Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

Mary Anne led Harry down a narrow hallway to the kitchen, where the smell of cabbage and something faintly sweet lingered in the air. The kitchen was modest, with mismatched plates stacked precariously on open shelves and a scarred wooden table at the center. A flickering bulb hung overhead, casting a warm but uneven glow.

"Sit," Mary Anne said firmly, pulling out a chair and motioning for Harry to take it.

He hesitated, unused to the gesture, but complied, lowering himself into the seat as Mary Anne moved with practiced efficiency. The weight of the day began to press down on him as he leaned against the sturdy wooden backrest. Eli followed behind them, leaning casually against the doorframe, a faint grin tugging at his lips as he watched the interaction.

"You didn't have to help," Eli said, his tone softer now. "Most people don't."

Harry's eyes flicked to him, assessing the mixture of gratitude and guardedness in his expression. "They should."

Eli shrugged, a flash of bitterness crossing his face. "Should doesn't mean they will."

Harry didn't argue. He'd seen enough in his world—and now in this one—to know Eli was right. The weight of systemic neglect, indifference, and cruelty was universal, it seemed.

Mary Anne set a steaming bowl of cabbage cream soup in front of Harry, along with a slice of bread that looked slightly stale but serviceable. "Eat," she said, her tone brooking no argument.

Harry glanced at the simple meal, the warmth of the bowl seeping into his hands as he picked up the spoon. The first sip of the hearty soup was unexpectedly soothing. He hadn't realized how cold and hollow he felt until now, and the food brought a hint of life back to his limbs.

"Thank you," he murmured.

Mary Anne nodded, her sharp gaze softening. "You've got a good heart, Harry. Whatever brought you here, I'm glad it did."

Eli scoffed lightly but didn't argue. He slid into a chair across from Harry and grabbed a piece of bread from a basket, munching on it with nonchalance. His expression was casual, but his eyes stayed on Harry, curious and measuring.

"You didn't answer my question," Eli said suddenly. "Why'd you help me? You don't even know me."

Harry paused, lowering his spoon. "Does it matter?"

Eli frowned, his mouth opening to reply, but Mary Anne cut in, her voice brisk. "He helped because he's a decent human being, which is more than I can say for most people these days."

The corner of Harry's lips quirked upward. "That about sums it up."

Eli huffed but didn't push further. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, studying Harry with a thoughtful look. "You're weird, you know that? Showing up out of nowhere, saving people, and acting like it's no big deal."

"Is that a compliment?" Harry asked, his tone dry.

Eli smirked. "Take it however you want."

Mary Anne clicked her tongue at Eli, but her own smile tugged at the corners of her lips. "Enough of your sass, Eli. Let the man eat in peace."

As Harry continued his meal, the conversation shifted to the day-to-day life at the orphanage. Mary Anne spoke about the repairs needed around the house—leaks in the roof, a creaky staircase, the boiler that only worked on its own schedule. She mentioned Clara, the younger caretaker, and the ten children under her care, sharing little anecdotes that painted a picture of their lives here.

Harry listened quietly, absorbing every detail. The warmth and care Mary Anne spoke with reminded him of Mrs. Weasley, of her fierce love and unwavering determination to protect those under her care. It tugged at something deep inside him, something he thought he'd buried.

By the time he finished his soup, he felt strangely settled, as if he'd found an anchor in the storm of his existence.

"About that room you mentioned," Harry said, setting down his spoon. "Is it still available?"

Mary Anne's lips twitched into a faint smile. "Of course. It's not much, but it's clean. You're welcome to stay as long as you need."

Eli grinned, his earlier wariness replaced by something softer. "Told you we could use someone like you."

Harry's chest tightened at the boy's words, but he forced himself to push the emotion aside. He didn't know how long he'd stay in this world, how long he could afford to get attached. But for now, he had a purpose—a reason to keep moving forward.

"Thank you," he said again, his voice quiet but sincere.

Mary Anne patted his shoulder as she rose. "Get some rest. Tomorrow's a new day, and there's plenty of work to be done."

"You need help with anything?" Harry asked.

Mary Anne blinked, clearly caught off guard. "You're already doing enough. Andre, Samantha… That's more than we could've asked for."

"I'd rather not be idle," Harry said, glancing down at his hands. "If I'm staying, I want to help."

Mary Anne studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes softening. "You're a good man, Harry. We'll talk about it tomorrow."

She motioned for him to follow, leading him upstairs to a small, sparsely furnished room at the end of the hallway. A bed with a simple patchwork quilt sat in the corner, next to a rickety dresser and a small window that overlooked the dimly lit street below.

"It's not much," Mary Anne said, "but it's yours."

"It's perfect," Harry replied, his voice low.

She handed him a set of pajamas—faded but clean—and nodded toward the bathroom down the hall. "Get some rest. You've earned it."

Harry nodded, murmuring his thanks before retreating to the bathroom for a quick shower. The cold water shocked his senses, washing away the grime and tension of the day. By the time he returned to his room, dressed in the borrowed pajamas, he felt almost human again and, as he sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of the day pressed down on him.

His fingers brushed against the Elder Wand in his pocket, its presence both comforting and unnerving. He still thought of traveling to other worlds in search of a Tom who could destroy him, ending the cycle once and for all. That had been his plan from the beginning—a clear, straightforward path to rid himself of Voldemort's lingering shadow.

But here, in the quiet warmth of the orphanage, doubt crept in. Could he save both himself and the fragment of Voldemort inside him? Was it even worth trying?

Harry stared down at his hands, scarred and calloused, some foreign remnants of the body he inhabited, while others, familiar. They appeared recently, but they were clearly his own. He could faintly see the 'I must not tell lies' in the back of his hand, and seeing the hated scar brought him comfort.

He couldn't help but think of Ron's fierce determination, Hermione's sharp intellect, Ginny's unwavering loyalty. They were gone because of Voldemort. Because of him. Could he really bring himself to nurture even a piece of the man responsible for so much destruction?

His fingers tightened around the wand as his chest tightened. The logical part of him rebelled at the idea. Voldemort's soul had been twisted and corrupted beyond recognition—a thing of malice and cruelty. What good could come from trying to save it?

But then he thought of the resonance he'd felt earlier in the day, the strange and unexpected pull when he'd seen the Tom Riddle of this world. It wasn't the searing, invasive pain he associated with Voldemort. It was… softer. Subtle. As though something within that shard had recognized him.

Could it mean that a fragment of Tom Riddle—the boy who once dreamed of greatness, before he became Voldemort—still existed?

The thought unsettled him. It also offered something he hadn't dared hope for in years: a chance at redemption—not just for the soul inside him, but for himself.

Harry leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he buried his face in his hands. He'd spent so much of his life fighting, destroying, surviving. Could he really let himself believe there was another way?

A part of him screamed that it was foolish, that Voldemort couldn't change, that redemption was a concept reserved for others—not for someone like him, and certainly not for the man who'd murdered so many.

But another part, smaller and quieter, whispered that he didn't have to carry the same hate Voldemort had wielded like a weapon.

He exhaled shakily and leaned back against the creaking bed frame. "I don't know," he muttered to the empty room.

The plan that began to take shape in his mind felt tenuous at best. Help the orphanage. Investigate Tom Riddle. Decide if nurturing the shard of Voldemort's soul was even possible—or if it was simply another folly born of his endless guilt.

For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight on his chest felt just a little lighter.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, I'll figure out my next step.

But tonight, he allowed himself to rest, though unease curled in the corners of his thoughts.