Title: Spartan Comforts

Author: Neko-chan

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle

Rating: T, eventual M

Disclaimer: Hey, look! Over there! Behind you! No, really! There's something behind you that you just gotta check out! *attempts to sneak off with the rights to HP while readers remain distracted*

Summary: Why go back when it's just as easy to go forward?

Author's Note: Little sisters can be such a pain in the ass. :| I was chatting with brightsun89, and she mentioned that she wanted to see me try for a time travel story because she loves them. I mentioned that I probably wouldn't want to do something with Harry going back because I knew that I'd be going into well-worn territory and, if anything, I'd want to see what would happen if I brought Tom Riddle forward in time. She mentioned that she didn't like those stories because, apparently?, authors have made Tom a pansy. First, cue my disappointment that I'd still be treading into well-worn territory—and then cue the gobsmacked reaction with Tom. Tom Riddle. The Dark Lord. Serial killer by the tender age of seventeen. Being called a pansy by my little sister. And then I started thinking—which was promptly followed by curses. Because this happened. Bad, brain! Bad! (And bad sister for encouraging the plot bunnies! *shakes fist* I haaaaate yoooooou. :| This is all your fault.)

…and good luck with your mid-terms this week. *hearts* Oh, and fyi: If you don't pass, I won't update this. Ever. ;) *evil older sister*

CHAPTER ONE.

A waste. It was all such a waste.

There had already been so much to lose in the war, and—sometimes—it felt as if the death toll continued to rise each and every day. It didn't matter that the Ministry finally acknowledged that Voldemort was back. What was the point in admitting that they were wrong and had been for an entire year when the institution still didn't do anything to try and keep the people safe? Fudge had always made appearances with a circle of Aurors around him, terrified of the Dark Lord showing up to assassinate him—and it seemed as if Scrimgeour wasn't much better.

Both Ministers making the same mistakes, just in completely different ways.

Harry closed his eyes and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the cool stone of the battlement atop the Astronomy Tower. Over and over again, this place called to him; it had been the place where Dumbledore had last been alive, and the vert-eyed boy could swear that, at times, he felt the comforting presence of the Headmaster's hand settling upon his shoulder.

Just another form of make-believe, he knew.

But it was still comforting.

He shifted then, settling down onto his knees so that he might look out over the firm stone beneath his skin, eyes keen as he took in the beauty and grandeur of the valley that Hogwarts was situated in. Harry wondered, absently and to himself, just how much longer this safe place would remain beautiful—Death Eaters had already touched it with their filthy presence.

The thought brought an ache to his chest, and the Gryffindor rubbed it with half a thought as his attention still remained out over the Green and the Forbidden Forest beyond. It's a peaceful view, and Harry took the moment to drink in the sight: he knew, with instincts honed after too many years with the Dursleys, that this peace would soon enough shatter—and, intuitively, was aware of the fact that the Last Battle would one day take place here. At his home.

It was such a waste—all of it!—and Harry furiously scrubbed at his face in frustration.

Sometimes he wondered—sometimes, at times, situations like now—if it was at all worth it. If it was worth continuing forward when all it seemed to bring Harry was heartache and loss. So many good things had been taken from him, and Ron and Hermione seemed to be the only light that remained in his life. Back at the Privet Drive, when the days bled one into another and he had lost track of the last time that he had eaten… the neglect and the derision, the vitriol and the casual malice seemed to swallow him up, and Harry sometimes—not often, but sometimes—wondered if there was any point in continuing on. Hunger and hopelessness, fatigue from too much labor and heartache from one tragedy after another: it all gathered into a tight ball, lodging just beneath his heart, and he stared at his wrists.

And wondered.

I am sorry, my dear boy, a voice suddenly whispered, the words low and barely discernable. Despite how quiet they were, however, Harry knew who it was that was speaking to him. The teen stiffened abruptly, and he slowly turned to look over his shoulder to meet the speaker's twinkling blue gaze. The cross that you have to carry is heavy—I know that full well and, for that, I am so very, very sorry.

"Professor…?" Harry inquired weakly.

Have no fear, Harry. I am not a figment of your imagination.

And yet the old wizard couldn't be a ghost, either, for it was far too solid. Ghost, figment of his imagination, or actually alive: Harry stared at the old Headmaster with too-wide eyes, trying so desperately hard to swallow hope as Dumbledore looked down at him with that familiar, kind grandfatherly smile. Harry had thought that he'd never get the chance to see it again. But… here it was. And it was enough, more than enough, to bring Harry to tears.

"How is this even possible…?" the boy asked, about to reach out so that he might brush his fingers along the hem of Dumbledore's bright purple robes. The wizard, however, shook his head and slightly stepped out of touching range. Still, though, he answered:

A fluke, to be honest, the ex-Headmaster answered, tone of voice and smile both rueful. I had so many plans and counter-plans, hidden agendas that would be put forth in case of certain emergencies—everything laid out in moves that only a chessmaster would be able to follow. And yet… Here, Dumbledore laughed softly. Despite it all, I forgot one very important fact. Rather silly of me, actually…

"And what was that?" Harry asked, brows furrowing as he tried to follow the pattern of the Headmaster's words. It was pointless, however, and Harry was just left that much more confused.

Dumbledore shook his head then, refraining from answering the boy's question. Perhaps he would one day need to speak of what he now knew, but… today was not such a day. Not with the child so close to breaking beneath the weight of too many burdens. He had thought that Harry would have been strong enough to carry them all, and yet Dumbledore now realized that while Harry was not weak—how could he be after everything that he had gone through?—the fortitude that he used to continue ever onwards was cracked and flawed, and Harry was slowly spiraling towards abject despondency.

Despite all of his machinations, he had not known that it would be his own death that would have been the straw that broke the camel's back for Harry Potter: and it was heartbreaking seeing the child at such a loss.

He had originally intended on sending this boy, James and Lily's boy, his boy, to his death—an open-armed sacrifice that would have destroyed the Horcrux hidden within himself. And yet… It was Love that was supposed to be the Dark Lord's downfall, the Love that Harry felt for himself and his friends and the world beyond his knowing. An all-reaching Love, one filled with acceptance and joy and realization that one loss of life would be enough to save many… This was the ending that Dumbledore had orchestrated for Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived.

And it was Love that was proving to be his own downfall.

Dumbledore could not go through with it, not any longer—not after seeing those viridian-bright eyes slowly dim with hopelessness and a cynical knowledge, instinctive though it was, that shouldn't go hand-in-hand with a boy Harry's age. It was a knowledge that was too old, too hard-edged: something that should never reside within a sixteen year-old's gaze.

He had seen that look once before—just once before—and it had spelled devastation for their world. By the time that Dumbledore realized that, yes, he could have done something… it had been too late. But, here, he could stop Harry from becoming too jaded with life, too tired of living—and though the future was, perhaps, already set in stone, nothing was stopping him from reaching into the past to bring forth someone who was more than capable of slaying his own demons. And, perhaps, that would be enough redemption to save that particular soul.

…and though the elderly wizard would never admit it aloud, he was also curious to see how this soon-to-be paradox would work on resolving itself out. After all, Harry had managed to smooth things over in such a rather unique way during his third year—what with the Patronus and accidentally catching sight of himself…

"…Professor?" Harry asked again, coaxing Dumbledore from his inner musings.

I'm sorry, my boy. I know that I was a million miles away, the real-not-real Headmaster murmured in answer, apologizing for his inattentiveness. He shook his head then, before Harry was given the chance to say anything more, and continued. Unfortunately, I must now be on my way. But before I leave, I think that I'll gift you with something that will aid you in your various quests.

He reached then, reached back through the decades: slipping through time by using his temporary Mastery of all three Hallows—the Elder Wand, his own after managing to defeat his one-time lover, the Cloak, borrowed and temporarily his own after James' death, and the Stone, claimed with and through the loss of flesh, blood, and his very life. It was tempting—maybe because it would be so much easier—to send Harry back. But if he did such a thing, the various paradoxes and time shifts would have already manifested themselves and things would have already changed by now.

The very fact that nothing had changed meant that it was then the future that would have to be affected: a new paradox created, one that would need to cancel itself out by magic and blood, the way that all paradoxes voided themselves. Eventually, anyway.

What he was doing should have been impossible.

But Albus Dumbledore had always had fun with thumbing his nose at Fate.

Instead of tossing Harry through the timestream, the timeline that organized itself and threaded, weaved through past, present, and the various futures, Dumbledore drew one all-too familiar dark haired teen from the past and tossed him into the future—this particular present, joining in with this particular future.

Dumbledore's aim was a little off, though, and Tom Marvolo Riddle materialized out of thin air to flail in a rather surprisingly awkward manner considering how graceful the Slytherin Heir usually tended to be to land on Harry's slightly smaller form. Both boys went tumbling to the ground and, as he faded from view, the scheming wizard couldn't (and didn't want to, anyway) stop his amused chuckle as gobsmacked green eyes met confused sapphire-blue. Dumbledore knew, though, that Harry had a handle on the situation when the Gryffindor managed to gather his wits and got out a concise:

"You… how… why… dreaming… what… fuck."