Harry is the Master of Death and Lord of Time through his joining of the three Hallows together. During a duel that wasn't going well, he jumps to the 1940's and has a talk with the true Master of Death. Can have prevent the destruction that will oc...
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Harry walked around the room of requirements, all masks he wore completely removed knowing that nobody could disturb him in here - even if they tried to get in themselves. It was impossible, thanks to Neville; he knew how the room worked in its entirety. He carried with him a box filled with stones, and he looked the blue crystal stone etched with runes, making sure he had the correct one as he laid it in optimal position. Glancing at the book as he did so, for reassurance that he wasn't doing it wrong. Once he had the next position he placed another stone imbedded with runes and put it in its allotted slot. An entire week it had taken him to etch the runes he needed for the trace removing ritual. He knew a single wrong mistake could cost him, so he took his time, delicately crafting the runes to the best of his ability.
Slotting another one at the bottom of the intricate design, and then placed the very last one to the side, he would put it in place once he was inside the rune stoned positioned pentagram. He picked up the book and began to read it once more, more to reassure himself that he was right - even though he knew he was. The book he had copied from the restricted section after sneaking in at five o'clock in the morning, he knew there wasn't any silent alarms set to wake up the current caretaker, Harold Wren, he was a wizard, it was so completely odd seeing someone cleaning up messes using magic after all the years of seeing Filch do it by hand the muggle way. An injustice if he ever saw one, the squib absolutely loathed them all on principle he had no magic, it was almost like Hagrid all over again - Dumbledore had no shame. He knew better than to open it, since they screeched something awful. Instead he had copied it, slipped out as if he had never been there and went back to bed, nobody the slightest bit wiser to his deeds - perhaps except Tom Riddle. He hadn't seen the book; he just stared at him blankly before his lips twitched into a devious smirk before he hid behind his green hangings.
It was nothing new, the boy continued to watch him all the time and Harry in turn just gazed back. Although a challenge of sorts had happened between them without him realizing it, both tried every school day to outwit the other in class, and he had to hand it to Tom, he kept up with him without trouble. He shouldn't get so much pleasure out of it, after all Tom was fourteen years old, whereas despite appearances he was twenty one. Although his raging libido indicated otherwise, he cursed his luck at having to go through puberty - again, at least he was able to control himself moderately.
He knew for his plans to work, he should be becoming friends with the Slytherin's, particularly Tom to influence him. Influence was the wrong word really, all he wanted was to show Tom an alterative way to his path, show him how wrong he was about all he thought he knew. Of course, it had dawned on him that Tom knew but discarded it in a bid to gather more followers, and keep their allegiance. That was a worrisome thought and he hoped he was wrong.
