Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

Harry woke with a gasp.

His lungs burned as he sucked in air, his body arching off the ground as though dragged from the depths of a cold lake. Pain seared through him, sharp and all-encompassing, but it was fading—melting away like snow under the sun.

He opened his eyes and found four figures staring down at him: three men and one child.

The first was a man with pale with dark blond hair slicked back from his face. He was dressed impeccably in a dark suit, but his cold brown eyes betrayed both shock and suspicion as he held an umbrella to protect one man and child from the rain.

The second man was leaner, with a hooked nose and dark, calculating eyes that seemed to take in everything at once. His black overcoat billowed slightly in the wind, and his wand—no, a gun—was in his hand, trained on Harry with steady precision.

And then there was the third.

The man standing between them was younger than Harry expected, though his presence was commanding. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his sharp features were framed by a tailored black coat. His grey eyes were the same as the boy's in his arms—stormy, piercing, and now filled with something between suspicion and intrigue.

"Who the hell are you?" the man demanded, his voice smooth but edged with steel.

Harry pushed himself up on his elbows, grimacing as he met the man's gaze. His scar tingled as he felt it resonate with the Tom in front of him. It was distracting enough that it took him a second longer to process the question he's been asked.

"I… I don't know," he said truthfully, because he really didn't know the identity of the person he was possessing.

The man's eyes narrowed at hearing his hoarse voice. He stepped forward, ignoring the way the blond man and the dark-haired one tensed beside him.

"You saved my son," the man said, his tone unreadable.

Harry blinked, his gaze shifting to the boy secured protectively in his arms, the one who was clearly in shock. He was safe—unharmed. Relief flooded through Harry, though it was short-lived.

"I saw you die," the man continued, his voice quieter now but no less dangerous. "You took two bullets to the chest, and yet here you are. Breathing."

Harry didn't respond. He couldn't.

The man crouched in front of him, close enough that Harry could see the flicker of something strange in his eyes—something familiar. "Whoever you are," he said softly, "you belong to me now."

The man's words hung in the air, charged with a weight that made Harry's skin crawl.

Harry didn't hesitate. He didn't have time to question what that meant or why this man's presence sent a shiver down his spine. His instincts took over.

He gripped the Elder Wand—now slick with blood—and disapparated.

The alley dissolved around him, the cold air replaced by the suffocating darkness of apparition. He focused on the faint pulse of his magic, desperate for anywhere that wasn't there.

With a jarring snap, he reappeared in the same alley he woke up. The rain had stopped. Harry stumbled forward, his knees giving way as the world spun around him. He dropped to the ground, gasping for air. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and his chest ached as though the bullets were still lodged there.

Harry's chest heaved as he slumped against the damp wall of the alley, his body trembling with exhaustion.

The residual pain of the bullets lingered, even though the wounds had healed. His hand still gripped the Elder Wand like a lifeline, the smooth wood warm against his palm as though reassuring him that he was still in one piece.

For the first time since he woke, Harry let himself process what had just happened. The rain had stopped, but the ground beneath him was still slick with water and blood—his blood. He raised a shaking hand to his chest, his fingers brushing over the tender scar where the bullets had pierced him.

I saw you die.

The words echoed in his mind, spoken in that smooth, dangerous voice. Harry's stomach twisted as the pieces clicked together, forming a picture he didn't want to believe.

The boy, the cold blond man, the hooked-nosed one with the piercing eyes—and him. Tom Riddle. Not Voldemort, not the fragmented monster Harry had fought at Hogwarts, but Tom Riddle as he might have been. Young, commanding, and alive with a dangerous charisma that made Harry's skin crawl.

"Bloody hell," Harry muttered under his breath, letting his head fall back against the wall.

He had seen those eyes before—stormy grey, sharp and calculating, brimming with ambition. The boy's eyes, the man's eyes. A father and son. Tom has a son, Harry thought, the realization hitting him like another punch to the gut.

And the others… Snape, younger and leaner but still the same, his gaze a sharp blade dissecting Harry the moment they locked eyes. And the blond man, who had to be Barty Crouch.

This wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be.

"Why here?" Harry whispered to himself, his voice rasping in the quiet.

He drew his knees to his chest, his whole body still trembling as if the magic he'd unleashed had drained him more than he thought. His fingers dug into his hair as his breathing slowed, and he let his mind wander to what Death had said.

"You'll always land near him. No matter how far or strange the world may seem, you will find him. Or he will find you."

A bitter laugh escaped Harry's lips, though it quickly dissolved into a groan. "Brilliant. Just brilliant."

He didn't want to think about what "you belong to me" had meant or why Tom Riddle's voice had stirred something he didn't recognize—something between anger and… no, he wasn't going there. Not now.

Harry needed to figure out where he was and what he was supposed to do.

As Harry's breathing steadied, he shifted uncomfortably. His clothes felt strange—slightly too tight in the shoulders and shorter in the legs. He tugged at the hem of his shirt, only to freeze as his gaze caught on his hands.

They weren't his hands.

They were rougher, broader, with faint scars etched across the knuckles. The nails were clipped, but there was grime beneath them, and his fingers twitched as though unfamiliar with his commands.

Harry stumbled to his feet, bracing himself against the alley wall as he fumbled for the reflection in a nearby puddle. He peered into the murky surface, his breath hitching as he caught sight of his own face—or what should have been his face.

The scar was still there, faint but visible, running jaggedly across his forehead. His eyes were the same vivid green he remembered, but his jawline was sharper, his skin darker, and his hair shorter, cropped closer to his scalp.

Harry leaned back, his heart racing. What in Merlin's name…

Death's words came back to him: "The body will change. Over days, weeks—however long it takes—it will reflect you more fully. Your soul and your body will align, and you will become whole."

This body wasn't his yet. It wasn't entirely Harry, but it was getting there. The thought was as disconcerting as it was grounding. He flexed his hands experimentally, testing the strength of the unfamiliar muscles.

The ache in his chest pulled him back to reality. He closed his eyes, focusing on what mattered: the boy.

Harry's magic had protected the child, and he'd seen the relief in his wide, tear-streaked eyes. But the boy's fear hadn't been for himself—it had been for Harry.

The memory of Tom's grey eyes narrowed in suspicion flashed through Harry's mind. The way he'd crouched in front of Harry, leaning in as though to study him up close. His words had been so sharp, so pointed.

You belong to me now.

A shiver ran down Harry's spine. He had no idea what Tom meant by that, but the tone left no room for misinterpretation. Tom Riddle wasn't a man who made idle statements.

What does he want? Harry wondered, his thoughts racing. He didn't know what role Tom played in this world or why the boy had been targeted, but Harry had a sinking feeling he was about to find out.

He couldn't stay here. Apparating back to the same alley had been a mistake, but he'd been too disoriented to aim for anywhere else. Now he needed to leave—find somewhere safe to think and plan.

The Elder Wand pulsed faintly in his hand, and Harry tightened his grip. He didn't have a plan, but he had his magic. That was a start.

Harry took a step forward, his legs still unsteady beneath him, and began to move. He didn't know where he was going, but one thing was certain: this wasn't over. Tom Riddle had seen him, spoken to him, and Harry had the sinking suspicion that their paths would cross again sooner than he liked.