Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

While walking down the streets, away from Tom and his men, Harry glanced down at himself. This time he didn't just see his body, but considered the clothes he wore—clothes that didn't belong to him. His shirt, though stained with blood, was an expensive button-down, the fabric softer and finer than anything he would have owned. His trousers, too, were tailored, though slightly too short at the ankles, and his shoes were polished leather, slick with rain.

His fingers brushed the edges of a brown trench coat that hung awkwardly off his shoulders, its weight unfamiliar. He reached into the pockets, searching for anything that might give him a clue about his identity here.

His hand closed around a slim leather wallet. He flipped it open, revealing a few bills and a slight slip of paper with a number. The bills were unfamiliar, looking recently printed with faces he didn't recognize and marked with a year that made his stomach drop: 1978.

Harry swallowed hard, shoving the wallet back into his pocket as he forced himself to take stock of his surroundings.

The alley was narrow and lined with grimy brick walls. Neon signs flickered overhead, casting pale blue and red glows onto the wet pavement. The distant hum of traffic reached his ears, but the cars that passed by the mouth of the alley were boxy and dated, their headlights dimmer than the vehicles he remembered from his own world.

A cigarette advertisement was plastered onto a nearby wall, the image of a grinning man in a suit holding a pack of "Marlboro Lights" making Harry pause. Even the smell of the air was different—smokier, with an edge of exhaust and something distinctly chemical.

1978. The late seventies. It explained the strange clothes, the unfamiliar cars, the muted colors of everything around him. He was in another world—another time, even.

Harry pulled the trench coat tighter around himself, cleaned his clothes from the blood with a simple charm, and stepped out of the alley, his boots splashing into shallow puddles as he moved. He kept his head down, glancing around cautiously. The streets were busier than he expected, despite the hour. Men and women moved with purpose, their outfits sharply tailored and their expressions harried.

The noise of the city was overwhelming—car horns blaring, the chatter of pedestrians, the rhythmic clatter of distant construction. A streetcar rattled past on iron tracks, its faded green paint standing out against the dark cityscape.

As Harry walked, he caught glimpses of his reflection in shop windows and puddles. His face was mostly his own now—familiar green eyes, the faint scar on his forehead—but there were subtle differences. His jawline was sharper, his skin darker, and his hair cropped shorter than he'd ever kept it. It was unsettling, like looking at a warped version of himself.

He forced himself to focus, his mind racing as he pieced together a plan. He needed information—a sense of where he was, what this world was like, and why he'd been dropped into Tom Riddle's orbit yet again.

After nearly an hour of wandering, Harry spotted it: City Library, the words etched in bold letters above a stone staircase. Relief flooded him as he climbed the steps, pushing open the heavy wooden door and stepping inside.

The warmth of the library was a welcome contrast to the chill outside. The faint hum of fluorescent lights filled the air, along with the scent of old books and dust. There was a librarian behind the front desk gave him a cursory glance before returning to her work.

Harry made his way toward the back, where rows of newspapers were neatly arranged on racks. He grabbed one at random, unfolding it carefully as he scanned the front page.

Crime Wave Grips the City: Mayor's Office Calls for Action.

Harry's brows furrowed as he read further. The article detailed a string of violent incidents across the city, from gang shootings to arson, with police struggling to maintain control. A particular line caught his eye:

"While the public looks to Mayor Grindelwald for solutions, whispers suggest viscount Thomas Riddle may be consolidating power behind the scenes, ready for the next election."

Harry's stomach twisted. Of course.

He flipped to another page, his eyes scanning for more about Tom. A small column caught his attention:

Thomas Riddle: The Dark Horse of City Politics.

The accompanying photo showed Tom—sharp suit, grey eyes, a carefully composed smile. The article described him as a rising star in the city's political scene, a man who had moved from the glamour of aristocracy to become a major player in the race for mayor.

The column ended with a veiled reference to his altruistic attitude and how it went in hand to his speeches about changing the city for the better.

Harry folded the newspaper and set it aside, his mind racing. The Tom he's seen had the same ruthless gaze, and Harry was sure he was as dangerous here as he'd ever been, straddling the line between the legitimate and the illicit. And if Barty and Snape were working with him…

Harry shook his head, unwilling to dwell on what that meant just yet. He needed more time, more information. So he leaned against the wall of a secluded corner of the library, pulling out the wallet again. The bills inside were few, still crisp and unfamiliar, but they'd have to do for now.

With a flick of his wand, he whispered, "Gemino."

The bills shimmered for a moment before doubling; the duplicates sliding neatly into place beside the originals. Harry tucked the wallet back into his coat, his lips pressed into a tight line. He hated relying on magic so soon, but he didn't have a choice.

Harry left the library as the sky darkened, the faint blush of dawn spreading over the city. It wasn't as dark as it would be in winter, so maybe it was spring or autumn. He will have to buy a recent newspaper to know the exact date.

He had a plan, though it was tenuous at best.

First, he needed food and a safe place to regroup. Then he needed to figure out how to navigate this world without drawing too much attention to himself.

But above all, he needed to avoid Tom Riddle.

The thought made him pause mid-step. Avoiding Tom was easier said than done. The man had already seen him, spoken to him, and worse—Tom Riddle was a man who didn't let things go unanswered.

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, his fingers brushing against the Elder Wand. He could feel its faint hum of power, steady and comforting.

"Let's see where this takes me," he muttered to himself, disappearing into the city streets.