A Thread of Time

Chapter Eight

*

“So, Harry,” Dumbledore began, once Harry had placed himself in a chair in Dippet’s office. The old man unwrapped
a brightly coloured muggle sweet and popped it into his mouth. “Quite simply, as we have very few concepts of
time-travel and, ah, time-turners, it may be useful for you to start telling us what you know so far.”

Harry shifted in his seat, a frown skipping across his face. “Well,” he said, and paused. “I don’t really know
anything that could be of use. I mean, I don’t remember doing anything specific before I woke up in-“

“So you were unconscious when you arrived?” Dippet interrupted.

Harry glanced at him. “I guess so. I was lying in the middle of a corridor near the Astronomy Tower, so I don’t
imagine I had lain down for a nap.”

Dumbledore looked thoughtful. “And you don’t recall doing anything before that?”

“The last thing I remember was my scar bleeding – which is completely normal – so I was about to clean it up. The
rest is just blank. When I woke up my robes were still covered in blood, so...”

“Covered in blood, you say?” Dippet remarked. “Exactly how much blood do you lose when the scar bleeds?”

Harry hesitated. “See, that’s the thing. It only bled a bit, but my robes were entirely soaked.”

Dumbledore frowned slightly. “And you weren’t injured in any other way?”

“No, not at all.”

“When these… deliberate time-travelling incidents occur,” Dippet said, “is the traveller prone to receive any
painful side-effects?”

“I’ve only used a time-turner before, which is entirely harmless. I don’t know if there are any other forms of
time-travel around.”

Dumbledore said, “How often does your scar bleed?”

“Lately it’s bled every couple of days.”

“And how long does the bleeding last?”

“A few seconds, mostly.”

“Is it painful?” Dippet wondered aloud.

Only when I have a vision, Harry thought. “Not really, no. Sometimes it burns a bit, but that’s about it.”

Dippet sighed. “So, it is likely that the copious amount of blood was due to something that had occurred shortly
before the time-travel.”

He paused thoughtfully.

“Mr. Potter, do you think there is any likely motive for your being sent back in time?” Dumbledore asked, the
expression in his eyes strangely intense.

Harry thought about it. The time-travel had either been caused by himself, which he doubted, or someone else,
although for what reason he could not decide. Why would someone want to send him fifty years in the past? To get
him out of the way, maybe? Out of the way of Voldemort and his far-fetched plans, perhaps. But why…?

Harry shook his head, meeting Dumbledore’s gaze. “I don’t know. Well. I’m quite well-known, in my time…” he
frowned. “I can’t think why anyone would want to send me here, other than to, well, get me out of the way. And if
I had done it myself, I doubt there would be any blood or loss of memory involved.”

“What are you well-known for?” Dippet asked interestedly.

Harry shrugged nonchalantly. “I can’t really say.”

“Fair enough, but it seems fitting to point out that you don’t appear very keen to return,” Dippet stated.

Harry looked down at his shoes. To be honest, he wasn’t keen on leaving at all. “I have to go back,” he said
after a pause. “It’s just… well; my life in my own time isn’t that brilliant. Here, no one really knows who I am.
No one stares…” He shifted uncomfortably and looked up to find Dumbledore looking at him with something akin to
understanding.

Dippet sighed, and looked at Dumbledore. “What are the available options?”

A thoughtful look returned to the Professor’s face as he unwrapped yet another sweet. Finally he mused, “I think
we would all agree that there is very little information for us to make any standing decisions. Perhaps you
should carry on here, Harry, as you have been doing, and we shall see whether magic will work itself on this
issue once again.”

Harry nodded slowly, somewhat relieved but still wary. He had to return eventually. He was the only one who could
defeat Lord Voldemort, after all. And Merlin, what if the bastard had already attacked Hogwarts?

Suddenly he looked up at Dumbledore. “Can you help me perform a temporary unbreakable vow?”

“A vow?” Dippet remarked, incredulity creeping into his voice. “Whatever for?”

“To keep yourself from revealing too much about the future, I suppose?” Dumbledore mused.

Harry nodded.

“I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” Dumbledore said, twirling his wand and looking at Dippet.

The Headmaster frowned slightly but said, “Very well, if you must.”

“Come, then,” Dumbledore stood. Harry followed and placed himself in front of the Professor.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then.” Dumbledore directed his wand at Harry. “Do you, Harry James Potter, swear an oath to protect any
information from the future that may indirectly harm yourself and others?”

“I do,” Harry said, and was blinded momentarily by white light.

“Now that that’s done,” Dippet said impatiently. “It would seem ideal that you get settled down until we can come
up with a solution.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said, acknowledging the dismissal.

“Good luck on starting your lessons tomorrow,” Dumbledore commented as sat once again. “I believe you will be
having me for Transfiguration at one point or another.”

Finally Harry thanked them and left, heading automatically for the dungeons. His mind was a tumble of thoughts,
but strangely he did not feel as worried as he knew he ought to be. He feared for his friends and of course the
Order, but at the moment there was little he could do to help them, other than fish around for information. He
could even try and enjoy himself, for once.

It was true, what he had told Dippet. No one stared like they used to; no one goggled at his scar, gossiped about
him, read ridiculous articles about his love life, or lack thereof. It was as though Harry was in a completely
different universe - a brilliant one, with no Lord Voldemort, no prophecy and no death eaters. While Tom Riddle
existed, he was not nearly quite as insane and revenge-obsessed as his future self.

When Harry entered the common room, Dorian gestured for him to join the group lounging in the corner.

Tom, sitting on a couch by Cedrella and leafing through a book, looked up as Harry approached.

“Any luck?” he asked expressionlessly, moving over so that Harry could slide in between them.

“None,” Harry stated, before hissing a greeting at Anton and watching Dorian sprawl on a pile of cushions at his
feet.

“Are you staying here for good then?” Stefan asked suddenly. He was leaning back on a wooden chair at a nearby
table, doodling on a piece of parchment.

Harry kicked his shoes off, drew his legs up and wrapped his arms around them, feeling Tom’s warmth burning into
his right side. “I don’t know,” he murmured, stroking Anton’s head. The snake was trapped comfortably against his
chest.

“Are you going to keep leaving me often?”

“Not if you don’t want me to,” Harry replied, a quick glance at his watch telling him that it would be time for
lunch in an hour or so.

He looked up when Cedrella snapped her book shut and it disappeared with a small puff.

“How do you plan on spending the rest of the day?” she asked him, pulling her legs up and mimicking his position
on the couch.

“Until six o’ clock, you mean? I don’t know. What do you usually do on Sundays?”

She looked thoughtful.

“Read intricate drafts on the extended magical configuration of ancient runes,” Dorian suggested for her,
flicking through a book on the floor.

He received a face full of cushion in response. Harry snickered at him. “And you?” he asked.

“He usually has someone to irritate,” Cedrella remarked.

“Don’t be absurd,” Dorian said. “How is dear Septimus, by the way?”

Harry watched interestedly as Cedrella frowned, her grip tightening on the cushion in her hands.

“He is… unsure of himself,” she murmured, staring at some invisible form in front of her and speaking more to
herself than the rest of them.

Dorian pushed himself into a sitting position, leaning back on his hands, and Tom closed the book he was reading
to observe her.

“He’s finally backing out?” Stefan said, not removing his eyes from the parchment.

Cedrella narrowed her gaze at him. “He doesn’t want to cause further problems with my family,” she snapped.

“You mean he doesn’t want you to get disowned,” he muttered.

“And what do you want?” Harry asked her mildly, surveying the complicated markings painted along Anton’s scales.
Her problem had to be similar to the ordeals that Sirius went through.

When he turned his head to look at her, she had a slightly taken aback expression, as if no one had considered
her needs worth noting. She then sighed, and said softly, “I would be happy to just have him.”

There was a pause.

“Then what’s the problem?” Harry said, looking at the floor and feeling lonely all of a sudden. He wondered what
it would feel like to have what Cedrella shared with Septimus, or what Bulstrode shared with her ‘fifth year
cretin’ as Dorian put it. To have what Hermione and Ron had. The only people who had ever wanted to be with Harry
that way were either after the attention or wanted to use him. Like Tom.

Cedrella didn’t answer, following Harry’s gaze to the empty dot on the floor.

“She fears Bulstrode,” Tom commented, carefully taking Anton from Harry’s lap.

She snorted in response. “Hardly. It is just… he doesn’t appear to realise that I no longer care about their…
their ways. He…”

Harry bumped his shoulder against hers, playfully. “Why don’t you go and tell him that, then?”

She stared at him for a long moment. Harry swallowed silently as he stared back into her dark grey eyes. Sirius’
eyes.

She opened her mouth, and then closed it again. “Perhaps I will,” she said softly, and abruptly stood and left
the common room.

Harry was quick to steal the free space on the couch, letting himself sprawl and acknowledging Dorian’s
appraising look.

“You were just after her seat,” Stefan accused without actually looking up.

Harry smiled at him, but didn’t answer. A wave of tiredness suddenly hit him, even though he had slept well the
night before. He curled up and closed his eyes, hoping that no one would take the opportunity to hex him. This
was the Slytherin common room, after all.

“You shouldn’t have gotten up so early,” Dorian observed with a smirk. Harry glared stonily at him, which only
resulted in widening the boy’s smirk.

He wondered briefly whether Tom was always this quiet. It certainly seemed that way. Another wave hit him.
Groaning, Harry stood and swayed slightly.

“Don’t fall on me, please,” Dorian said, moving away slightly.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Wake me in time for that meeting,” he muttered, stealing Anton back and heading for the
boys dormitory.


*


Harry felt a warm hand on his forehead, and then in his hair. He opened his eyes, tired, to find Tom sitting by him. A quick flashback of that morning flittered across Harry’s mind and he closed his eyes in some form of dismay.

“Wake up, Harry. We need to go, now.”

“Tom,” Harry muttered. He reopened his eyes, and could see that it was now quite dark outside.

The hand caressed his cheek. “Come on, Harry.”

Harry sighed and sat up, stifling a yawn and not understanding why he was so dramatically tired.

Ten minutes later he and Tom arrived at an unimpressive timber door, far deeper in the dungeons than the common
room.

Tom murmured something and the door creaked open on its own, revealing a huge well-lit room full of murmuring
students and the odd pop of a school house-elf appearing.

Behind the small crowd Harry could see a long mahogany table similar to that of the Slytherin table in the Great
Hall. It sat between a row of pillars, and at the end wall there hung a few large, immensely surly-looking
portraits.

Harry allowed Tom to take his hand and lead him into the room, gaining the stares of the nearby students.

“Harry,” Dorian appeared beside him. “Welcome to the Slug Club. Well, part of it, anyway. The rest have deigned
to arrive yet.”

“This way,” Tom said, and led him through the gathering to Slughorn, who stood beaming at, Harry recognized,
Abraxas Malfoy. The boy had an empty expression of complacency as he looked up at his professor. He wandered away
when they approached.

“Harry,” Slughorn greeted, his smile widening. “How are you today? Made lots of friends? I’m sure Tom has been
looking after you well. Come, we are about to eat. You can sit by me, and we’ll wait for the others to arrive.”

He left no room for answer. He went and sat at the head of the table, and a quick nudge from Dorian told Harry to
follow. He sat in the seat to the side of the professor, while Dorian took the place beside him and Tom sat
opposite.

The students began to follow suit, taking their places at the long table.

“What happens when you run out of seats?” Harry asked Dorian amidst the chatter.

“The table extends itself when room is needed. You should have seen it when the club started off.”

“How long has it been going?”

“Three years next week,” Slughorn announced cheerfully, listening in on them. “Which is why we will be having a
party on Saturday. But we will talk about that after the food.”

Harry glanced up when three more students entered the room. He didn’t recognize them. The table was now half full.

“Shouldn’t Cedrella be here?” he mused.

“We have not seen her since you sent her away from the common room,” Tom said with an arched eyebrow.

“Oh,” Harry said. “I wonder how that’s going.”

“Well, your answer has arrived.” Dorian supplied. Harry followed his gaze to the door and blinked in surprise.

Cedrella entered, hand-in-hand with a tall, mature-looking redheaded boy, obviously from Gryffindor. She was
smiling.

“Well done, Harry,” Tom mused, watching them approach.

There was a quiet hush when the pair reached the table, as though the Slytherins were attempting to become
adjusted to the fact that a Slytherin girl was interested in a Gryffindor. A Weasley, no less.

The pair seemed unconcerned. Either that, or they were ignoring it.

“Harry,” Cedrella smiled at him. “This is Septimus.”

Harry returned her smile, pleased to see someone so happy. Septimus had his own dark smile, one that didn’t suit
a Gryffindor but made him look good nevertheless. Harry thought he looked very much like Bill Weasley, just
without the wild rugged look.

“Pleased to meet you,” he smiled.

“The pleasure is mine,” Septimus returned.

“Jolly good,” Slughorn said cheerfully, pride adorning his voice. “Please take a seat. The last ones should be
here any minute now- ah, here we are.”

Stefan Avery entered the room, followed by a group of students talking in hushed whispers. Harry saw Chris with
them.

When everyone was seated, Slughorn stood and a hush descended upon the table.

“Announcements come afterwards. Now is the time to feast.” He clapped his hands twice together and plates
appeared on the table, followed by steaming dishes of food. The students voiced a general cheer and began to dig
in.

Harry was about to pile food onto his plate when he noticed Anton sliding up onto Tom’s shoulder.

“Yum,” the snake hissed.

“He likes you,” Harry noted mildly.

Tom smirked and took Anton down. “Of course. Take him, he keeps pestering me.”

Harry took the snake and gave Tom a suspicious look. “He’s not still going on about mating, is he?”

Dorian snorted beside him. Harry elbowed him in the ribs.

“It is customary, Harry. He finds it odd that you haven’t chosen a mating partner this year.”

Harry frowned. “Don’t snakes hibernate in winter?”

“They do, but Anton doesn’t need to, since you have adopted him. He has all the food he can eat.”

“He’s called Anton?” Dorian said, amused.

Harry gave him an odd look. “Didn’t you know?”

The boy rolled his eyes and refrained from answering.

“About that, Potter,” Slughorn interrupted. “How did you come by Parseltongue? It is a rather rare gift, after
all.”

Harry opened his mouth to answer but no sound came out. He frowned. Oh. The vow. Phew. He noticed Tom narrow his
eyes slightly.

Slughorn cleared his throat.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered. “I don’t know why.”

The man frowned, and then suddenly an intrigued expression crossed his face.

“Perhaps you are connected with Tom in some form,” he mused.

Harry tried not to choke on the food in his mouth.

“How is that potion progressing, Professor?” Tom interjected, watching Harry carefully.

Harry frowned and noticed Dorian watching the whole reaction from the side.

“Quite, quite well, thank you Tom. I may need a couple more ingredients eventually, but all in good time. All in
good time.”

They went into a complicated discussion about the potion and Harry down looked at Anton, eating chicken on his
lap.

“How are you?” he hissed softly, stroking the scaly head.

“Good. I can smell him.”

“Huh?” Harry said, confused. He looked up at Dorian, who was watching him.

“Oh.” He laughed.

“What is it this time?” Dorian asked.

“Nothing,” Harry said evasively, and reached for the potatoes.

“Oh, come now. Mating partners again?”

“Not this time. He likes the way you smell.”

Harry received an incredulous look.

“The way I smell? Interesting.”

Harry grinned at him.

“And do you share his opinion?” Dorian said casually, twirling his knife in one hand.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Hey, Potter,” someone called from down the table. Harry looked up.

“Say something in Parseltongue, if you’re really a Parselmouth.”

Harry frowned. He stabbed his fork in the meat on his plate. Dorian snickered at him.

“I’m not, really,” Harry answered. “It’s all a lie.”

Anton ruined the effect by slithering up to his shoulder. There was a collective draw-in of breath. Harry sighed.

He looked at Tom. “Do you ever get this?”

The boy raised an eyebrow.

“Not unless the questioner wants to be hexed to pieces,” Dorian said.

“Ah,” Harry said.

The meal soon ended. Slughorn rose, clapped the table clean and waited for the students to be silent.

“As you all may well know,” he began, “there is an upcoming party next weekend at seven. We will be celebrating
the third year of our dear Slug club.”

There was an all-round cheer from the table.

“Secondly, I would like you all to welcome a certain newcomer. Mister Harry Potter has joined the school and our
little gang. I hope you will all make him welcome.”

At his words there was a collective greeting. Harry just nodded as he prevented Anton from pouncing on Dorian.

“And lastly-“

Harry had no idea what the third thing was as the words of the voice seemed to merge and become incredibly loud.

An abrupt weakness seeped into his bones. He swayed and gripped the edge of the table with a hand, looking down
at his lap as his vision blurred.

He felt a hand take a firm hold of his elbow.

“Tired,” he attempted, before blackness filled his vision.

*


Harry woke up in his four poster, feeling exhausted all over again. With a weary groan he pushed himself up and checked his watch. It was around half seven. And he had promised to meet Chris at eight.

He forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom. The dormitory was deserted. He quickly washed, dried, brushed
his teeth and went in search of clothes. He pulled on a pair of black jeans and a dark blue jumper, attempted and
failed to smooth his hair down, and left for the common room.

“Harry,” Dorian approached him the second his finished descending the stairs. “How are you feeling?”

Harry looked at him searchingly. “Tired,” he said finally.

The boy frowned at him, but had no time to answer as Tom appeared.

“Harry. You seem a bit better now. Aren’t you due to meet Doyle at eight?”

Doyle. Christopher Doyle. “Yes,” Harry murmured. It was a quarter to.

“Why are you meeting Doyle?” Dorian asked, frowning.

Harry shrugged tiredly and went for the nearest chair. “Why not?” he said, slumping and tugging at his hair.

“Perhaps he will allow you to apply for the quidditch team,” Tom said expressionlessly, taking the seat next to
him.

“Maybe,” Harry said. The sound of quidditch alone sounded exhausting to him right now.

Fifteen minutes later his eyes scanned the common room and landed on Chris, who was standing by the door talking
to a girl Harry didn’t recognize.

Harry stood. “Ill see you later,” he said, smiling when Anton moved and curled up on the warm spot Harry had left
on the chair.

“Enjoy yourself,” Dorian said warily.

Harry didn’t know what the problem was, but he shrugged it off and made his way towards the Quidditch captain.

“Harry,” Chris said, smiling. “Are you feeling better now? I saw you collapse earlier.”

“Was it really that bad?” Harry asked, rubbing his eyes but returning the boy’s smile.

“Well, you did rather surprise everyone, including Riddle. Shall we go for a walk?”

Harry agreed and they left the common room together, heading ultimately in the direction of the Entrance hall.

“Tom tells me that you’re the Quidditch captain,” Harry mentioned.

“He was right. What else did he say about me?”

Harry laughed. “Nothing.”

“Are you fond of Quidditch, then?”

Harry smiled brightly, suddenly remembering the thrill of riding his Firebolt. “Yeah,” he murmured.

“We can go for a fly now, if you’d like,” Chris suggested, watching Harry as they walked.

Harry looked at him. “Really? I haven’t flown in ages.”

“Come on, then.”

They chatted easily on the way to the Quidditch pitch. Harry marveled at how effortless it was to talk to Chris,
and wondered once again why Tom and Dorian seemed somewhat averse to him.

When they reached the broom shed he realized with reluctance that he would have to fly one of the slowest brooms
in existence. Oh well, he thought. Better than nothing.

They mounted their brooms. “Ready?” Chris said cheerfully, the wind ruffling his light hair.

Harry nodded and they kicked off. For the first time in weeks, all his troubles seemed to stream away.

Harry flew.