Chapter Text
Within the first two months, the boys had fallen into a routine; wake up, clean their room, breakfast, free time, lunch, lessons, dinner, quiet time, bed. Both agreed that choosing this house as their home base was the correct choice of action, even if Tom loathed his weekly meetings with the matron. Ms. Burke was a squib with a doctorate in child psychology, as well as a potions mastery from her time in greater Europe, and required at least one session each week with every boy staying in her care long term. Luckily, for Hadrian and Thomas, there were only two others, and seeing as they were younger it was likely that they would be adopted before the end of the following year. Harry had asked Tom to be more honest in these appointments, so he knocked on Ms. Burke's door, holding his breath.
"Come in, Thomas," the matron called from within.
He pushed in and sat before her, "Good evening, Ma'am."
"How have you been this week?" Her smile was warm.
"It was fine," avoiding her eyes. "I'm fine."
"I understand you and Hadrian had a bit of a tiff yesterday, why don't talk to me about what happened? I promise I'm not angry with you, my boy," their meetings always went this way, Tom too headstrong to admit to anything, and Ms. Burke prompting him calmly into revealing what troubled him.
"Harry wasn't listening, as always," Tom slouched, crossing his arms. "He hardly ever cleans correctly, or minds his manners at the table, or puts our books away. It makes me angry, and I don't know what to do when I'm angry!"
That part was true, ever since the ritual, it was as if Thomas was clawing to escape his own skin. In the past, his first reaction to anything that displeased him was to lash out in a violent rage, but now he was unable to harm others, he had no outlet, and the tension was only getting worse. He had tried everything to make the urge go away, and this time he had resorted to something more severe; he had bashed his hand in his drawer to calm himself down after Harry had left out his book in the living room, leading to one of the younger boys tearing several pages out. It was an easy fix, but he wasn't able to think clearly enough to cast the spell correctly, causing the book to catch fire instead. Things like this kept happening, as if it wasn't embarrassing enough to be stuck as a seven year old, he needed a way out of this rut before he self-destructed completely.
"Thomas, do you know why Hadrian has such a problem tidying? Or why he forgets to put things away?" Ms. Burke asked, still calm, even after his outburst, he shakes his head. "You two boys are different from the other children, you know this, but you also struggle with your own battles. Ask him, once you've both calmed down. Do you know why you respond the way you do?"
"No, I don't," he couldn't exactly say that he spent almost seventy years torturing his followers with very addictive dark magic, followed by a stint as a cold, unfeeling wraith.
"In my many years of knowing you, dear boy," the memory charms would hold until the day she died, "The science surrounding diagnosing psychological disorders has changed quiet a lot, but I believe I have figured you out. On one hand, you have always had a difficulty regulating yourself, be that sadness or anger, as well as issues communicating and relating to others, and on the other, you have rituals, or processes you like to follow. When you are unable to complete these compulsions you lash out, attempting to do damage yourself or your surrounding. You fixate on your studies, absorbing everything you can whether it be about math or magic, and in the process, you forget to sleep or eat without being reminded constantly."
The silence following shook him to his core, after all this time, every piece of himself that drove him to push through barriers, every piece that compelled him to overcome the hand that was laid before him… was a symptom of something deeper. He didn't mean to sound as wounded as he did, but these meetings always left him feeling like his outer layers were stripped away, "Is something wrong with me? Am I broken?"
"Goodness, no!" Ms. Burke stood, rounding the desk to sit beside him, holding his hands, "Tommy, every brain is different and no one is wrong for how they are made. You are autistic, which simply means that your brain is wired differently from a non-autistic person. This is where your regulation issues come from, as well as your social struggles. You also have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, meaning that you have intense urges and thoughts about doing things you don't want to do, but feeling like you need to do them anyway. There is absolutely nothing wrong with you; you are not broken."
Tom shot up, pacing, "There has to be something that can get rid of if, right?
"As I stated before, autism is simply the way you brain is wired, there's no changing that," she paused. "However, you can manage the symptoms of OCD with proper medication and therapy. I would like to try therapy and coping skills first, but if you do not show adequate improvement within the next six months, I have adapted several psychiatric medications into potions that have been approved by the Potions Masters Association that we can try later. You must promise me that you will try, Thomas, this will not be easy without your full cooperation."
"Yes, Ma'am," the appointment ended soon after leaving him alone with his thoughts as he return to his room.
The boys stared at each other for a moment before Harry spoke, "I'm assume you got a diagnosis too, based on your face?"
They sat discussing Tom's session for over an hour, breaking down details from this timeline's past as well as Harry's, assessing and reassessing what this would mean for their plans. For their current plans, nothing changed, but Tom was unsure of what this would mean for his own future. What would this mean for his ministry career? What would happen if this would get out? Who would have confidence in a man who couldn't regulate his own emotions appropriately?
"You do know we are still seven, right?" Harry flicked his forehead, snapping him out of the spiral he was stuck in, "You are still the same person you were going into that meeting; cunning, cut-throat, and cocky to the bone. It's just that this time you won't have to torture the people around you because you're overstimulated by the hems of your robes. Or try to kill babies because of an obsession over an unfinished, unverified prophecy."
"Shut up, Potter," Tom sneered, "Or I'll find a way out of this little peace treaty you forced me into and do some real damage."
"You won't, admit it, you like being seven again," he had never pressed this far before about their current situation. "Think about it, we finally have time to work through this shit, your not stuck in the middle of two wars and I'm not at the Dursley's being raised for slaughter. Let's just enjoy this, settle down for now, then when our letters come in a few years, we get started."
Tom arched his brow, "And what are we supposed to do in this grace period? Play tag?"
Harry laughed at the idea of the Dark Lord playing tag, "No, you prick, we rest!"
"Rest?"
"Yeah, we'll take up meditation, Occlumency; I can teach you anger management and you can teach me about old wizarding traditions. We can do whatever we want really," he put his hand on Tom's shoulder. "Trust me, just let go a little, we have all the time in the world."
"You never told me what you got diagnosed with?"
"She said I've got ADD-H, but I'm pretty sure the label changes to ADHD in a few years," jumping onto his bed, he stares up at the ceiling, "Burke's also pretty sure I have PTSD, but I doubt it, I've been through a lot, but it wasn't that bad."
Tom let his comment go, Harry will realize the true impact of his past later, he's sure of it.
Time began to flow quickly around them—between muggle homeschooling, magical preparation courses, therapy sessions, and their personal lessons—all blurring together as one year after another passed them by. Harry picked up football the local boys as a way to channel his excess energy, while Tom took up piano to fill his now quieting mind. Both were on a strict potions regiment to ensure they stayed on track, taking extra time to assist Ms. Burke in brewing the potions either of them would need if she became indisposed.
Working together, Tom began to get a handle on his anger, taking deep breaths and learning to walk away was a challenge. Harry, now able to focus without having to fight for his life to get him to pay attention, began to excel in his studies, having more appreciation for Ancient Runes—making Tom smug after his hours of complaining about the subject. They compared notes often, Tom's critiques now helping more than annoying.
The pair began to joke with each other, it felt normal, like they had known each other all of their lives. They watched the Marauders' Map together, laughing when students would hit a trip-step. Days were spent planning elaborate pranks on Dumbledore, while nights were spent reading or quietly discussing theory. Tom talked about his grandiose plan to climb the ministry ladder, dismantling the system from the inside and guiding the world towards a new age. Harry talked about joining a Quidditch team and touring across the world, eventually coming home to settle down and live a quiet life, away from the press.
Until one day, Tom stopped him, "I hope you know that we're not friends. Lord Voldemort doesn't do friends."
"Of course not," Harry didn't understand why such an obvious statement had hurt so badly. "Why do you still refer to yourself as Voldemort?"
"Because I am Lord Voldemort," he was confidant. "That is who I am, that is who I always will be. My methods may have changed, but my vision is still the same."
"So you still believe that pure-bloods are better than us? That muggleborns deserve to be tortured for the entertainment of your psychopathic fan-base?"
"No I mea-"
"Oh, save it, you sadist," Hadrian was in his face in an instant, fists balled at his side. ~I gave you life. I fixed your damned soul after everything you did, after all of the people you tortured and killed. I should call Amaya back just to see you squirm, waiting for me to see if your even worth killing. After everything I've done to help you, the least you can do is mind your fucking mouth!~
The air was thick with magic; hair whipped around his face, eyes glowing killing curse green, their belongings suspended in the air.
"Harry, I believe that's enough," a kind voice called from beyond their locked door.
Everything came crashing down.
"Hadrian," Ms. Burke pulled him from his thoughts, "You both seemed to be getting along so well, what happened?"
He started shaking again, "He's a massive prick that's what."
"I will not have that foul language in my house, breathe and try again."
"He was going on about his father," he had to find someway to get this out without ruining everything. "He kept saying that even though his dad lost the plot, he had good ideas about reform… then I lost it."
She pinched the bridge of her nose, "I will have another discussion with Thomas at a later time. You've gone through so much, dear, but you cannot lose your temper. You're a strong boy, Harry, but when your emotions become as strong as your power, I do worry."
"Yes, Ma'am."
They didn't talk for almost three months after that, outside of their lessons it was complete silence. Neither of them bold enough to breech the awkward place they had gotten themselves into, too stubborn to fix the fragile bond they had formed. Every now and then, Harry would catch Tom starting at him, always looking away as if he hadn't just been caught. Harry returned from football practice, to find a note on his nightstand.
Hadrian,
I'm sorry, I don't think I want to be Lord Voldemort anymore.
Happy Birthday,
Thomas
There were dried tears on the parchment, and for the first time since his death, he had no idea what to do. Imagining the other boy showing any emotion other than rage or was difficult, but the idea of seeing him crying was disturbing. Part of him wanted to find Tom now, talk it through and get it over with, while the other held fast that the boy deserved to wait just a bit longer. Settling into his bed, Harry pulled out a recent assignment and got to work, occasionally watching the clock over their door. Nearly an hour later, Tom returned from his piano lesson, looking worse for wear.
"Hi," ever the Gryffindor, Harry broke the ice. "What happened that made you change your mind?"
"I spent most of my time thinking everything over… tried to continue like normal, you know, lessons, and magic, and stuff," Thomas was never this unsure of himself, he pulled a cloth out of his pocket. "Then my wand broke, the core rejected the wood and it shattered in my hands."
"It just broke? They can do that?"
Tom sighed, "It can happen, it's just not common; when a wand chooses a wizard it's because that person holds some sort of talent or goal that it agrees with. When a core rejects the wood—or the other way around—it's usually caused by a significant change in himself, a trauma or in my case healing."
Hadrian didn't know what to say.
"Yew is the wood of life and death, it's known for its preference for dueling or in my case violence," the boy continued. "By the time I had gotten my wand, I had already killed animals and hurt the other children in the orphanage. My wand accepted those urges with no criticism, unlike those around me, so I leaned into them more. I fully believed that they deserved it, and that I was worthy to bring their suffering."
He paused again trying to find the words, "The more I talked to Ms. Burke the more I came to understand that I was wrong. After all of the therapy and medication, I realized I don't think I need the violence anymore… that I don't need to be Lord Voldemort anymore."
"Now I know you're pulling my leg," Harry's rage started simmering again. "You never 'needed to be him' in the first place!"
"Yes, I did!" Tom was pulling at his hair, a tick he had developed over the past few months, "We grew up in very different times, Harry. I was completely alone, first at the orphanage, then at Hogwarts, stuck between two devastating wars. Think about it, before your time, blood purity was still the rage in wider society, so an orphan in second hand robes with no social standing what-so-ever made me a target. When I found out I was the heir of Slytherin, I finally had some leverage, but I never could be one of them. I became more than they were, a monster, yes, but I was someone they could respect."
"So if you can't be Voldemort, who will you be then?"
The corners of his lips twitch upward, "I think it's time I stop trying to be Voldemort and try being Thomas."
"And does Thomas do friends?" Harry teased.
"Not a chance, letting people get to close is idiotic at best," he scoffed. "But he doesn't do followers either, maybe allies?"
Holding out his hand, Hadrian grinned, "That's good enough for me; not enemies, not friend's, just allies with a common goal."
"Allies it is then, and happy tenth… again," Tom shook his hand.
An unfamiliar calm settled over them as they ironed out the final details for the coming year, which was quickly approaching. Harry had to go back several times to reevaluate Ms. Burke's fabricated memories to ensure they were just right. Anxiety was eating at the both of them when winter set in, they rarely left each other's side, often whispering to themselves about proper behavior to exhibit in front of adults and their peers. Christmas passed without issue, but the boys grew restless, checking and rechecking their belongings, testing each other on their shared history, doing exercises to ensure true trust between them.
"Happy birthday, Thomas."
"Happy New Year, Hadrian."