Update 5-30-13: A reviewer brought it to my attention that there might be some interest in adopting this fic/ this fic's plot. To any interested in adopting it: I completely welcome you to

* use as much (or few) of my plot ideas as you like

*use as many, direct lines/paragraphs/quotes ect as you like

Just in case there is any confusion about this point: you are free to completely rewrite the beginning if you like, please don't feel like you have to go off of what I have.

Summary: Eventual SLASH. All it took was a routine pajama change to change Harry James Potter from boy-who-lived into orphan's-not-quite-imaginary-friend. Time travel. Starts after statue of secrecy trial in Order of the Phoenix. Psychopath!Tom (although as the fic goes on, he will technically gain his own separate type of disorder despite the strong similarities it will share with psychopathy).

Disclaimer: As the title of this site strongly suggests; I do not own Harry Potter.

A/N: When the slash section of this story arrives Tom and Harry will not have much of an age difference in body or mind so if you get queasy at the idea of age gaps you can stop worrying now :].

For new readers: please forgive me for the inaccurate bits with toddler!Tom. Despite having years of experience with watching toddlers, I still can't write them 100% accurately for the life of me. Hope you enjoy the story nonetheless.

The night was a wet and cold one; not appearing any different from the many nights that would and already had been in such a state. It was only the pitter-patter of rain that continually dribbled down the lone, covered window and the peaceful breaths of the toddlers that proved the world had not been pushed into oblivion by death's unyielding hand.

Only a handful of cribs lined against the small room's wall yet they all were all equally mundane —plain dark cherry wood and thin, scratchy brown sheets. Each crib was roughly the same distance from each other except for the one farthest to the left. A creative child might think the crib had feared or perhaps despised the touch of the others and thus backed as far away as it could-into the cold and dark brick wall.

It was not the type of room that was found in a cheerful place—the wall's dark, Victorian glazed bricks seemed to suck any scrap of joy into their unyielding walls. However not all was lost, for the bricks only drenched half of the room in darkness. It was about halfway up the wall that the darkness abruptly turned into light but no toddler or even child could hope to reach this lighter area without aid. It was unfortunate that not many cared to give these orphans such aid, especially those deepest in its hold.

It was in the crib that lay furthest to the left that a mess of black hair jerked away from its pillow and a young pair of lungs dared to break the calmness of the room with uneven breaths. A wind began to howl and rattle the window as if in warning to the child or perhaps, in pained premature greeting to he-who-would-soon-exist-yet-not would arrive. Indeed, if the second was its intention then the wind was correct.

It all started and ended with the same melody: a loud pop.

Metal rings screeched as an unseen force violently drove them and their pristine black curtain to the right side of their metal rod. Dark eyes jerked to the sound before being drawn downwards by an even louder sound that the ground itself seemed to make. Said sound was not a screech but a thump as if something large had been forced to the ground.

The last thing he remembered was being consumed by such amounts of pain and terror that he was certain the feelings had managed to change him, a wizard, into nothing but pain and terror itself. Harry Potter? No. He might have been that…something once but now he was only shreds of magic, bone, flesh and blood. He desperately wished he could leave his flesh behind if it would only relive him from the pain.Was this how Voldemort had felt? What was Voldemort? The being of pain and terror realized it didn't matter, because all that was important now was relief from the agony. It felt as if every cell of his body had been yanked apart and was slowly, excruciatingly slowly, being pieced back together.

After a few seconds, which he was certain lasted decades, his sanity clicked back into place. Harry Potter? Yes. The boy-who-lived. Yes, he was sure that was what he was, who he was. It was with relief that he noticed that he could feel his body again. Sure, his muscles twitched unpleasantly as if in the aftermath of crucio and his blood continued to languidly pool onto the white floor but he had his body and sanity back; so he was understandably giddy with happiness.

Shuddered breaths escaped from the wizard as he began to reign in the pain. The breaths quieted quickly and finally the wizard dared to crack open his eyes.

Gold metal and sand lay so close to his face that he felt he could feel himself become cross-eyed as he looked at it. Tiredly he remembered that broken shards of golden metal and sand were not meant to pierce his forehead and mix with his already clotting blood. He stared and stared at the item which sizzled and smoked until his eyes watered and the elusive word appeared—time turner. "Bugger" he said hoarsely.

Why did he have a time turner? He couldn't recall grabbing one. Panic climbed up his throat before a vague memory began to form and he calmed. Grimmauld Place. He had been there and preparing for bed when he found something—a time turner—in his pocket. When did it drop in his pocket? It must of happened at the ministry when he had gone with Arthur Weasley for his trial. But he didn't remember feeling anything slip into his pocket and who would give him a broken time turner? Unfortunately, no matter how deep his brows furrowed in thought, they never dug quite deep enough to find the answers he hunted.

"Hello" said a young voice laced with a mix of distrust and curiosity. Harry's body tensed at the sudden noise then relaxed. It's not a death eater, only a kid he chided himself. "…Hi" Harry said with some hesitance while not moving his gaze from the smoking pile of metal. He distractedly noted that his voice seemed less hoarse.

Curiosity won out over his fear of awakening new pains so he looked up, albeit with a speed that spoke of Slytherin self-preservation rather than Gryffindor brashness. His glasses lay lopsided and so far down his nose that they could fall off at any second; so it was no surprise that his brows scrunched up with the effort of looking into the crib.

The room was too dark and his vision too poor to make out many details. The child looked around three years old and had dark, probably black, hair that was messed up by sleep. Pale skin made a starling contrast with the dark eyes which stared at him with rapt curiosity. The toddler was clearly well fed, as shown by its fat cheeks and appeared to be clear of any significant marks of a rough life. Despite being unable to make out anything else, he felt oddly certain that the toddler would grow up to be attractive.

As Harry and the toddler continued to trade curious looks, Harry realized that the child looked familiar. But he quickly disregarded his nagging curiosity as a lost and unimportant cause and thus, decided to focus on other pressing matters.

He turned his gaze back to the ground and careful pushed his body into a sitting position, wincing all the while despite the retreating pain. When he reached the desired position, he closed his eyes in bliss; fully enjoying how his body sagged with relief at the lessening twinges of agony.

There's no use in panicking... I have to think of a plan. First, I need to try to find out where and how many hours back I am. He scanned his surrounding but unfortunately found nothing but cribs disturbing the dark and light pattern of the room. He frowned at the barren light portion of the wall above the cribs before deciding he would have to postpone his search for a clock. What should he do now; Harry nearly wondered aloud. He wracked his weary brain, trying to think logically. He could disguise himself and go somewhere safer. But where to? After a moment of consideration he decided the best plan of action was to take the Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron. But what would he do after arriving?

Then a sudden thought hit him like a bludger. Dumbledore. Dumbledore will know what to do. He knows everything. He would pen a note at the Leaky Cauldron and owl it to the headmaster. He grinned at his plan. If a clock had been in the room, only a few tick-tocks would have passed before the grin crumbled. As Harry thought back to his recent memory of the old the memory of Dumbledore, he recalled the way the headmaster had avoided his gaze at the trial earlier that day. Why did he do that? Was there something that Harry had done to receive the man's cold shoulder? His heart clenched. Why didn't the headmaster talk to him; to explain why he was being treated like a delinquent child? The embers of the anger he felt towards the headmaster during the summer began to warm.

Then another sudden thought gave him pause. The headmaster must have talked with him at the Leaky Cauldron before the trial or at least received his owl. Could that be the key to why Dumbledore was ignoring him? Did the headmaster think he was lying when he would say that he did not purposely go back in time? Harry could hear his heart plop into his stomach at the thought. Why would the headmaster not believe him? Any remnants of anger he felt towards the headmaster curled and shriveled into personal hurt. Suddenly the young wizard wished he could do anything but meet with the headmaster.

Harry quickly chastised himself for having such childish thoughts; surely, the headmaster could have other reasons for his actions at the trial. He began to shake his head in an effort to clear away any evidence of said thoughts before something else managed to clear them with startling success—his scar burning. It's sudden and horrible existence made him cry out in surprise. Distantly he noted that the pain was much less severe than normal, but panic invaded before the thought could take hold.

The terror was so great that it covered any agony he felt from suddenly darting to his feet. White breath puffed from his mouth like smoke as his heart pounded in his ears and his knobby knees trembled with the desire to submit to gravity. Bloodied fingers pushed up his glasses before they began to search for his wand with the grace of a drunk. Meanwhile, his green eyes jerkily moved around the room. Success, his hand gripped his wand and he swallowed. His heart calmed slightly.

If he hadn't known better he would have considered himself the only wizard in the room. No piece of clothing shifted besides his own and no breath whitened the air except for his and the toddlers. When his green eyes met the mystery child, its pout faded into a smile and the pain in his scar faded into an almost pleasant tingling. Bewildered, Harry continued to stare at the child until his mouth parted slightly in realization. Tom Riddle! His brow furrowed and he spared a quick glance at the ruined remains of the time turner. Surely time turners couldn't take them so far back? It was unfortunate that however much he wished it he could not deny the resemblance to his enemy or the pain in his scar.

Riddle began to climb and clutch the bars of his crib to get a better look at the man. The small body shivered and shuddered from the cold but his dark eyes remained lit in curiosity.

The dingy room was not comforting and warm, as it should have been. Present adults were now absent and there were far too many children, yet there was something about the scene which made a feeling of familiarity linger and tickle Harry's consciousness. It was only for a moment that Harry could hear a scream of a mother—his mother—but it was enough to make his heart pound again and make him look for dementors out of the corners of his eyes. Nothing but he and the children breathed.

A sudden thought occurred to Harry: Unlike me, Riddle doesn't have a mother or father to protect him. He felt a stab of pity for the would-be-Voldemort. Perhaps he was not so bad as a child?

He realized his gaze had drifted when a mild surge of anger hit his scar and he felt his own anger raise at the child—no monster. He had killed so many without remorse; caused so much pain and thrived on it. Someone who did those sorts of things could not truly be human. It was his job to kill this monster.

He's helpless. Why not kill him now before he can hurt anyone else, the thought chilled him but also left him with a refreshing sense of purpose and hope. Green eyes looked into the clueless, dark eyes and he felt something more—triumph. He could save them all. With a sense of purpose he began the short walk to the child on still unsteady legs. Shakily, he aimed the wand at the toddler's unmarked forehead.

The child reached out to grab the wand, probably thinking it a gift, as Harry opened his mouth and prepared his tongue to call death.

"Ava—" Lightning struck and chased the shadows from the room. For a moment Harry's vision was drown in a memory of green, and soon, Harry felt green himself. His fingers lost their purpose and his wand dropped noiselessly into the smiling child's outstretched hand.

I'm not Voldemort. I'm not like him. I'm not like Voldemort.

Even in death the memory of Riddle haunted him. His cold voice seemed to rise from the ruined pages and implied things that were so horrible, so menacing, that it made goose bumps rise throughout Harry's body:There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the Great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike ... but after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me.

And now apparently there was 'would-be-baby-murderers' to add to the list as well. No! He, Harry Potter, had stopped. Voldemort hadn't. Harry decided not to be a murderer. So he was not like that monster. But was it just luck? If the lightning had flashed a few moments later would he truly have become Voldemort's equal? If it was really luck that saved him from murdering Tom Riddle did that already make him his equal? After all, both of their victims were saved by 'luck'.

Riddle's eyes crinkled with joy as he stuffed the wand in his mouth and made a confused sound at his would-be-murderer. Said would-be-murderer's lips twitched into an uneasy smile. It was then that Harry realized he could never kill Riddle—this Riddle. He could never look at him as a monster again and muster enough hate to say the killing curse.

A drop of oddly warm water fell on Harry's chest and made his startled attention jump to the ceiling in search for a leak. Finding no evidence of said leak he reached a trembling hand—why was it trembling?—to his face and discovered wetness. He pulled his still shaky hand away and stared at the wetness with something akin to disbelief. Why was he crying? He bit down on his lip to distract himself from the burning of his closing eyes and the pain in his constricting chest as he realized the reason.

He had failed.

He had failed his parents, failed Sirius, failed Dumbledore, failed the whole Wizarding World—even himself. They were depending on him to save them from Voldemort but he—he just couldn't do it! Not as Riddle was now he thought dejectedly and rubbed his hands harshly against his wet eyes. Still the tears refused to stop no matter how harshly he rubbed away the tears and Harry barely held back a growl of irritation.

His shoulders slumped as he returned to his thoughts. If…if Riddle ended up becoming that monster. Harry…would just kill him then. It sounded so simple. Yet truly and unfortunately, he knew it was not. He opened his drowning eyes.

Through his blurry vision he saw Tom finally take the holly wand out of his mouth and stare at Harry as if he was some oddity; an annoying oddity. As the wizard's vision blurred to a level neighboring utter blindness, the stare turned harsh with fury and Harry's scar began to prickle.

"This is your fault Riddle!" he snarled at the child and clenched his fists. How dare Riddle be angry at him after everything he's done—would do, Harry sobered at the reminder and quickly rubbed away the last of the tears. Riddle looked honestly perplexed at the outburst then jerked his attention to the opening door.

A forgettable face appeared from behind the door. Brown eyes, brown hair and white skin were the simplest description of this woman. Not quite ugly but not a beauty either, with just enough fat filling out her apron to show that she lived a comfortable enough life.

Harry froze as the woman glanced around the room and he stole nervous glances at his puddle of blood. How was he going to explain this to a muggle? Did the time-turner make this count as another violation of the statute of secrecy? He looked longingly at his wand, wishing he could reclaim it so he could look to the familiar object for comfort but he dared not move and draw attention to himself.

His nervousness was for naught because the caretaker stared at the standing Riddle instead. She heaved a sigh and crossed the room to Riddle's crib on quiet feet, "Did you have a nightmare little one?" She reached into the shadowed crib, only to have pudgy arms swat her away. Unfortunately for Riddle, the weak slaps were ineffective against the grown woman so she easily lifted him into her arms and laid him against her warm chest. His head rested on her shoulder as a sign of reluctant yet temporary defeat and turned his attention to the nearby Harry.

"It's okay now" she cooed and stroked his back. Riddle glowered at Harry, clearly blaming the wizard for the situation. Harry smiled weakly at the child who pouted darkly in reply.

Gently, the woman laid the would-be-dark-lord back into his crib and covered him with the scratchy sheets. One would think the toddler was playing dead if not for his head turning just enough to look at the trespassing wizard. Even now, Harry half-expected Riddle to curl his lips in an unpleasant smirk and demand that the holly wand summon the last light Harry would ever see. The wizard blinked; expecting the scenario to suddenly begin but still, no accusation appeared in the dark eyes.

A clap of thunder roared and a strike of lighting lit up the room that quickly darkened in its absence. Both drew the woman's attention to the lonely window. The boy-who-lived froze again; he was sure that she had spotted him. It would be hard to miss someone standing not even an arm's reach from you after all. But the plain woman surprised him again by walking closer; so close that he could smell her breath which reeked of eggs. She stared straight into his green eyes.

"I know I closed it—odd. Very odd" she muttered to herself and walked into and through the tense wizard.

How— I'm a ghost? But I can't be a ghost! I'm not dead! Needing to clarify this, he raised one hand to touch the other. Both were solid and thankfully, not pearly white. But that was not enough to calm him so he moved his hand over the nearest crib, Riddle's, and began to lower it. The crib may have well been air to him for his fingers disappeared like smoke into the dark cherry wood and fell until they touched another solid surface—the toddler. Small fingers, cold as death itself, gripped Harry's warm hand like a drowning man. Dark eyes that spoke of nothing looked at Harry. Harry's heart calmed at the solid touch.

Several quiet moments passed and found the wizard nibbling at his lip. Did Riddle really deserve a second chance? He glanced at their joined hands and to Riddle's now pouting face. Yes; this Tom Riddle, this helpless version of what could be, deserved a second chance. With his mind decided, he gripped the child's cold hand with his bloodied, yet only free and warm hand. Blood dribbled down the hand and fell, only to fade into nonexistence before it could stain the child's unsullied blankets.

"You're mine now Riddle," he paused then twisted his lips in a grimace; clearly unhappy with his wording. "I'll take care of you...Tom," he added softly, watching Tom curiously for any sign of anger at the declaration. Instead, the toddler made an amused sound. "That's not supposed to be funny," but the cheerful sound was infectious so Harry grinned anyhow.

The green door made a barely audible creak and acting out of instinct, Harry tensed and glanced over his shoulder. The woman tightened her grip on the cold doorknob, as if needing its touch to convince herself this was really reality and gave Tom a baffled look. Hesitantly, she opened the creaking door further. It was through this opening that a dim and sickly yellow light escaped from the hallway and crept onto the toddler's face. With the light curled on his face, the toddler appeared to be completely covered in sickly yellow bruises and troubled by the shadows which darkened his features. The woman muttered to herself and with a shake of her head, the caretaker escaped into the hallway with the sickly light noiselessly slipping behind her heels. The quiet click of the door acted as a ghost of her presence. Shadows quickly gathered and spread across the toddler's form but this darkness did not make him look troubled or sickly; merely helpless and innocent. The green eyes finally dropped their gaze from the green door to the darkened form of Tom and found the toddler sleeping peacefully.

Cautiously he removed the hand that was once dressed in scarlet—but now bloodless—from Tom's hand. While watching Tom out of the corner of his eye for signs of awakening, he used two fingers to pluck his wand from the bed sheets and grimaced at the slobber now dripping onto his fingers. The toddler took a deep, uneven breath and released it as a content sigh. Harry's smile reached his eyes.

Yes, Tom Riddle would live. As would Voldemort's victims.

A/N: Yes, I'm aware that psychopaths tend to be distant/cold even as children but my reasoning for Riddle's interaction with Harry is that he can sense his horcrux in Harry. So to toddler Riddle, Harry is 'Tom Riddle' too so of course he takes a liking to the wizard ;].