The next morning, sunlight streamed through the windows, brighter than Harry had expected. Its warmth touched his face, a striking contrast to the cold unease lingering from the previous night. He lay there for a moment, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the muffled hum of the orphanage waking up. Laughter, the clinking of dishes, and the occasional stomp of feet from the hall reached him, grounding him in the present.
Finally, Harry rose, pulling on his transfigured coat with mechanical movements, his thoughts still lingering on the night before. Tom's sharp gaze, Sirius's innocent trust—it all played over in his mind like an unfinished puzzle.
When he entered the kitchen, the warmth and activity greeted him immediately. Children crowded around the small table, their voices overlapping in cheerful chaos. Mary Anne and Clara moved efficiently between them, doling out porridge and toast with practiced ease.
Andre sat at the far end, propped up on a pillow. His pale face, now tinged with a faint flush of health, lit up when he saw Harry.
"Morning," Andre said, his voice still soft but steadier than it had been in days.
"Morning, Andre," Harry replied, grabbing a plate of eggs and toast from the counter.
As Harry sat beside him, he watched the boy carefully spoon porridge into his mouth. There was hesitation in his movements, but he was eating on his own—a marked improvement.
"You're doing better," Harry observed, his tone gentle.
Andre nodded, straightening slightly with a hint of pride. "I feel better."
Harry smiled faintly. "That's good to hear. I'm heading out later to get the medicine we talked about."
Andre's eyes widened with excitement. "Really?! Thank you!"
Across the kitchen, Mary Anne paused in her work, her brow furrowing. "Are you sure you should? It's not safe—"
"I want to," Harry interrupted, his voice firm but calm. "He needs it. I can only treat the symptoms. Without medicine, it's a temporary fix."
Andre beamed up at him, his smile brighter than Harry had seen yet. "Thank you," he repeated, his small voice carrying a warmth that made Harry's chest tighten.
Mary Anne sighed but relented, her expression softening. "Just… be careful."
Before Harry could respond, the rest of the children flooded into the kitchen, their chatter filling the small space. Miriam tugged on his sleeve, proudly showing him a crayon drawing of a dragon.
"Do you think it's scary?" she asked, her brown eyes wide with expectation.
Harry tilted his head, studying the image seriously. "Terrifying," he said with a grin, earning a giggle from the girl.
Victor joined them a moment later, teasing Miriam gently before turning his attention to Harry. "So, what's the plan for today? More magic?"
Harry arched an eyebrow. "First, breakfast. Then, we'll see."
Afterwards, Harry busied himself in the kitchen, helping Mary Anne and Clara prepare for lunch early so he could go to search for the medicine. The steady rhythm of chopping vegetables and stirring pots gave him something to focus on, though his mind kept wandering back to Tom and Sirius.
Mary Anne glanced at him as she rolled out dough for bread. "You've been quiet today."
"Just… thinking," Harry said, his voice distant.
"Anything you want to talk about?"
Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "Not really."
She studied him for a moment, her hands never pausing in their work. "Well, whatever it is, don't let it eat at you. You're no good to anyone if you're carrying the world on your shoulders."
Harry huffed a quiet laugh. "Too late for that."
It was an hour later that he stepped out of the orphanage. The chill of the air bit at his skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the breakfast he'd shared with the children. His transfigured coat was snug around his shoulders, but it didn't stop the occasional icy gust from slipping past its seams.
With the address Mary Anne had given him in hand, Harry set off toward a nearby pharmacy. He passed brick storefronts lined with frosted windows, their displays filled with canned goods, old-fashioned appliances, and faded advertisements that screamed of another era.
The differences hit him in waves—small, subtle things at first, then glaring disparities. The cars, boxy and dull-colored, seemed to trundle along the narrow streets rather than glide. The clatter of coins in a vendor's tin jar felt louder, weightier somehow, than the swipe of plastic cards he'd grown used to seeing in his world.
Harry caught sight of a payphone on the corner, its metal frame battered but standing defiantly against the encroaching rust. A group of teenagers huddled around it, laughing as one dialed a number, their voices ringing out in accents he wasn't quite accustomed to.
This isn't home, he thought again, the weight of it pressing down on him.
As he turned a corner, he paused at the sight of a newsstand. His eyes lingered on the bold headlines and grainy black-and-white photographs splashed across the front pages. Words like "Economic Strain" and "Worker Strikes" jumped out at him, painting a picture of a world grappling with its own struggles—different from his but no less pressing.
"Looking for something specific?" the vendor asked, eyeing Harry with mild curiosity.
"Just… browsing," Harry replied, offering a polite nod before moving on.
The pharmacy was just ahead, its green-and-white sign hanging crookedly above the entrance. He stepped inside, the faint scent of antiseptic and powdered chalk greeting him. The space was narrow, lined with shelves stocked with glass jars and paper-wrapped packages. Behind the counter, an older man with a weathered face was reading a book.
"Morning," Harry said, approaching the counter.
The man looked up, adjusting his spectacles. "What can I do for you?"
Harry pulled out the small list Mary Anne had hastily written that morning. "I need something for an intestinal infection. Antibiotics, if you have them."
The man frowned, taking the list and scanning it. "Antibiotics, eh? Expensive stuff these days. Who's it for?"
"A boy at the St. Ignatius orphanage," Harry replied, his tone measured.
The man's frown deepened. "That the place with Mary Anne Turner?"
Harry nodded, surprised. "You know her?"
"Everyone around here does," the man said gruffly, pulling a small box from a shelf behind him. "She's stubborn as hell, but she's good people. Takes care of kids nobody else will."
Harry smiled faintly. "That she does."
The man placed the box on the counter, his expression unreadable. "That'll be five pounds."
Harry's stomach sank. He reached into his pocket, pulling out the money he'd carefully duplicated the night before. As he handed over the bills, he couldn't help but notice the way the man eyed them suspiciously before tucking them into the till.
"Appreciate it," Harry said, pocketing the medicine and stepping back outside.
As he walked back, Harry's thoughts turned to the orphanage and how far removed it felt from the comforts of his own world. The differences at this time weren't just in the technology or the architecture—they were in the way people carried themselves, the weight of unspoken struggles etched into their faces.
He passed a small bakery with a line stretching out the door, people clutching ration books as they shuffled forward. A young mother argued with the baker, her voice strained as she pleaded for an extra loaf.
"Please," she said, her tone desperate. "Just one more. My kids haven't eaten since yesterday."
The baker shook his head, his face hard but not unkind. "I'm sorry, miss. Rules are rules."
Harry felt a pang in his chest as he continued walking. This world was harsher than his, its edges sharper and more unforgiving. It made him wonder how much of that had shaped Tom Riddle—and how much of it was an excuse for the man's ambitions.
He shook his head and continued walking until he could see the orphanage's tattered exterior, a contrast with the inside, where the warmth of the children's chatter greeted him.
"Did you get it?" Eli asked, bounding up to Harry as soon as he stepped through the door.
"Yeah," Harry said, holding up the small box. "Got everything we need."
Eli grinned, relief evident in his expression. "Mary Anne's in the kitchen. She'll want to see that."
Harry nodded, making his way to the back of the house. As he passed through the narrow halls, he couldn't shake the images of the bakery line, the arguing mother, the weary vendor. This world was so different, yet the struggles felt the same.
When he handed Mary Anne the medicine, her face lit up with gratitude. "You've done more for this place in a week than most people do in a lifetime," she said softly.
Harry shook his head. "Just doing what I can."
She smiled. "Well, you've made a little boy happy. Maybe at dinner we can do something extra to celebrate."
He shook his head. "I won't be here for dinner."
Mary Anne raised an eyebrow, pausing in her work. "Something come up?"
"Sort of," Harry said, glancing at the children playing in the next room. "I've… got a meeting."
Her sharp eyes narrowed slightly. "A meeting?"
Harry nodded. "It's important. I won't be gone long."
Mary Anne's gaze lingered on him for a moment, but she didn't press further. Instead, she simply nodded. "Be careful, Harry."
"I will," he promised.