Harry Potter doesn't belong to me, and neither does Tom Riddle.

This story is what I've wanted to write for an entire year and it's finally here. Because Tomarry Big Bang 2017 is a perfect excuse. Yep, another WIP. Don't you all love me?

Chapter 1. Beautiful Stranger

Hello, hello, hello,

Beautiful stranger.

How familiar the danger.

"So, I can choose to go back?" Harry asked the deceased Headmaster, hope and disbelief warring inside him. "Can I choose to go back before this all started, then?"

Before the world became what it was. Before Death Eaters ever entered Hogwarts' territory and tortured children and tormented adults there.

Before Lord Voldemort. Back to Tom Riddle.

Albus Dumbledore smiled.

"But of course!" The old man clapped his hands. Nostalgia swelled in Harry's heart, and although the anger at the Headmaster for concealing so many important things from him still burnt... his eyes stung and he wished to be that first year who believed in magic. "You can go anywhere you wish from here. Just choose the train."

Harry looked around the station. Upon waking, there had only been Professor Dumbledore, and shock, and the fractured child screaming out its pain.

Now, the train station expanded, seemed vaster than the Hogwarts grounds, and people thronged and rushed about. A crowd of girls pushed between Harry and the old man, and just as the boy prepared to feel the impact, none came. They passed through, like ghosts. Like mere impressions of the people they used to be.

The group scurried into a train adorned with purple trellises, which took off as soon as its doors snapped closed, and in its place there arrived another, a strange little train decorated with cakes, muffins, and glitter. It, too, found its passengers.

"Will any train bring me where I want to go?"

Harry wistfully eyed a flying train that had brooms holstered to the sides.

"No. You have to choose the right one."

"You do have any tips, right, sir?"

Professor Dumbledore's face brightened. "Indeed I do, dear boy!" His wrinkled hand pressed upon the blue robes on the left side of his chest. "You have to listen to what your heart and soul whisper."

Harry tried to listen.

Silence.

Somehow, this wasn't quite working.

"I think they whisper way too softly for me to understand them, sir," he conceded eventually. Professor Dumbledore only chuckled.

"Walk around here, and you may find what you are looking for."

Harry swept the expanses of the train station with a long, long look. Dread churned in his stomach. He was dreaming. There was no way he could change the past, no way could he fix it. The biggest miracle he could ever produce was not die-

He dredged up his resolution and decided to listen to his former Headmaster. For all his faults, the old man had helped him many times in the past, had been right many times, and perhaps this time he was right, too.

"Ah! Before you go," Albus Dumbledore's voice stopped Harry in his tracks just as the young man stepped towards the next platform, shoulders heaving in resignation, because he would do it, he wanted to do it... he just didn't know how. "Will you be bringing this child with you?"

Harry knew whom he meant. His gaze fixed on the red-skinned, ugly creature who pumped the air around them with its woe.

A next-to-last remnant of Tom Marvolo Riddle.

It was ugly and broken. Its cry hoarse and hate-filled.

And Harry couldn't leave it alone.

He picked it up. The child felt oddly heavy, like a yoke around his shoulders, but also surprisingly warm. Until then Harry hadn't realised the chill permeating his bones.

All wailing stilled.

"I don't want to," he confessed and wondered why guilt twinged in his heart. Surely it wasn't normal to feel this guilty and miserable for his nemesis. The horcrux let out a soft cry. "But... I don't want to become a killer either. I've never wanted to, sir, you know that. And I hope that if I prevent Voldemort from existing, this child won't exist either and won't suffer anymore."

"Commendable sentiment." Professor Dumbledore smiled. "Well, off you go. I'm afraid that the time you can spend here is limited before this place starts draining your life force. This is the land of the dead, after all. Their station."

Harry didn't understand but he figured it was one of those moments when you had to act, not understand.

"Thank you," Harry whispered, Tom Riddle heavy in his arms. "You've done a lot for me. I'm still angry that you planned for me to die without being absolutely sure that I survive... That you never even told me that I was a horcrux... But I still appreciate the things you did for me when I was a child."

The old man might have been the one to doom him to a life with the Dursleys, but he had saved Harry from them, too.

With one last look and one last smile, the boy turned around. He didn't crane his neck back, but for some reason, he knew that he wouldn't see the Headmaster anymore.

Now, all he saw were trains and people, so many that he had never seen such an amount in his entire life.

The trains astounded him with how varied they were, how whimsical, some gilded with gold and gems, others gliding over the station on sets of colourful bird wings. A train with palms and hammocks swept an inch away from him, and Harry sighed longingly at the thought of a vacation, but ploughed resolutely onwards, the child cradled to his chest, its bawling non-existent.

Its eyes were closed, as if it fell asleep, but the presence still lingered, still as heavy.

He saw a train made of dragon scales, a train carried in the folds of a flock of Lethifolds' cloaks, a train of breathing flesh, and a train of transparent bone. He saw beings of all ages and races jump aboard the multitude of trains, and yet his heart still hadn't led him to the one destined for him. The one that would change the lives of so many people dear to Harry.

He didn't know how long he wandered until he felt it.

A tug.

Hardly believing his luck, Harry turned.

The train was nondescript. He hardly saw it, nestled as it was between a monstrosity made of sapphire owl feathers and a train of thistle and clay. It was black, with stripes of green and red running along the roof. Almost serpentine. With trepidation, heart beating fast in his chest, Harry neared the entrance.

The door opened, and a gust of smells – old leather and paper dust – sandbagged him in the nose.

"Ticket," a voice he recognised asked sternly.

Harry stumbled backwards when the face of Madame Pince, the Hogwarts librarian, jumped at him out of the darkness reigning inside. She was clad in battle robes, and her eyes inspected them both shrewdly. Harry shuffled his feet, readjusting his hold on the horcrux.

Madame Pince glanced at Tom. Nodded in approval.

"You may enter," she said shortly and faded back into whatever abyss she had sprung from. Harry, still reeling, did.

He didn't look back, and so he didn't see his old Headmaster eyeing him in contemplation.

"Should I have warned him that if he brings Tom with him, he will find a different train? One that follows the desires of both their hearts?" The old man popped a lemon sherbet into his mouth. "Oh well."

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THE LIBRARIAN

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The whisper of trees in the Forbidden Forest remained unchanged. Treetops, rustling, blotted out the sky.

The child in his arms vanished. Its warmth still clung to his skin, through his dirty and worn clothes – well, it didn't seem like travelling to the past would have such a nice boon as cleaning him up a bit, even though the universe should have been nice enough to do this after all it had put him through. How lucky he wasn't accustomed to nice things.

He rummaged around in his pockets, hoping to find his phoenix feather wand. Tough luck. The familiar tingling was absent. Instead, he pulled out Draco Malfoy's slender wand.

At least, if I prevent the future from happening, he won't miss it.

Then again, it's not like Harry cared about Malfoy's comfort of all things.

His pockets also contained the few belongings he had had before going to die, including his Firebolt, the mirror shard, some clothes and galleons, his photo album – his entire life stuck in his pockets before his march to death.

It's a pity I can't find Ron and Hermione there.

A jolt of loneliness rushed through his mind before Harry lifted his chin and repressed the emotion like he had done many times before, back in his cupboard years, when emotions and nightmares had been his only companions.

Well, that's not exactly true. I remember having spiders as well. Ron would have had a coronary.

Harry smiled with no real humour.

Looking around, he made up his mind. He came with a purpose. Unfortunately, he couldn't reveal it, and that included Hogwarts' Headmaster who wasn't Dumbledore. Lingering would be unwise. Even if his magic didn't clue the centaurs in to his presence, the wards must alert the Headmaster that someone intruded Hogwarts, any minute now. Being caught would ruin everything.

He exhaled and took off in the direction of Hogsmeade.

This was another march. Another stretch of silence. Only, this time he was utterly alone – no phantoms of the past to drive away Dementors and Dark forces, even if Dark Forces consisted only of his own fear now. Funny how dying to save the world was easier than living with the same aim.

Harry told himself to stop being a coward and soldier on.

He just hoped this march would end in something other than a death.

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THE LIBRARIAN

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Hogsmeade flourished. Gone was the tense atmosphere of grief, the fear, the silence, the sorrow. Even the evening air tasted different and brought with it the smells of caramel, cinnamon, herbs, pies, firewhiskey, and the flowery whiff that hung back after magical fireworks. He glimpsed them upon nearing the village, patterns of vibrant motley flames that cut into the canvas of the sky.

People, in festive robes and with smiles, ambled along the stalls filled with all sorts of magical sweets, and cakes, and street food. Harry's eyed widened. He had never seen anything of the like in the Hogsmeade of his time. The small village would have almost been boring if not for the fact that it was magical and had some entertaining shops. He had never seen anything like a fair there.

His stomach growled.

If this isn't a sign from the universe, I don't know what is.

No one could fault him for indulging himself on the way to fulfil his mission, right?

He strolled to the nearest stall. They all sold food, drinks, firkins of firewhiskey and butterbeer, coffee-smelling drinks with fairy powder in them, pies containing magical herbs and plants... One stall smelled particularly delicious.

"Hello, dear!" a dark-haired, plump-lipped witch greeted him, swatting away a few stray pixies with a rolled newspaper in one hand. A finger swirled the drink in the goblet soaring by her side. "Here for the peach pie?"

"Uh... not exactly." Harry smiled, and forcing it on was almost easy. Hard to brood and think of saving the world while chatter and life washed over him in a soothing melody. "But now that you've mentioned it, I think this is exactly what I want."

The witch winked at him.

"Old Dorcas is good at guessing customer's wants! That aside, everyone is asking me for this pie today, it's a pity I didn't bake more. This is the last one. You want one slice or...?"

Harry glanced at the pie she displayed, with golden crust and peaches laid out on top and glazed. A small card announced the price in a wobbly scrawl: a sickle for the pie, three knuts a slice. Only a few triangles remained.

"Actually, make it two," Harry told her. "I think I'll eat one now, and save the other for later."

She smiled and cast a spell to wrap both of them in very thin parchment that wizards and witches used for food.

"Here you are!" she chimed, holding the pie out. Harry accepted and didn't waste time in tucking one slice into his pouch, and his teeth into the other. It was sweet but not overly so, just the way he preferred, and the smell of peaches tickled his nose.

It's been a while since he had tasted anything as good as this. Living in tents and off mushrooms with friends might sound like a fine, fun idea, but only when it wasn't a necessity and without hordes of Dark Lord's minions after you.

"Any tea or juice to go with it?"

Harry thought for a second, finally settling on pumpkin juice. He hadn't tasted it since Hogwarts and missed it dearly, almost as much as the life before Voldemort's resurrection. The memories of times when he drank it in the Great Hall trickled into his mind, and he almost sensed the warmth of Ron at his side, almost heard Hermione's voice urging them to finish and hurry to the lessons...

Would he ever hear their voices again? Harry remembered that time-travel was tricky, which meant that every single interruption of events could lead to uncertain results. Would Hermione and Ron even exist in this universe?..

Then again, even if they would, Harry was now in the past with Tom Riddle. About seventy years would pass before he met his friends again, and even if he would live to such an age, the people inhabiting this dimension wouldn't be his friends. He had left his Hermione and Ron behind for good.

He ignored the prickling in his eyes.

"Is everything all right, honey?" the witch asked him.

"Fine." The washed out smile made a comeback. "I'm perfectly fine."

He fished out some coins and counted the right amount, but Dorcas stopped him.

"I will only take the money for the pie, the juice is on the house." She winked again. "You look barely out of Hogwarts, are you nostalgic about the school? Don't worry, I know the feeling, I was a student there myself a couple of decades ago."

"Really? What House?"

"Can you guess?"

"Hufflepuff?" was Harry's first thought. The woman gave off that homey, cosy feeling that reminded him of Mrs Weasley, even if the two looked nothing alike – this lady was thin, with tanned skin and hazel eyes, and for all that she called herself 'old', she didn't look a day over thirty.

Dorcas wagged a finger before plunging it into her coffee. Harry blinked.

"Wrong. Slytherin." She puffed out her chest proudly. "The Headmaster's House."

Reverence oozed from her voice, mixed with fear and a pride of a person belonging to a secret order.

"I didn't know Professor Dippet was a Slytherin," Harry remarked to keep the conversation going. Who knew, maybe this woman could point him to a shelter for the night? Harry had neither money nor friends here, in this lonely, lonely world.

She stopped swirling her finger in her drink.

"Professor Dippet? Who is it?" Dorcas shook her head. Then her eyes lit up, as if remembering, and a light, amused smile pulled at her lips. "I don't know what recreational potion you've ingested, doll, but you shouldn't do this again. Nasty things, these potions. Make you forget your own head sometimes. Professor Dippet retired decades ago. Now his position is taken by Headmaster-" She paused, lowering her voice. That veneration yet again. "Headmaster Riddle."

Harry's throat closed up. Colours, people, and smells meshed, and-

Why was he feeling like he was marching again?

"Headmaster... Riddle?" His hand shot up to grasp her forearm, desperate eyes drilling into the woman's. She didn't wince away, just put down her cup, hazel eyes unblinking. "Could you tell me his full name? Please, ma'am?"

She shot him a consoling smile and gently pulled his fingers away. "Of course."

An inhalation.

In a whisper:

"Tom Marvolo Riddle."

She sighed, and shuddered (as if an invisible wind tore through her when the name fell from her lips), and continued, "The best Headmaster in history- but you do know everything about him. Really, dear, stop with the recreational potions. Here, take some peach pie instead. Looks like you need the food."

Moving to get some wrapping parchment, she shifted the rolled-up newspaper, unfurling it.

Harry snatched it to look at the date typed on a corner of the Daily Prophet.

All his plans tumbled down.

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THE LIBRARIAN

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It's been a week in this world and each day convinced him that something had gone dreadfully wrong. Terribly wrong. Albus Dumbledore had lied again. Harry wasn't in the right place at all.

This wasn't Tom Riddle's era. In fact, it wasn't even his parents' time.

He had ended up exactly a year earlier, in that summer before they parted for the quest, Ron, Hermione, and himself.

As if that wasn't enough, Harry didn't recognise Hogsmeade.

Gone was the tiny village of his school years. Alien presence crept into its every corner, every nook. He didn't know what launched a change, whether his world would have been the same if Voldemort chose a different course, but he appreciated the differences as much he found them jarring; difficult to enter utopia from a place where smiles bloomed rarely and withered quickly.

The pie lady turned out to be Madame Rosmerta's wife, Dorcas Meadowes. Harry wondered at the age difference, but it wasn't his place to judge them. He had been judged too often himself.

Now, he lived on the upper floor of the Three Broomsticks, thanks to Madame Rosmerta who provided him with food and board for some menial work that was too tricky or exhausting with magic. He had lied to Dorcas – who preferred to be called by name – that a potions accident had addled his mind and caused an amnesia of sorts, so now he hardly retained any memory of the life he had led before stumbling into Hogsmeade.

He pretended he didn't see she only pretended to believe him. Rosmerta, meanwhile, took his presence in The Three Broomsticks in stride and always offered a pint of butterbeer at the end of the day. Eventually Harry looked forward to it as much as some people look forward to breakfast when they go to sleep in the evening.

He made careful inquiries into Tom Riddle, of course.

No substantial result.

For one, few people called him Tom Riddle at all – most addressed him as the Headmaster, their voices low and wondering, full of worship and pride, yet a tinge of fear.

Voldemort didn't exist.

Or, as Harry thought spitefully, the bastard hid too well this time around, fooling the public, biding his time. Must be corrupting the poor youth in his free time. Harry shuddered. Neville's tales of a Hogwarts under Snape had been bad enough; Voldemort must be way, way worse.

So bad, in fact, that the Headmaster drew only admiration and respect. Brainwashing was amongst the worst crimes in Harry's mind, simply because people couldn't realise their brains were meddled with, couldn't see that a crime was happening at all.

They were all blind.

He pushed back the curtains in his tiny room in the attic, and snuck a glance at the passers-by. There weren't many of them; Hogsmeade wasn't a big village by muggle standards, and most witches and wizards preferred to spend time in their homes or pubs or shops. Only a couple of small groups were hanging around at the moment, especially so early in the morning.

A boy with red hair was laughing. A carefree laughter that real Ron rarely let out ever since the Horcrux-hunt started.

An ugly feeling twisted his chest, and Harry understood. He almost wanted to hit himself for his emotions... but how could one change their heart?

Still, he felt ashamed of himself because...

Harry secretly scoffed, and huffed, and fumed at their ignorance and innocence, but even more secretly... he envied them. He had never seen a place that happy before.

It would have been easy to forget the war back home. Sometimes, he almost did. Sometimes he wanted to. Sometimes he almost succeeded.

However, like it always happens, when we try to flee the past, the past comes back and finds us.

In Harry's case, it arrived in the form of an unscarred werewolf who wasn't a werewolf at all.

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THE LIBRARIAN

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"Ah, I wish we had more quiet mornings like this," Madame Rosmerta sighed into her cranberry cordial.

Harry tried not to turn around. If he did, his attention would definitely be snagged by her outstanding cleavage, and he would blush so damn hard that both women wouldn't be able to contain their laughter and would tease him even more.

Right. Gotta pay attention to this dirty spot right there.

Dorcas snorted and, pausing her batter-making process, pointed at her wife with a rolling pin. "Fancy hearing that from you! You're always the first woman to complain of boredom on days when hardly anyone comes."

Harry listened to the ladies banter, smiled at Madame Rosmerta's pout, while rubbing a spot with a magical-solution-soaked rag. He had been in The Three Broomsticks for two weeks, yet this was the first morning when he could breathe freely, when no customer infringed on the place-

The bells above the door rang.

Damn. He should stop jinxing it.

Harry rubbed a temple with his empty hand. Madame Rosmertha welcomed the patron, and he snuck a curious glance-

No.

The rag slipped out of Harry's fingers.

It can't be true.

He remembered hands reaching for each other, never finding contact. The pallor of scarred skin. Empty eyes, the gold evaporated from them. He remembered a body where a person used to be.

"Are you all right?" the man who entered asked with worry creasing his forehead. Madame Rosmerta half-rose from her seat to see what was wrong but Harry motioned for her to stay put.

He needed to keep himself in check. If he was acting like this when it was just Remus – Remus would never be 'just', how could such a thought even cross his mind? – what would happen when he bumped into the actual Tom Riddle?

Harry breathed in deeply. Luckily, his face was turned away from their worried gazes, which allowed him time to compose himself before he spun on his heels to face-

Remus.

A gasp escaped him.

The man didn't have scars on his face. No lines of worry and sorrow. No grief. No golden tint in his eyes.

The voice was the same and the features, but...

This man was a Remus, but he wasn't the Remus Harry knew, and somehow the boy could breathe again. Recollections still invaded his eyes, and he wanted to lean in and see if the scent was the same – something earthy and akin to a forest in deep autumn – but he held them back. He smiled.

"It's nothing, sir." Harry was reminded of the times he said that to his Remus, when the man worried about his nightmares at Grimmauld Place and about Slytherins giving him trouble back at Hogwarts – although now that Harry thought of it, it was probably him and his group that gave Slytherins trouble half the time. "Just a slight headache."

Unknowingly, Dorcas hastened to confirm his lie.

"Poor boy, got into an accident with a potion and now always down with something! I've always been telling that potion-making at home should be regulated."

Harry flushed and hoped he could find a way to derail the conversation. Not even because he hated people worrying about his health in such an obvious fashion, but because once that lady started stating her opinions, it would be a long, long ride to the end. And there might be an explosion or two and several more stains that just somehow appeared out of thin air. Harry honestly didn't know why he ended up scrubbing so much every single day.

Remus switched his attention back to her.

"Well, brewing potions at home might indeed be dangerous sometimes, but when you think about it, isn't all magic dangerous?" The not-werewolf sent her a charming smile. Dorcas remained unimpressed. She opened her mouth with a 'but', however, Remus was faster. Possibly, he already knew about her loquacious tendencies. Judging by the twinkle in his eyes... Yep, he definitely knew.

Harry's breath stuttered when he realised that even if the man was so different now, the boy could still read him.

"Anyway, I don't have much time to spare. Hogwarts is waiting for me!" Remus pushed his fist up in the air a bit, not as exuberantly as Sirius would have done, but much more cheerful than he had ever been in Harry's own time.

"And your pretty boyfriend with it," Madame Rosmerta taunted.

"We're not boyfriends, good Merlin," Remus muttered under his breath. "Why does everyone keep assuming this?"

Harry couldn't contain a smile. Actually, now that he thought about it... Ever since the man came in, he had been smiling. He wouldn't be able to return his lips to their normal state even if he tried... and, frankly, he didn't want to. He had had too little happiness for the past couple of years to throw away a chance to smile, even if all this was too good to be true. Even if it turned out to be a dream.

"Then, you're banging his pretty cousin," Madame Rosmerta continued. Harry hadn't remembered her to be as obscene and open in his age... then again, they had all been kids at the time and maybe she was just a responsible adult. His eyes fell down to her cleavage. A nipple burst out of the cup. Er... Maybe she was a responsible adult sometimes. "That'd actually be the better choice. If I didn't have my Dorcas, I'd be plowing her before she even knew what hit her."

"Stop bothering poor Remus," Dorcas ordered. She had been too busy with her cake to intervene. "I swear this boy will die single with how shy he is."

Harry flinched at the word 'die'. No one noticed.

"I'm not shy, I'm uninterested."

"Yeah, I thought I was too. Then I got laid."

Remus sighed, apparently already emotionally exhausted from the ordeal. Harry felt for him. Hard to keep your ground when someone ganged up on you. Harry himself always preferred to confront people one by one, especially when those people were Ron and Hermione. As much as they bickered, once united, they obliterated enemies.

Remus understood it, too. Thus, he acted.

"And who might you be? Are you a new worker here? I don't believe I've ever met you before."

Remus smiled his patented smile, but it was warm and untroubled. Harry didn't recognise it. Again, it made speaking easier.

"Ah, yeah. I'm Harry. Harry P- Evans. I've only been here for a couple of weeks."

"Then it's no wonder we're meeting just now. I was so busy with school that I haven't been able to come down here and relax for a while." The man offered him a hand. "I'm Remus Lupin."

"Nice to meet you."

His hand was warm and strong. Just like Harry was used to. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

"Are you a teacher?" Harry asked.

Remus laughed. "No, not really. I'm the groundskeeper. Well, one of the two. You will probably get the chance to meet my colleague, Hagrid, soon enough – even though he does prefer the Hog's Head."

Madame Rosmerta muttered something about competition. Harry remembered the many empty tables and the dinginess of Aberforth's place. She had nothing to worry about.

"You look young but I don't remember seeing you at Hogwarts before. What school did you go to?"

Harry pushed aside his rag – with no other visitors, Dorcas and Madame Rosmerta let him take it easy – and ran a hand through his hair.

"Er... no, I never went to school." Wasn't it obvious? He talked like a British man, and the only school in Britain that Harry knew of was Hogwarts, so why did Remus ask such a weird question? "I was homeschooled."

Hermione had told him that not all students went to Hogwars; some wrote letters of refusal, others didn't get an invitation because their magic was barely there or their first bout of accidental magic didn't happen until they were over eleven. He had always wondered where those children who neither got into Hogwarts nor were homeschooled went.

"Did you ever take your OWLs and NEWTs?"

Harry shook his head. "I- I think I was supposed to do it this summer, but then that accident happened, and now I've missed my chance," he mumbled.

"Are you by chance proficient in DADA, Runes, and Arithmancy?" Remus continued. Harry blinked.

"I was... really good at DADA." Surely the basilisk, Dementors, and angry Dark Lords counted? Pink toads, too. "But I've heard only a couple of things about Runes and Arithmancy. Mostly connected with warding."

While Hermione preferred spell-based wards, she had imparted some knowledge of other types to him, in case he ever got separated from them and didn't have his wand on him.

Remus sighed yet again. Some things didn't change.

"Oh well, I tried." He perked up. "But maybe it'll be fine anyway!" Before Harry could ask, the man turned and shouted at Madame Rosmerta, "Do you mind if I use your noticeboard? I have a job alert to bring to the masses."

He fished out a slightly torn slip of parchment with words in an intricate green cursive.

Harry almost jumped because he knew that cursive.

'I am Tom Marvolo Riddle' floated through his mind, and it took all his strength to ward off nausea.

"If you find the space, be my guest." The woman shrugged and gulped down a shot of cordial. "Has one of your teachers finally realised how underpaid they are and flipped you the finger?"

"Well, maybe compared to your revenue, a teacher's salary is meagre, but I find it more than adequate," Remus defended with pride.

"You have obnoxiously low standards."

Remus turned to Harry, who was still staring at the script.

"I don't know how you've managed to survive with those two."

"Some things are meant to remain mysteries," the boy replied dryly. "Even to me."

Remus shook his head again before moving on. "Actually, it's the librarian's vacancy that needs some filling in." His voice took on a sad edge. "Madame Pince passed away a couple of weeks ago."

Harry remembered the train.

"How did she die?" he asked hesitantly. He hadn't seen any wounds on her, so he surmised her death had been peaceful. There had been wounded people at the station, some even mutilated... but maybe he was reading the situation wrong.

"No one knows," Remus whispered with a frown. "They think it was a book that killed her."

"A book?" Harry cocked his head.

Was it some papery beast like Hagrid's Monster Book of Monsters? But then, wouldn't such a veteran as Madame Pince deal with it?

"Dangerous job, that," Dorcas said and blew a strand off her eye. "Good luck finding an applicant."

Was there something Harry was missing?

Probably. But that was his usual state of mind.

Wait! An applicant. A job. A job at Hogwarts. A job at Hogwarts, right by Tom Riddle's side, where he could spy on the man and find out all his evil plans! This sounded amazing. He didn't even care that he had never liked books before and was more of a hands-on sort of guy.

Now, what were they saying again?

Harry's face bloomed so much that it attracted the attention of everyone in the room, including a couple of customers who entered and froze, staring at the scene before Madame Rosmerta shoved away her cordial, pushed up all her significant chest size – everyone just stared again – and went to serve with all the fierceness of a warrioress.

"I am!" he exclaimed in the face of a stunned Remus who couldn't quite process the change in attitude. "I'm the applicant! What do I have to do?"

"Treason!" Madame Rosmerta shouted before asking the customers to repeat their orders. Nobody paid her any mind.

Remus smiled wryly. "For one, you have to be proficient in DADA and have at least working knowledge of Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. That's the ideal scenario."

"Well, we aren't living in an ideal world," Harry reminded him resolutely. Purpose made speaking with his former teacher – in another world – way easier.

"Considering how few people want to take it on, there is the possibility of training in Runes and Arithmancy so long as your DADA skills are stellar. They are only needed for warding, after all, and we have a whole castle full of teachers. Of course, whether you are good enough will be decided by the Headmaster during an interview."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. No, not in a romantic way. It skipped a beat – or ten of them – the way it had when he plunged his sword arm-deep into the basilisk.

He swiped a hand over his clammy forehead.

"The Headmaster," he began, almost in a whisper. "As in... Tom Riddle?"

"Of course it is Tom Riddle. Who else?" Remus smiled kindly.

Could have been Professor Dumbledore, Harry thought wistfully. But since when has the world made anything easy for me?

Suddenly, the not-werewolf's arm struck out and grasped him by the elbow, which was yet another difference – the Remus of his world preferred ruffling Harry's hair, like Sirius, or give him one-armed shoulder hugs.

And Harry should stop comparing them because the Remus of his world was long dead. He never would be getting those hugs again even if he found a way to return.

"If you fail the interview, it's not like your whole life would be over. There are other jobs. Although something tells me you'll be successful anyway. Call it an instinct but... I'm rather sure that Headmaster Riddle will like you!"

Looking back, Harry thought that Trelawney should step down and give the Seer title to Remus Lupin.

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THE LIBRARIAN

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Nightmares jolted him awake.

In his dreams, he walked.

There were dark shapes, and cloaks, and swathes of shadows dancing in the distance. Ghosts following on his toes. Death whispered. Duty supported it. He listened, and bent his head, and walked. He told himself that phantom presence behind his back helped, and perhaps it infected him with a strange calmness and bravery in the face of demise, but it didn't veil the truth: there was nothingness behind him, nothingness before him, and what did he exist for if no one would see him again?

In the midst of desperation, the choice had been easy. Harry would twist the timeline to his pleasure, break it if needed, but everyone would live and prosper. Be happy. Teddy would have parents.

Now, after seeing Remus, after noting all those subtle differences, grief struck him more than on any night before.

Had he stayed, he would have lost his parents, and Sirius, and Remus (but hadn't they said they lived on in his heart?), and others, and that was all true and heartbreaking, and even though people said that wounds heal with time, Harry's always found reasons to rub off the scabs.

But he left. And he lost everyone.

Now, Harry grasped the extent of his sacrifice.

Yet he wouldn't have done a thing differently. He saved other people. It was his thing. He had spent his whole childhood waiting for salvation, and it had never come, so he resolved to become one for other people. He was a ruin but ruins could be transformed into something beautiful, and he would build temples over stone, gardens over the charred earth.

He was jealous of happy people and hated himself for it, but at the same time he wanted to spare others from his own pain.

He turned this over and over in his head the night before the interview with Riddle, and he knew that the next day wouldn't be his best.

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THE LIBRARIAN

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Look at it, he was right!

Harry felt like he'd been dumped among the Forbidden Forest's fauna for the night and told to run. He looked like it, too – eyes red-rimmed, skin pale, and an aura of doom enveloping him like a plague cloud around a zombie in one of Dudley's video games.

On such days, Ron liked to say 'Mate, you look like Malfoy on a bad day'. Harry privately thought that it was actually a compliment because Malfoy's bad day was damn more terrific than most people's good days, including Harry's... if not for the blond's rotten soul and black and ugly heart.

Now he was going to meet another person with a drop-dead gorgeous face and- oh wait, it's not like Voldemort even had a full soul. Harry shuddered and wished he had Gryffindor's sword with him. All this thinking of snakes always made him want to reach for one. Must be a habit.

He fidgeted in his robes. They itched. He refused to scratch on pure principle, but it wasn't the only problem around. The collar was too stifling. In the heat, Harry felt like dying, especially because Malfoy's wand decided to be difficult again and refused to cast a warming charm. And his robes had white lace, what the hell was that!

He had been unable to get out of them because they had been a present from Dorcas and Madame Rosmerta, who almost cried when he point-blank refused to wear them... and in the face of their tears, of course he damn well had to change his mind. He wasn't a monster, for God's sake!

They told him with how much care they had chosen the outfit. Yeah, right. They very carefully chose the most uncomfortable garment in the whole darn shop as retaliation for his abandoning them. He wasn't even sure whose idea it was. Both ladies possessed enough sadistic inclinations.

At first, he wondered whether Dorcas Meadowes had been this passive-aggressively evil even back in his own time, but then he remembered that he had never met her. Voldemort's servants had killed her long before.

Harry shook off those thoughts, refused to grit his teeth.

Voldemort.

The monster. The gorgeous prefect and Head Boy. The orphan. The killer of his parents and so many others.

Voldemort.

The baby abandoned at the station, crying and desperate and helpless. The baby whose warmth and weight lingered still.

Harry was early for the interview, and on his way he even hardly glanced at Hogwarts that he had missed so much on their lonely nights in the tent, a Hogwarts that was whole and humming with life and magic despite being almost empty for the summer.

He reached the Headmaster's office (Remus had given him a simplified map with his path shown in gleaming red).

Harry's heels clicked on the floor as he stopped abruptly.

Riddle decided to forgo passwords. Entrance was granted through the use of something much more ancient and wild... And utterly creepy. Very Voldemort-style.

"Why am I doing this again?" Harry mumbled under his breath, stretching out a hand and sticking it between the dragon's teeth. Riddle had done away with the gargoyle. Not pretentious enough, apparently.

The dragon bit, and Harry winced. He also cursed Riddle, and Remus, and Dumbledore, and his own mind.

Entrance to Riddle's office could only be granted through blood. A tiny rivulet trickled down the stone tooth.

The dragon's maw opened and revealed the stairs that spiralled upwards and carried him into the room. Harry's breath came short, he wondered if he was hyperventilating or having a panic attack – he hadn't experienced many, but enough to be wary and try to calm himself down as much as he could. It wasn't working as well as he hoped.

Especially not when the stairs ended their short journey that felt like an eternity of silent suffering and heartbeat thumping in his ears, and he saw the room.

Albus Dumbledore's office didn't compare to this.

And by 'didn't compare' Harry meant that this was the most sinister room he had ever had the displeasure of seeing, including the Malfoy Manor dungeons filled with Hermione's screams and Bella's laughter.

There weren't any bloodstains, or creepy laughing skeletons, of course. Nor anything traditionally hair-raising. The room was grey more than anything, with vague shades of washed out violet here and there, or hues of what could or could not be green. The only furniture consisted of a sturdy desk, a bookshelf, a huge map with runes scrawled all over in neat twists, and a vase with strange whiteish flowers peeking out like finger bones. Sunlight streaming through the uncovered latticed windows only emphasised the emptiness and gloom.

That wasn't disturbing.

That part was reserved by the portraits.

All of them were frozen.

The eyes were smeared with black paint.

And they were screaming. Screaming so loud that Harry dropped to his knees after making only two steps from the stairs. He couldn't make out the words, not at first, but then he did.

Freedom in death, freedom in death, freedom in death, free-

"What the hell…" he murmured, hastily trying to remember any spell to silence them because Silencio failed.

He needn't bother. As soon as it came, the screaming stopped.

"This is their reply to a question I asked them a while ago," came the voice from behind him. Harry's insides lurched. Slowly, he turned around, his breath puffing out in uneven gusts. "One of the two."

Tom Riddle was leaning against the doorframe. He was smiling. He also looked nothing like Voldemort... except for that glint of danger hidden deep in his red eyes.

"Hello, Harry," he purred. "Could you tell me what you're doing in my office in my absence?"

The nightmare arrived.

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THE LIBRARIAN

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"I'm here for the interview," Harry spoke up after minutes of staring and oh Merlin was there a lot to stare at.

Sharp cheekbones, those red eyes that sucked your attention in like a black hole, classic features... Those didn't change. He was similar to the Tom Riddle who tricked Hepzibah Smith, a combination of ambition, power, intelligence, and relative sanity.

Yet he felt different from any other version of Tom Riddle he had ever met, including Pensieve memories.

He was dressed in black velvet robes, simple and classical, full of authority and dominance, just like Voldemort, but there was wildness in his appearance foreign even to his most insane version. Harry couldn't place his finger on it. Yet he got the vibe that this- Tom Riddle? Voldemort? Did it even matter? – was the most unpredictable of the lot.

His smile walked the fine line between mocking and amused, and the arch of his brow screamed perfection. Harry knew Voldemort would only show the emotions he wanted the boy to see.

"Such beautiful green eyes you have," he suddenly purred in the sultriest of voices.

Harry flushed. Where the hell did that come from?

Maybe it was paranoia talking or maybe he didn't trust anyone and anything associated with Riddle, but this compliment was so out of the blue and suspicious as heck, that it was just the whack on the back Harry needed to adjust his attitude and shut down all those unsettling feelings crawling around in his stomach.

"Thank you. I know. I've had them all my life."

Voldemort tutted in displeasure and strolled to his desk.

"You should learn to accept a compliment."

"I did thank you. What else should I do? Blush and bat my eyelashes? Melt down in a pile?"

Adrenaline pumping in his ears almost drowned out the sound of what he was saying, but suddenly Harry was in the graveyard again, full of courage and bravery and belief that the good always won. (Which it did. Except that the sacrifices were too big sometimes).

Voldemort gracefully settled in his chair and tucked a hand beneath his chin, surveying Harry under a few stray curls. With a jolt, Harry remembered model student's Tom Riddle's hair always being sleek and perfect, but this version obviously preferred a different style.

Harry expected the Headmaster to be pissed off.

"This is the fiery attitude our librarian needs," the man announced instead. It stopped Harry short. Voldemort despised people talking balk to him. Or generally not bowing down and pledging their lives to him.

"Oh." Harry pushed his weight to the back of his heels and frowned. "That's... nice, I suppose?"

Voldemort smirked.

"Indeed. After all, having the right attitude is one of those 'nice' things that will land you the job." Red eyes gleamed, and Harry couldn't look away. "Another one is..." He almost whispered, "Power."

Of course, that was the moment Voldemort attacked.

- This story is partly inspired by my indignation at the lack of librarian!Harry fanfics, and partly by my amazement at how cool and even kinda alive the books in the HP-verse are. I mean, invisible books, monster books which you can caress (guess who Harry's next pet is gonna be?), cursed books, books that make someone speak in limericks... Strangely, even though the idea is so enchanting to me, I've hardly ever seen it even mentioned in stories.

- For a better idea of what this story is gonna be, I'm going to include what I did in my bigbang summary: Basically a mentorship/romance fic. Harry becomes a librarian, solves pretty much anyone's problems but his own, hunts down books, has magic lessons, gets way too close to Riddle, reassesses some ideas and people, and tries to make the world a nice place for everyone.

- I've been gone for a while but I do come back with a bang!.. and a bunch of updates for you guys. Stay tuned for When Lies Turn into Truth tonight, because I've finally got round to editing the new chapter (yes, really). Also, this story already has 3 chapters, all of which will be posted during the bigbang week... so, if you have some will and free time, I'd be really grateful for a beta for this fic?

Also, if you're reading my other stories, please let me know whether you'd prefer me to update Tearing the Veil from Grace, Design Your Universe, or Beauxbatons University of Magic next!

- Hope you liked it, and please leave a review, there's nothing that makes my day quite like them ;)