Web Hosting by Netfirms | Free Domain Names by Netfirms

by Morgan Steelgrave

Author's notes: The basic premise of the story is that Harry, using a Time-Turner, has gone back to the Hogwarts that Tom Riddle knew in an attempt to prevent him from becoming Lord Voldemort, blah, blah, blah.

This is what one might call a rough draft of the first part of the story, meaning the events that lead up to Harry realizing he's being an idiot and becoming tentative friends with Tom. Some of this has been posted before, but I encourage you to read it again because I've tweaked quite a bit of it. This is still pretty rough, and coding it was a pain in the arse. Hope youse guys enjoy. ^_^

It was midsummer, and for once in his life Harry had not avidly protested his required stay with the Dursleys. Things had changed drastically since the previous summer; the events of his fifth year at Hogwarts had affected not only him but the entire wizarding world.

Voldemort was back, and everyone knew it. Though that June had marked the fourth time Harry had squared off against the Dark Lord, it was not Voldemort's presence that was weighing so heavily on Harry's shoulders. It was, rather, the lack of another presence that Harry felt so keenly. Sirius' death had left Harry with what felt like a ragged hole inside, one Harry felt would never be quite right again.

Oddly enough, it was this raw, lonely feeling that had made his stay at number four, Privet Drive a relatively calm one. Uncle Vernon could not yell at Harry if the boy never really left his room, nor could Aunt Petunia chastise him for showing up when she had friends over if he rarely showed his face downstairs. Dudley went about terrorizing the smaller neighborhood kids as usual, the only apparent sign of his fear of wizardry in his abnormally quick steps when he passed Harry's room. Harry spent his time in this self-imposed exile reading and re-reading every book he had that mentioned anything about the Dark Arts, curses, counter-curses and jinxes, stopping only to take the meals Aunt Petunia pushed under the door. Occasionally books would arrive from members of the Order of the Phoenix; one of particular interest to Harry concerned Occlumency and was sent by Dumbledore. Snape even contributed a volume on recognizing the potions used in the Dark Arts. Harry was reluctant to read any book sent by Snape, but in the end he read it cover to cover twice. Hermione, too, sent her share of material, mostly covering strategy used in wizard battles of the past and present. When he found himself too exhausted to continue reading, Harry would take out the photograph album Hagrid had given him after his first year and stare at the pictures of his parents, especially the ones with Sirius in them. The sight of his godfather--handsome, youthful, unjaded by betrayal and bitterness--was enough to push him onward with his studies until he fell asleep against the pages.

The truth was, as much as Harry detested studying in general, this was studying for not only his own survival, but the survival of everyone around him. He watched Cedric and Sirius die every time he closed his eyes. He would be better prepared the next time he faced Voldemort.

This was how Harry passed the first month and a half of his summer. It was a welcome surprise, therefore, when a tapping noise at the window heralded Pigwidgeon's arrival with a letter from Ron.

Dear Harry,
Sorry I haven't written you much this summer, but Mum's got me busy learning all sorts of Defense spells. I haven't got the heart to tell her we learned most of it with you in the D.A. last year. Besides, it makes me look like a top-notch Defense wizard, and every little bit helps after my O.W.L.S. came back.

Anyway, we were hoping you could head our way soon. Hermione hasn't arrived yet, she says she has some wedding to go to--her cousin or something. She'll be along in a couple days or so.

Write back and let me know when you can come.

Ron

Harry's first thought was one wondering where his summer had gone. Was it really time to visit the Burrow again? He pulled out a spare piece of parchment, wrote a note telling Ron that anytime would be fine, and sent it back after a few moments of wrangling with Pigwidgeon until he could tie the message to his leg.

The very next day the doorbell rang. Harry thundered down the stairs for the first time in weeks--so shocked to see him out and about was Aunt Petunia that she merely stood frozen as Harry answered the door.

Ron was standing there, Muggle tee-shirt tucked in, hair combed, looking for all the world like the kind of boy anyone's mother wished her son to have as a friend.

"'Ello, Harry," he said brightly. Harry snickered.

"Ron," he said. "Aunt Petunia, you remember Ron, right? He and his family came to get me for the Quidditch World Cup--"

"Y-yes," said Aunt Petunia, clearly not happy about recalling the family that had slipped Dudley a Ton-Tongue Toffee.

"How are you, Mrs. Dursley?" piped Ron. Harry looked at him as if he had gone barking mad.

"Anyway, Aunt Petunia, I was hoping I could go stay with Ron's family for the rest of the summer until the next term starts," Harry began, but Aunt Petunia held up one bony hand. She was giving Harry a warning glare that brooked no argument.

"Please?" he added for good measure. Aunt Petunia sighed.

"If you can be packed and gone before your Uncle Vernon gets home from the office, then go," she said wearily. Harry felt his jaw drop open slightly. Ron's eyes bulged in surprise.

"I can go-just like that?" Harry asked, not quite believing what he had heard.

"Yes, yes," snapped Aunt Petunia impatiently. "You really haven't been much trouble this summer...Vernon wondered if you'd died up there weeks ago. I'm sure he wouldn't miss you now," she said, turning to leave the room.

"Aunt Petunia?" Harry called after her. She froze in her tracks, as unwilling as Harry to believe the ease with which the previous exchange had occurred. What she saw when she turned to face Harry caught her completely off guard: for the first time in his life, Harry was smiling at her. "Thanks," he said.

For a moment she was completely dumbfounded, but she quickly recovered. She glanced irritably from Harry's beaming face to Ron's. "Oh, do hurry up and get going," she muttered, retreating to the kitchen. Ron grinned at Harry, as amazed as he was that they had executed the most uneventful escape from the Dursley's in five years.

"Well, you heard her," Harry laughed, "we'd best get packing." With Ron's help, it took no time at all to shove Harry's belongings into his trunk, though it weighed considerably more with all the Dark Arts books in it. Ron lugged it down the stairs, followed closely by Harry carrying Hedwig's cage. Harry caught a glimpse of Aunt Petunia peeking through the kitchen door, and he waved at her as he turned to leave. She gave a little gasp, and the kitchen door swung shut.

Ron had apparently arrived in a Ministry car. They loaded Harry's belongings in the trunk and climbed in the back seat, where Ginny was waiting.

"What on earth was that?" Harry demanded, punching Ron good-naturedly on the shoulder. "I've never seen you so polite before."

"How did it go?" Harry had not realized Mrs. Weasley was in the front passenger seat until she spoke. He smiled at her, and she gave him a little wave. "Hello, Harry dear. Well?" she repeated to Ron.

"It went off without a hitch," said Ron proudly. "Not a single scream, jinx, or hex necessary."

"As if you could have jinxed those Muggles, anyway," sniffed Ginny. Ron glowered at her.

"It was disgusting," said Harry under his breath. Ron laughed and ruffled his red hair back to its usual messy state.

"Mum said I could come pick you up if I promised not to make a scene out of it," he said. "So I just imitated Percy." Ginny snorted.

"As you should have been doing all along," intoned Mrs. Weasley.

"I appreciate it, Ron, really I do," Harry hissed, "but promise me you'll never do that again."

"Oh, come along. You fell right into it, too, and you know it."

"Did he, now?" came the voice of the driver. Harry had been too busy joking with Ron and Mrs. Weasley that he had not even bothered to notice who was driving them. A glance in the rear-view mirror revealed Mad-Eye Moody, his magical eye swivelled around to watch them through the back fo his head. Harry grinned.

"Hey, Mr. Moody," he said.

"Potter," Mad-Eye grunted in return. "Still in one piece, I see."

"As far as I can tell," Ron chimed in. Harry grinned and settled Hedwig's cage on his lap. She hooted and glared at the back of Mad-Eye's head.

"We're stopping at King's Cross to pick up Hermione," said Mrs. Weasley. "She said she had a family wedding to attend, so she's taking the Muggle train here."

Ron made a face. "I'll bet Muggle weddings are awfully boring," he said. Harry agreed, pointing out that he wouldn't know: he had never been to one. A thought then occurred to him.

"Where's Hermione going to sit?" he asked.

"The car's charmed," Ginny explained, "the inside will expand to fit however many people it needs to, but the outside will appear normal to the Muggles."

"Oh," said Harry.

The rest of the drive to King's Cross was uneventful, besides Mad-Eye's paranoid driving. He would stop at every corner and peer suspiciously at every bystander and passing car until the vahicle behind him honked its horn. Harry could not help but snicker when a driver passed them and made a very rude gesture at Mad-Eye, who responded by squinting evilly until his magical eye popped out of its socket. The other driver was so shocked he had to pull over.

They pulled up to the station and parked. After some pleading, Mrs. Weasley reluctantly agreed to let Harry, Ron and Ginny meet Hermione at the platform. She made them promise not to make a scene or get into any trouble, to which Ron responded with a snort.

"We don't get into trouble, Mum. Trouble finds us."

Mrs. Weasley fixed Ron with a glare that had withered many previous siblings. "Regardless, don't go looking for it. Hermione should be at Platform Six." With that the three set off into the station in search of Hermione.

"I don't see why she can't just have her house put on the Floo network," Ron grumbled as they fought their way through the crowds of people at the station.

"I think she said her parents are a little leery of it," said Ginny. "We were coming to Diagon Alley anyway, so it's not a problem to come pick her up first."

"I guess not. Isn't this the one?" They reached platform six just as the train was grinding to a stop.

"That's the one," said Harry as the doors opened and a flood of passengers emerged. "Ron, you're tallest. Can you see her?"

"No, not yet. She'd best hurry, Mum gets eggy if she has to wait in the car long."

They waited several minutes, until the majority of the passengers had disembarked. Still there was no Hermione.

"I wonder why she hasn't come off yet," Ginny said, standing on tiptoe to look around.

"She's probably got her nose stuck in a book and hasn't realized the train stopped," Ron snorted. "Let's go fetch her, Harry."

Harry squinted into the crowd once more, then nodded. "Ginny, wait here in case we just missed her."

The two boys climbed onto the train, walking quickly through the empty cars. In the third they spotted a form with bushy brown hair huddled in the corner of a seat. Ron chuckled. Hermione appeared to have fallen asleep.

"Come on, Hermione, wake up," he called cheerfully. "We've got to run, Mum's going to be awfully..."

Hermione appeared to be twitching slightly. Ron glanced at Harry.

"Hermione?" Harry said, as loudly as he could without yelling it. Ron reached down and shook her shoulder. Hermione unfolded a bit, still twitching, her head lolled back against the seat. Her mouth was working like it wanted to form words but could not; her eyes stared wide and blank.

"Hermione!" Ron cried, bending over to grab her face. This brought some focus back to Hermione's eyes. She blinked confusedly, then let out a shriek of terror that made both boys jump. She then tried to back away from them, sobbing, scrambling and clawing at the seat.

"Something's happened to her," Harry said, sitting next to Hermione and trying to pin her arms down. "Go get help." Ron nodded shakily, then dashed off to get Mrs. Weasley from the car.

After a few moments, Hermione had tired herself to the point that Harry managed to hold her still. He didn't want her to hurt herself any more than she already had; there were bruises on her arms and her throat was hoarse from crying. It was not until he had leaned her against him that Harry felt the blood through her tee-shirt. He turned her so he could see the cause of the bleeding, and felt his stomach drop through the floor.

Something had been cut into Hermione's shoulder through her shirt...a crude skull with a snake emerging from the jagged teeth.

Later that night found Harry slouching in a very uncomfortable chair in the fourth floor waiting area of St. Mungo's, surrounded by four impatient, irritable Weasleys. Mrs. Weasley was wringing a handkerchief to death in her lap in an effort to control herself. Harry knew her well enough to realize what a monumental effort it really was. Mr. Weasley knew this as well, and had a supportive arm around her shoulders.

Ginny, eyes puffy and red from crying, was scowling at every member of St. Mungo's personnel that walked by, presumably because none of them would stop to explain Hermione's condition to them. Ron stared blankly into space, his mouth set in a grim line that no amount of conversation on his family's part could budge.

"Thought we'd fetch something to calm everyone's nerves," came Fred's voice from down the corridor. He and George had gone to the visitor's tearoom and were herding seven floating cups of tea through the air toward the rest of the family. Mrs. Weasley gave a faint, grateful smile as she plucked hers out of the air.

"Heard anything?" asked George, sitting next to Harry.

"Not a thing one way or the other," growled Ginny. "I wish somebody would just tell us something."

After that they fell silent once again. Harry didn't much feel like tea, so he settled for watching people dash one way or another. The Healers weren't hard to spot in their lime-green robes, nor were the patients-Harry thought it safe to assume the man with antlers growing out of his head was a patient. He was asking directions from a rather frightened looking couple in Muggle dress. With a start, Harry recognized them as Hermione's parents.

"Are you sure there isn't another way into the stairwell from here?" the man was asking, "I'm afraid my antlers won't fit through the doorway."

"Other end of the hall," Harry said, walking up to them. The man smiled and thanked him, and Hermione's parents looked relieved. Harry offered his hand. "You're Hermione's parents."

Mr. Granger shook it half-heartedly, but Mrs. Granger grasped Harry's hand tightly, her features etched in worry. She was a thin, pretty woman with a bob of brown hair that looked to be nearly as bushy as Hermione's. "That's right," she said, "and you're Harry. Hermione's spoken of you quite often."

"Why don't you come have a seat with us? We're still waiting to hear from the Healers," said Harry, leading them to the waiting area. He handed his neglected tea to Mrs. Granger. "It's hardly warm anymore, sorry. I just didn't feel like tea," he said with a tired smile. She sipped at it anyway.

"Tell me the truth, Harry," said Mr. Granger. He adjusted his necktie nervously. "What's happened to Hermione?"

Harry cleared his throat. "We're not sure," he said slowly, trying to think how best to phrase it all. "Ron, Ginny and I had gone to meet her at the station, only she didn't come off the train. Ron and I went in to get her, thinking she'd fallen asleep or something. When we found her, she was alone in the car, curled up and shaking. She was terrified. I don't think she recognized us."

"What had frightened her so?" Mrs. Granger asked, incredulous. "Hermione was a very brave girl." Harry was trying to figure out how to explain about Voldemort, and about himself, and why Hermione would have been a target. He felt certain anything in the world would be easier than this. I'd rather help Hagrid housebreak a dragon, he thought.

"It had to be something horrible," Mr. Granger added in a whisper.

"I believe it was," came a voice from nearby.

"Professor Dumbledore!" said Mr. Weasley. Dumbledore was standing with Professor McGonagall and a Healer, and it looked as if the three of them had been deep in conversation on their way down the corridor. Ron and Ginny cast questioning glances Harry's way, but all Harry could do was shrug.

Mr. Granger stood, still clutching his wife's hand. "Headmaster," he said, nodding in greeting to Dumbledore, who returned the gesture. "My wife and I received an owl an hour ago that Hermione was ill. What's wrong with her? Why can't we see her?"

Dumbledore raised a hand in a calming gesture. "I apologize for what must have been an agonizing wait for everyone," he said, his blue eyes sweeping the room over his half-moon spectacles. "But the time was necessary for the Healers to make a complete diagnosis of Hermione's condition."

"Which is?" Ron piped up suddenly. At his mother's glare, he added belatedly, "...sir."

"I'm afraid that's where things get complicated," Dumbledore admitted. He looked briefly but intently at Harry. Harry recognized that look; it was the one that Dumbledore gave him when there was something important he had to tell him, but could not at the moment. Dumbledore looked away, addressing the room and gesturing to the Healer at his side. "For that I shall defer to Healer Montrose. She can better explain what has happened."

Healer Montrose took a step forward. She was an imposing woman with a square jaw and broad shoulders, but Harry thought her eyes appeared kind. "From what we can tell, Miss Granger has been the victim of a magical attack. A number of spells have been used, some of which we could counteract, some we could not."

"What does that mean?" Mrs. Granger asked. Healer Montrose's mouth was drawn in a reluctant frown, but Professor McGonagall answered instead. "What that means," she said, "is that there appears to be some permanent damage as a result. The spells used were all designed to affect her mind--to wipe it clean."

"You mean someone obliviated her?" Mr. Weasley was shocked.

"I'm afraid it's not that simple. Obliviation affects the memory. This affected Miss Granger's mind," said Healer Montrose. "It wiped out a good deal of her memory as far as knowledge goes, yes, but it also affected her intelligence, her ability to learn and retain information, her coordination for even the most mundane tasks...it's like she's been reduced to a child."

"A...child?" Mrs. Granger turned to her husband, gripping his hand tighter than ever. She looked as if she were about to say something more, but her tears spilled over and Mr. Granger wrapped her in an embrace that did little to comfort either of them. The sight brought a lump to Harry's throat.

Healer Montrose was speaking with Dumbledore in a hushed voice. She hurried off, leaving Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall with a waiting room full of stricken faces.

"Healer Montrose informs me that Hermione may have visitors now," Dumbledore said kindly, holding out a hand to Hermione's parents. "I am sure you'd like to see your daughter," They nodded dumbly, following him down the hall to a private room. The door closed, leaving Harry and the Weasleys staring at each other, at a loss for words. The only sound that broke the silence was Mrs. Weasley's muffled sniffling.

Harry, Ron and Ginny stepped away from the sitting area. Ron's face was absolutely grey, and Ginny had been crying again. "What sort of sick nutter does that to someone?" Ron demanded around gritted teeth.

"Voldemort," said Harry quietly. Ron and Ginny stared at him.

"Are you sure?" Ginny whispered. Harry nodded.

"After I sent you for help, Ron, I found a cut on her shoulder. It was in the shape of the Dark Mark."

Ron's eyes widened. "But why Hermione? Of all people, why her?"

Harry scowled. "Because she's my friend," he said. Before Ron or Ginny could reply, Mr. Granger appeared from Hermione's room.

"She's asking for you three," he said, his voice shaky. It was obvious he had been crying. Harry looked at Ron and Ginny, then ushered them forward.

"You go on," he said gruffly, "I'll be there in a minute." Ron looked uncertain, but he followed Mr. Granger inside.

Alone in the hall outside Hermione's room, Harry released a sigh and pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window in the door. He could see Hermione in bed, sitting up and regarding her parents and Ron and Ginny with wide eyes. Harry could tell she remembered them only vaguely. He watched as Ron handed her a copy of the Daily Prophet from the table on the other side of the room, but she looked at it and burst into angry tears.

"I can't read," Harry heard her sob, "I can't read, I don't remember..."

"Aren't you going to go in?" A hand landed on Harry's shoulder and he jumped. Healer Montrose stood behind him, a dark eyebrow raised.

"N-no," said Harry.

"It's difficult, I know."

"Voldemort did this." It was far from a question. Healer Montrose regarded him levelly for a moment before answering.

"Yes, he did."

"Will she ever get better?" Harry asked. "Honestly?"

"Magically, no," the Healer sighed. "There's nothing more we can do for her now. Perhaps if there are new developments in healing incantations for the mind...until then, what progress she can make, if any, will come with time. She might be able to re-learn some of her abilities. Reading will be difficult, as will math. Some complex motor skills may never return. She'll have to learn some everyday tasks again. Eventually, she'll be able to function somewhat normally, though her mind will never be the same."

Harry stared at the pile of shredded newsprint that had been the Daily Prophet, at Hermione crying on her mother's shoulder, at Ron's stricken face. Because of me, he thought. Hermione will never be the same because of me.

"I have to go," he said.

Healer Montrose did not try to stop him as he strode away from Hermione's room, though Harry did hear the door open and Ron call after him.

"Harry, where are you going? Harry?"

Harry would have charged out of St. Mungo's entirely if he had not heard the urgent voices from a nearby room.

"She was on a Muggle train, Albus!" Professor McGonagall was saying. Harry stepped to the door to listen. "It was never like this before!"

"Indeed," Dumbledore agreed quietly. His calm merely served to incense Professor McGonagall even more. "But then nothing is quite the same as it was the last time we endured this."

"Aren't we going to do anything about it?" she demanded.

"Yes, aren't we?" Harry stepped into the room, with Ron following close behind, panting. Professor McGonagall looked as if she were about to order them to leave, but Dumbledore shook his head. Harry repeated his question without moving. "What are we going to do about it, Professor?"

"First I believe we must take into consideration the reason behind Voldemort's attack on Hermione," Dumbledore said calmly.

"I don't need to consider it," Harry said angrily, "he went after her because she's my friend."

"Now, Harry, we don't know that for sure," Professor McGonagall said, but Harry turned flashing eyes to her.

"Don't we?" he hissed. "He left his mark on her as an insult. He might as well have written me a letter. Dear Harry, I hear this girl is a friend of yours. She's quite brilliant, so I thought I'd destroy her mind for you. Sincerely, Voldemort."

"Why didn't he just kill her, then?" Ron asked. He was pale.

"Because killing her would have been too easy and too kind." Harry turned back to Dumbledore. He was getting angrier by the minute. "He wants to hurt me by hurting her. She was bloody brilliant, and now she'll be lucky if she can remember how to brush her teeth in the morning. She remembers what she could do before, and it's driving her crazy. And you all have to watch it, and I have to watch it."

Professor McGonagall was staring hard at the floor, a hand over her mouth. Harry knew she was upset; Hermione had been one of her favorite students.

"Alright, Harry. Suppose you're right," said Dumbledore. "What are you going to do about it?"

There was a long moment in which Harry continued to stare at Dumbledore. When he finally spoke, his voice was low with anger. "This is the second time Voldemort's gone after someone for the simple reason that I care about them. First Sirius, now Hermione. Who's next? Ron, obviously. Then Neville maybe, then the Dursleys because they're family. After that, who knows? People who've said hello to me in the hall? It has to stop, Professor. I can't let him continue to hurt people because they're close to me."

Harry turned to leave, but Professor McGonagall cried, "Harry, he's trying to provoke you. If you're angry, he will most certainly use that against you. He wants you to go after him."

"Don't you think I know that?" Harry roared desperately. He continued toward the door, but an arm materialized in front of him unexpectedly. Harry looked up to see Dumbledore, who had been on the other side of the room seconds before, gazing gravely down at him over his half-moon spectacles.

"There are other ways, Harry."

"What other way is there?" cried Harry. "It has to be me, Professor, and you know it." Both Professor McGonagall and Ron were staring at him, shocked that Harry was arguing with Dumbledore.

"I'm not disagreeing with you," Dumbledore said, still restraining Harry. "I am merely suggesting a different method of attack than charging blindly at Voldemort when that is exactly what he is expecting you to do."

You do have a love of playing the hero. There were echoes of Hermione's warnings in Dumbledore's words, and they stung. Harry remained tense for another moment, but in the end he backed down and began to pace impatiently. "Alright, I'm listening."

"We have said that Voldemort is getting more cunning in his attacks. Perhaps we should do the same. The Sorting Hat did say you would do well in Slytherin, did it not? Use your cunning to your advantage."

Ron was looking at Harry as if he had grown another head. "It said you'd do well in Slytherin?" he asked incredulously. Harry nodded. "Must have been the Parseltongue," Ron muttered.

"Harry, what I am about to propose is a desperate plan, but one I believe has a great chance of success," Dumbledore said. "It is simple in theory, you must understand, but even simplicity has its difficulties and its consequences."

Dumbledore reached into his robes and took out what looked like a small, golden hourglass. "Do you know what this is?"

"Sure," said Ron. "That's a Time-Turner, like the one Hermione used in third year." His voice faltered at the mention of Hermione.

"Very good, Ron," said Dumbledore gently. He handed the tiny hourglass to Harry, who took it gingerly. "I'm giving it to you, Harry."

Harry stared at Dumbledore for a moment. "You want me to go back to the time before Hermione was attacked?" he asked slowly.

Well before then, Harry. Do you remember your encounter with Tom Riddle?"

This question took Harry aback. "Yes, sir."

"Then you remember that it was at some point during his time at Hogwarts that Tom's talents and ideas turned down a darker path," Dumbledore said, suddenly very serious. "Harry, Voldemort expects you to confront him. If not now, then soon, when he has harmed yet another of your friends. You and I both know we cannot allow that to happen. In fact, it would be prudent for us to prevent all of this from ever happening at all.

I want you to go back to the time before Voldemort had risen to power. I want you to go back to the Hogwarts that Tom Riddle knew, before he had cemented his future as Voldemort."

"You want we to stop him," Harry breathed. He felt a thrill of nervous anticipation. Dumbledore was right--it was so incredibly, brilliantly simple. Harry wondered why noone had thought of it before. Aloud, he asked, "But how?"

"Listen carefully. Only with your greatest power will you be able to stop Voldemort's ascension to power," said Dumbledore. Harry was gazing at the Time-Turner in his hand. Dumbledore rose, preparing to exit the room. Professor McGonagall looked as if Dumbledore had just suggested Harry jump off the roof.

"Albus--" she stammered. Dumbledore smiled, a tired smile that barely reached his eyes.

"You don't have to give me an answer right now, Harry," he said, "you may have some time to think it over." He turned to go.

"Wait, Professor--" Harry called. He squeezed the Time-Turner as hard as he could without shattering it. "I'll do it."

"I must advise you of the consequences of this action, should you take it," Dumbledore said. "You must go back and enroll in Hogwarts as a student. You must prevent Voldemort's rise to power. Should you succeed in this, the future as you know it will be drastically altered."

"You will, in all likelihood, be unable to return to us, Harry," said Professor McGonagall.

"It would be worth it, though, wouldn't it?" said Harry. "If I could save all those lives. Hermione, Sirius, Cedric, my parents--"

"Your parents, even if you manage to save them, could never be your parents, Harry." Dumbledore looked sadder than Harry had ever seen him. Swallowing hard, Harry forced a smile.

"No, but they could be parents for their Harry," he said. "Knowing that would be enough."

Everyone in the room was silent. Harry had the distinct impression that Professor McGonagall was trying not to cry.

"We will need to make some arrangements," Dumbledore said. He placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "And you will need to explain this to a number of people who would be very angry with us both if you just disappeared without telling them."

"They'll try to stop me," Harry protested. Dumbledore fixed him with his penetrating gaze. "And it would hurt too much," Harry added quietly.

"Do what you feel is best, then, Harry," Dumbledore said. "I must speak with Hermione's parents for a moment." With that, Dumbledore was gone. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in a hanky, nodded brusquely to Harry and Ron, and followed close on the headmaster's heels.

Ron was staring at him. "Harry, I--" he began, but Harry cut him off.

"Well, I guess we'd best go see Hermione once more before we have to go," he said, deliberately avoiding the subject of his soon-to-be mission. "Maybe she'd like some Chocolate Frogs from the gift shop?" Ron cleared his throat, getting the drift of Harry's intentions, and nodded. They walked out the door together, with much more than sweets on their minds.

A few hours later Harry had arrived at Hogwarts with Dumbledore and Ron. It felt to Harry as if days and days had passed. He was exhausted but dogged in his determination to go through with Dumbledore's plan.

The two boys were sitting in the headmaster's office, surrounded by silver trinkets that buzzed and whirred. Ron was half-heartedly chewing a cookie from a tray on Dumbledore's desk as Harry scribbled madly away at a very long sheet of parchment.

"Mum's going to go berserk," Ron said for the twentieth time since Harry had agreed to the Time-Turner plan. Harry paused in his writing, massaging his cramped quill hand.

"I know. That's why I thought I should write her," he said. It was not only Mrs. Weasley to whom Harry was writing--there were notes to the rest of the Weasleys, Lupin, Hagrid, and even the Dursleys. Harry had also written a few lines to Hermione, which he made Ron promise to read aloud to her.

"Wouldn't it just be easier to tell everyone goodbye--" Ron choked on the word, but covered it with a cough "--in person?"

"No," said Harry emphatically. "They'd try to stop me, especially your mum, and that would take too much time. I have to do this now."

"I know," said Ron quietly, "but it still sucks."

Dumbledore entered the office once again, followed by Professor McGonagall, who was conducting Harry's trunk through the air with his wand. Harry signed his name to the last note and stood.

"Finished?" Dumbledore asked. Harry nodded. "I'll see that they are received."

"Here are your things, Harry," said Professor McGonagall. "I removed the items that might prove suspicious, I hope you don't mind."

"Thanks," said Harry.

"There is also this," Dumbledore said, and with a wave of his wand Harry was suddenly wearing an unfamiliar uniform that involved quite a bit of fur.

"Durmstrang, Albus?" McGonagall appeared surprised by Dumbledore's choice. The headmaster smiled tightly.

"If you transfer from Durmstrang, Harry," he said, creating a parchment out of thin air and handing it to him, "you will most likely be placed in Slytherin."

"In Slytherin?" Harry repeated. Glancing at the parchment, he saw that it was titled, "Call for Transfer," below the official seal of Durmstrang. "With Tom," he finished gravely.

"With Tom." Dumbledore regarded him in silence for a moment. "Be careful, Harry. Do not lose track of who you are or why you are there."

"But don't let it consume you, either," added McGonagall. "And you must control your temper, Harry."

"Remember," Dumbledore continued, "you must use your greatest power to prevent Voldemort's rise."

Harry nodded, squaring his shoulders. Dumbledore smiled at him. "I recommend you go outside to use the Time-Turner. It wouldn't do to have you suddenly appearing in the headmaster's office. Six turns should give you fifty-four years with that particular Time-Turner."

McGonagall caught Harry in a hug that would have been surprisingly strong had Harry not known her so well. She was making no effort to hide her tears anymore.

"Good luck, Harry," she said. "It was a pleasure, my dear."

Dumbledore, too, embraced him, saying, "I am so very proud of you, Harry. Your father would be proud of you, too." Harry smiled. "Ron, you may accompany Harry to the main doors."

Ron swallowed hard and nodded. The two boys set off down the stairs, Harry's trunk in tow. Their journey to the castle's exit was silent, but when they came to the doors Ron turned to him and said, "You know I'm going to miss you, mate."

"You, too," said Harry with a quaky smile.

"Thanks, Harry," Ron said, "for everything."

Harry hugged him, and when Ron turned away to hide is sniffling, Harry dragged his trunk outside. The gigantic doors slammed shut behind him, and for the first time since he had left the Dursleys what felt like ages ago, he was afraid.

The edge of the Forbidden Forest seemed a safe bet, and Harry picked a secluded spot in a thicket of trees. Taking one last look at Hogwarts as he knew it, he grasped the Time-Turner and gave it six turns as Dumbledore had instructed.

The next thing Harry felt was a rush of colors and sounds, though none of them made any real sense. He remembered the backward falling feeling from his third year experience with a Time-Turner, but this was very different. He felt as though he had been cannoned out into space and was being hurled like a slingshot around the earth itself. He could literally feel the years pass--there were brief moments of cold that he assumed were the winters--and just as he was getting too dizzy to stand any longer, he felt his body jerk to a halt, his feet slamming into the ground so hard his knees buckled and he fell, gripping the loam of the forest floor for dear life.

It was over. Catching his breath, Harry surveyed the world around him. It was late afternoon, judging by the rich golden sunlight that slanted through the branches above him. He could hear birds calling to one another high above his head, and from the darker, deeper bowels of the woods came the strange noises of beasts. The Forbidden Forest was much the same in this time as it was in his own. Harry stood up carefully, brushing the bits of leaf and twig off his new Durmstrang uniform. The turrets of Howarts were visible now over the trees, the windows lit despite the fact that the students were not due to arrive for another two days if Dumbledore's calculations had been correct.

"Alright, Harry," he muttered to himself, "time for your greatest performance." He began the slow walk up to the gigantic oak front doors, dragging his trunk along the way. Steeling himself for a moment in front of them, he bit his lip and knocked hard. Echoes of the noise reverberated off the now-distant trees, disturbing some birds from their perches.

It seemed a stubborn, nerve-wracking eternity before the door opened to reveal the younger Dumbledore Harry had seen in Riddle's diary. Harry could not hide a smile; it was only too fitting that Dumbledore sent him on his journey, and Dumbledore was there to receive him.

"Can I help you, young man?" said the younger Dumbledore.

"Yes, sir," Harry said, trying to sound as lost as possible, "is this Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?"

"It is, indeed."

"Oh, good. I'm due to transfer here beginning this term," said Harry. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow.

"Are you really?" he said, never losing his cheerful tone. "Then perhaps you should step inside. You certainly look tired."

Harry thanked him, stepping into the entrance hall and glancing around. Everything seemed remarkably similar, but then Hogwarts had always possessed an aura of timelessness.

"I shall take you to the Headmaster's office. We can work out the details of your transfer there. Leave your trunk, I'm sure someone will see to it." Harry followed Dumbledore, making an extreme effort to appear as mystified as he remembered feeling during his first few days at Hogwarts. They paused at the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office, and Dumbledore rattled off the password in a language Harry didn't understand. They climbed the spiral staircase and were met by a smiling, frail Headmaster Dippet.

"Albus, is it my imagination or did you not just leave my office after having tea?" he said. Dippet's voice was as thin and reedy as he appeared. Harry thought him much more jovial than the last time he had seen him, but then a series of attacks by an unknown monster would put anyone in a bad mood.

"You're right of course, Armando," said Dumbledore, pushing Harry forward slightly, "but you see, this young man knocked on the door just as I was headed to my rooms, and I simply had to bring him here."

Dippet smiled at Harry, who got the feeling all of Dippet's smiles were the sort one gave a precocious child.

"I am Headmaster Dippet. And who might you be?" he inquired, extending a claw-like hand. Harry shook it, smiling nervously. It felt like shaking hands with a bird.

"Harry, sir. Harry James Po--" said Harry, catching his mistake before he had fully articulated it. "Harry James," he repeated more firmly.

"Harry James," said Dippet. He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "What can we do for you here at Hogwarts, Harry?"

"I believe we can begin by enrolling him in classes," mused Dumbledore. Dippet blinked.

"Enroll him?"

"I'm due to transfer to Hogwarts, sir," piped Harry. Dippet looked very puzzled, indeed.

"Well, Harry," he said, finding his way behind his desk. "I don't believe I received any word calling for your transfer from--where was it you said you were from?"

Harry put on his most innocent face. "Durmstrang," he said. The Headmaster and Dumbledore exchanged a knowing look. "I've a copy of my transcript with me, if it helps. One was supposed to be sent here weeks ago, I'm surprised it never arrived." Harry withdrew a parchment from his robes and handed it to Dippet, who unrolled it and scanned it briefly. Please work, please work, Harry found himself chanting in his head, hoping Professor McGonagall's plan would work the way they had hoped.

"Everything appears to be in order," said Dippet, laying the parchment on his desk and peering at Harry. "Even if your transcript was sent, what with all this trouble on the continent lately, I'm not surprised it got waylaid. There is a war going on, you know."

"Yes, sir," agreed Harry. Dumbledore was regarding Harry with the same unreadable expression to which Harry had never grown accustomed, even after five years at Hogwarts.

"Why is it you wish to attend Hogwarts, Harry?" he asked, his tone nonchalant.

"Two reasons, mostly," said Harry. "My parents wanted me a little closer to home, what with the war going on. And Durmstrang was never really the place for me."

"And how do you know that?" Dippet was reading Harry's parchment again.

"Because this felt more like home the minute I walked through the door than Durmstrang ever felt in four years," said Harry. "If that's not reason enough, I don't know what is."

Dumbledore smiled. "I believe that will do, Harry," he said. Turning to Dippet, he said, "Should we fetch the Sorting Hat?" There was a momentary knot of panic in Harry's stomach as Dippet seemed to consider this. How would Harry ever fool the Sorting Hat? It had toyed with the idea of placing him in Slytherin, true, but Harry could never be sure he would end up there. He would have to concentrate very hard on his most Slytherin qualities, he assumed.

"I think not, Albus," Dippet said at last, and all the hasty plans Harry had been concocting in his head dissolved. "Harry did attend Durmstrang, after all. I believe it would be safe to place him immediately in Slytherin."

Someone who did not know Dumbledore as well as Harry did would have missed the flicker of concern and disappointment that crossed his face. "Very well," said Dumbledore, "Slytherin it is. I believe Mr. Riddle is on his way here as we speak. He can show you where to go, Harry."

"What about my school things?" asked Harry, suddenly excited at the thought of shopping in the Diagon Alley of 1942. Dippet chuckled.

"Well, I suppose we shall take care of that," he said. "Someone will pick up your books tomorrow, and you can pay us directly since you're most likely unfamiliar with our local shops and such. Ah, Tom--"

At the sound of the Headmaster's door opening once more, Harry turned to find the tall, slender form of Tom Riddle standing there, his hand still on the knob.

"You sent for me, Professor?" he said, dark eyes flickering from Dippet, to Dumbledore, and finally to Harry. Riddle's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, though his impassive expression never changed. Harry felt a flush of white-hot anger cross his face. Riddle was there, facing him, as solid and real as he was. Harry wanted to fire a curse at him immediately, but he kept his temper in check as he had been instructed by Professor McGonagall.

"Yes, Tom. First, is there anything you'll need for the start of the term that Professor Malachi can pick up in Diagon Alley tomorrow?"

"No, sir," said Tom, his eyes never leaving Harry.

"Excellent," said Dippet with a little clap of approval. "Now, Tom, I'd like you to meet Harry James. Harry is transferring to Hogwarts from Durmstrang, so I'll place him in Slytherin House as that should be the easiest adjustment for him to make."

Before the Headmaster could finish the introductions, Tom offered a long, thin hand. "Hello, Harry James. My name is Tom Riddle," he said with the slightest of smiles. It made Harry's skin crawl, but he ground his teeth together and shook Tom's hand. He was not sure if he was expecting the cool, papery feel of snakeskin; either way, Harry found Tom's hand to be surprisingly warm.

"Tom, since you're a Prefect, would you be so kind as to escort Harry to the Slytherin dormitories?" said Dumbledore. Tom's eyes finally roved from Harry to Dumbledore.

"Of course," he said. He then turned to exit the room without even looking at Harry again. "This way, then," he called softly over his shoulder. Harry scowled in Tom's direction, thanked both Dippet and Dumbledore, then sprinted after Tom.

"Oy, wait up!" he said crossly. Tom never slowed his stride, which was considerably longer than Harry's. Harry had to step lively just to keep up with him.

"Did you like it at Durmstrang?" Tom asked, nonplussed by Harry's obvious irritation.

"Durmstrang really wasn't for me," Harry replied truthfully, if a bit irritably. Tom merely raised an eyebrow and continued walking silently. Harry felt more than a little uncomfortable that he was having such trouble keeping stride with Tom, and the other boy's calm demeanor was only serving to fuel Harry's temper.

"This is it," Tom announced. They had stopped at a blank stone wall.

"Lovely," muttered Harry.

"Jabberwock," said Tom. Harry looked at him in confusion until the wall melted away to reveal the Slytherin common room. "The password is, 'jabberwock.' Don't forget it," Tom added in patient explanation. He led Harry through the common room, which was much the same as Harry remembered it from his brief time there second year. The room was lit by lamps on chains hung from the low ceiling, giving the green and black furnishings a slight glow of warmth.

"This is the common room. You may use it to study or relax as you see fit," said Tom. Harry nodded impatiently; he knew all this already. If Tom realized Harry's impatience, he ignored it. He led Harry further back to the boy's dormitory. "This is the--"

"--dormitory, yes," snapped Harry, "I'm not daft, you know." Tom regarded him a moment in the half-dark. Harry met his appraising eyes with a sullen glare of his own.

After a moment, Tom went on briskly, "The house elves will bring your trunk. Dinner is in the Great Hall. If you need directions, ask the portraits or myself." He turned to leave, but paused at the door. "Oh, and you might want to change if you don't want the faculty questioning you too much."

"Change?" asked Harry. Tom nodded patiently.

"Into your Hogwarts robes. You do stand out," he observed off-hand.

"My Hogwarts...?" Harry looked down at himself, anger forgotten. He grinned smugly, overjoyed at the chance to show off in front of Tom Riddle. Drawing his wand, he pointed at himself and muttered softly, "Finite." The glamourie that was his Durmstrang uniform melted away into his familiar Hogwarts robes. Harry was certain the spell must have appeared to be a rather impressive piece of transfiguration.

"Better?" he sneered. Tom whistled appreciatively, raking his eyes over Harry's handiwork.

"Not bad," he said, stepping forward to examine Harry's necktie. "Not perfect, but not bad, either." Upon inspection of Tom's own tie, Harry realized with a start that he had not taken into account the subtle differences between the Hogwarts uniforms of this time and his own modern ones. The stripes of his tie differed slightly, as did the collar of his shirt. Harry swallowed nervously as Tom drew his wand from his robes and tapped the knot of Harry's tie, rendering it more accurate.

"There," said Tom with a small chuckle. "I'll see you at dinner, then?" Without waiting for an answer he turned and left the dormitory, leaving a thoroughly incensed Harry staring after him.

Harry's temper did not improve over the course of the next day. He dragged himself downstairs for breakfast, appreciative that the house elves put up a fantastic spread despite the absence of the rest of the students. Tom followed shortly after, and though he sat a good deal further down the table, his mere silent presence irritated Harry to no end.

Faculty members and house elves were scurrying everywhere in an attempt to prepare the school for the students' arrival that evening, so Harry retreated to the dormitory. On his way he noted several Prefects posting notices--bold images that referred to the war. It was the first time he had seen the war mentioned since the headmaster had referred to it. Harry had wondered briefly how much the Muggle conflict affected the wizarding world. Judging by posters that claimed aloud, "Your Ministry needs you! Join the Bridgemen!" or, "Witches in the war: we can't live without them!" spoke all too clearly of how real the conflict was.

Harry reached the dormitory and was pleased to note it was still empty. A stack of books and supplies had appeared on his bed; left, apparently, by Professor Malachi whom Dippet had mentioned the night before. Tom was nowhere to be seen, so Harry contented himself with rooting through his new things; there were several textbooks, the standard cauldron, vials, and scales. The only thing that seemed out of the ordinary was a small, black leatherbound book. Upon flipping through it, Harry discovered its pages were blank. Tossing it aside, he began browsing through the textbooks, noting that his classes in the future covered most of the same subjects, but in greater detail. Harry smirked half-heartedly. I'll probably get better marks than Hermione, he thought.

The afternoon passed fairly quickly, and before he knew it the welcoming feast was beginning. Harry slipped into a seat at the Slytherin table as the returning students filed in. He thought he caught a glimpse of Tom on the far end of the table, but Harry scowled and turned his full attention to the sorting ceremony. The ceremony never seemed to get any shorter, though the First Years certainly did. Harry was skeptical that he had ever been that young as he watched the wide-eyed, terrified students march down the aisle to have their future at Hogwarts determined by a ragged old hat. If Harry had not known better, the entire thing would have looked absurd.

After the final student's name was called, Headmaster Dippet stood at the faculty table and tapped his spoon against his glass. Silence fell across the Great Hall.

"Welcome, everyone, to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he said. Harry wondered how his thin voice carried through the hall. "Before we begin our feast in your honor, I have a few introductions to make. First, allow me to introduce a new student. Harry, would you please stand?"

Harry blinked. He had not expected a formal introduction at the feast, and when he stood he found his legs were a bit wobbly upon discovering several hundred pairs of eyes on him. He hated this sort of thing.

"Harry James here has joined us from Durmstrang," Dippet announced. There was an immediate undercurrent of whispering coming from every student table. Harry clenched his jaw and refused to look anywhere but at the headmaster, who continued with his introduction, "He will be in fifth year. Please welcome him as I know you will our other new students." The headmaster smiled and clapped his brittle hands, and the applause was echoed by a dozen or so students across the hall. Upon sitting, Harry felt the butterflies in his stomach light. The introduction had not been so bad, he supposed; being introduced as, "Harry," and not, "the boy who lived," or something equally embarrassing was strange, but not unwelcome. Harry would have smiled had he not noticed the continued sporadic whispering and occasional glances in his direction. Tom was staring appraisingly at him from the end of the table. Harry inhaled in slow indignation and turned deliberately to face the staff table once again.

"We also have a new faculty member this year," continued Dippet. He motioned for a petite, black-haired woman seated three seats to his left to stand. "Professor Siduri is joining us as our instructor of Divination." The woman nodded once to the rest of the faculty and once to the applauding students, then sat down once again.

"As for any further announcements, I remind you that there is to be no use of magic in the halls between classes. Also, the post is not expected to pick up anytime soon, so we will just have to be patient with our loved ones at home and on the continent. This war is not confined to the Muggle world. We too are affected by the darkness on the horizon, and thus we must be supportive of one another as we try our best to cope with what is dealt us."

The headmaster then ended the somber part of his speech with a clap and a smiling, "Let the feast begin!" The students ceased whispering and began grabbing the food almost as quickly as it appeared on the tables. Harry was famished and pleased to note that the food was one of those things about Hogwarts that was excellent in any time.

"Excuse me," a voice from across the table interrupted Harry's glorious feeding reverie, "but could you please pass the kidney pie?" Harry glanced up at the source of the voice, a blonde girl with a square-set jaw and a look of mild disdain on her face.

"Sure," said Harry, passing it across to her.

"Thanks," she said, her pursed mouth widening into what Harry took for a smile. The girl did not appear to have a face that lent itself to gratitude. "You are the new transfer student," she said as she cut the pie.

"Yes," Harry replied, unsure why the girl was telling him something of which he was already aware. "Harry James," he added. The girl sniffed.

"Two first names. How quaint," she said.

"Thanks," said Harry dryly. "And what would yours be?"

"Honoria Emerson Winchester," she said. Harry raised an eyebrow at the name. It oozed pretentious Muggle. Honoria must have detected Harry's initial reaction, because she released a dull sigh. "You're welcome to try and shorten it. You wouldn't be the first."

Harry could not help but smile at this. "I'll do my best," he said. "It's nice to meet you." Honoria seemed to relax a bit after Harry's reply. She passed him the butter.

"You came from Durmstrang, correct? That explains why you were sorted into Slytherin," she said. From her tone, Harry gathered that she either knew a great deal about the subject, or thought she did.

"Oh?" said Harry.

"Of course. Everyone knows the founders of Slytherin and Durmstrang shared similar views on education."

"Among other things."

Honoria chuckled. "That's certainly one way to put it," she agreed. "All that rot about education in wizardry being 'selective.'"

"You don't believe in it?" Harry asked, mild surprise registering on his face. A Slytherin who didn't believe in the superiority of purebloods?

"Rubbish, all of it," Honoria said vehemently before slicing another piece of pie. "It's ridiculous and self-destructive, besides."

"I agree," said Harry grimly.

"Good. Though you're one of the few at this table who does," Honoria said, spearing the last bite of pie with her fork. Harry smiled, returning to his plate. After a pause, Honoria leaned in conspiratorially and asked, "Is there a reason Tom Riddle keeps staring at you?"

Harry nearly choked on his dinner roll. "What?" he managed after a moment.

"Everyone has, to an extent. Most likely because you're from Durmstrang. I guarantee you before the week is over there will be several rumors of why you've transferred. Olive Hornby will be convinced you're here as a spy for Grindelwald," she said contemptuously. It was obvious Honoria did not think much of Olive Hornby. "But Tom Riddle's been staring at you all through dinner, and he's not the sort to be interested in rumors," she finished. Harry risked what he thought was a surreptitious glance at the other end of the table, which was met by a pair of inquisitive dark eyes. If he wasn't mistaken, Tom appeared to be laughing at him. Harry immediately returned his gaze to Honoria, raising a hand to the side of his face in an effort to hide.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, stabbing angrily at his food.

"Then why are you trying to spear that pork chop like it's trying to make an escape?" Harry reluctantly put down his fork and glowered at Honoria, who appeared unperturbed. "You haven't been here long enough to make mortal enemies yet."

"Oh, I've been here plenty long enough," Harry replied, thinking of his first encounter with Draco Malfoy. They had disliked each other from the moment they met.

"He's an intense one," Honoria mused, glancing in Tom's direction. "Top marks, Prefect, never been in any sort of trouble here. Doesn't really socialize much, but he's polite enough. Everyone sort of keeps a respectful distance, even the professors. What in heaven's name happened between the two of you?"

"Nothing," Harry muttered through clenched teeth. "Nosy parker."

Honoria sniffed. "Haven't we a temper. Alright, if you don't want me to pry, I won't. But if you ask me, you're being awfully defensive about it if nothing happened." She said nothing more to Harry for the rest of the feast. He didn't object.

After everyone had finished eating, the Prefects directed them back to their respective common areas. Harry did his best to keep to the very back of the group and out of Tom's sight. He had just made it to the door of the dormitory, certain he was home free, when someone grabbed his elbow.

"How are you faring so far?" asked Tom. Harry scowled and yanked his arm out of Tom's hold.

"Fine, thank you," he said, turning to go into the dormitory.

"If you need anything—" Tom began.

"I don't." Harry colored slightly when he realized how loudly his last words had been spoken. He glanced around the common room in nervous defiance, glaring at the students who were now staring inquisitively in their direction. Honoria merely raised an eyebrow and shook her head before returning to the book in her lap.

"I see," said Tom, glancing at his shoes. "Well then, I hope your first day goes well."

Harry merely growled in thanks and brushed past him into the dormitory.

"'Night, Harry," Tom called after him. Harry's only response was to yank the bedcurtains closed.

Harry's first day and the several subsequent ones did go well, despite the fact that Tom was in most of his classes. Tom kept his distance, at least, though Harry caught him watching him once in Potions. The class was actually not as terrible as Harry had expected, mostly because he was partnered with Honoria and Professor Malachi was a significant departure from Snape, though he did share Snape's habit of swooping bat-like around the room. Harry wondered if that particular movement was part of the training to become a Potions professor.

Professor Binns, who was at the time still living, taught History of Magic. Life did not make Professor Binns an engaging lecturer, as Harry found out. In fact, the only perceivable difference was that Professor Binns was not transparent.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was taught by a monk by the name of Ghislebertus, who could frequently be seen conversing with the Fat Friar in the halls. Harry liked Brother Ghislebertus, as he preferred to be called, and was overjoyed when it was announced that they would be working on the Patronus charm. Harry made an honest effort to show some difficulty with the spell, but the thought of a Defense teacher who at least knew what he was doing was such a happy one that a full-blown stag erupted from his wand and galloped around the room. Brother Ghislebertus smiled so big his round cheeks almost his eyes, and several other students in the class clapped. Harry was not used to such attention in class, and grinned awkwardly. He pushed his glasses up on his nose, and glanced over to discover Tom watching him, a look of mild surprise on his face. Honoria looked as if she were about to say something, but upon seeing the expression on Harry's face she smirked and instead whispered, "Right. Nosy parker." Harry his blush with a scowl. He was not at all surprised when Tom merely raised his wand and produced a silvery serpent.

Oddly, Harry decided his most interesting class was going to be Divination. The class was held in the tower Professor Trelawney used, though it lacked the feeling of a mad tea party that Harry had come to associate with the class. It was not until the third week or so that Professor Siduri announced the long-term assignments for the class.

"Today marks the first day in our journey toward understanding what dreams portend," she said as she slowly paced the room, heavy gold coils around her neck and arms jingling, "Of course we shall continue to explore other methods of Divination, but I want to place particular emphasis on the interpretation of dreams. Our minds are much more sensitive to the subtleties of the spiritual world than we may realize, and dreams are the mind's way of making sense of these subtleties. They may not make any sense at all to the conscious mind, but within the dream itself anything and everything is logical.

"I am going to divide you up into pairs in order to better facilitate the dream interpretation section of your assignments." At these words, Harry glanced around nervously. He had always just worked with Ron on these assignments for Professor Trelawney, and they had just jotted down anything that came to mind, no matter how ridiculous. He swallowed and turned his attention back to Professor Siduri. "This is the person with whom you will be working for the rest of the term, so do make an effort to get along."

Harry could do little more than drum his fingers idly on the low table as Professor Siduri consulted her parchment list of who was to work with whom. He sat with Honoria in every class up to that point, so he had no doubt that Professor Siduri would place them together.

His assumptions were proven gravely wrong when Honoria was placed with Olive Hornby, much to Honoria's disdain. Harry glanced around the room and noted with growing apprehension that nearly every name had already been called.

"And I believe that leaves Mr. Riddle with..." Professor Siduri glanced at her list one final time. Not me, not me, Harry muttered under his breath. "...Mr. James," finished Professor Siduri. Harry shut his eyes and released a muffled groan.

Honoria cleared her throat. Harry opened one eye and glared at her. He refused to look in Tom's direction.

"Beginning tonight, you will all be making use of your journals. You will record what you remember of your dreams each night in order to facilitate your interpretation of them. Remember, there can be no judgment of dreams. I want you to meet with your partners before our next class in order to fill out the following questionnaire to better understand one another," said Professor Siduri. With a wave of her wand, a list of ten questions appeared on the blackboard. Harry scribbled them down, pressing so hard it was a miracle his quill didn't splinter in his hand, and was the first one off his cushion when class was dismissed. He practically ran down the stairs, shoving his parchments angrily into his bag as he passed a poster that cried, "If you ride a broom alone, you're riding for Grindelwald!"

"Harry," Tom called after him. Harry pretended he hadn't heard him, but Tom's longer stride soon landed the two boys side by side in the hall on their way to Defense. Cursing inwardly, Harry barely glanced at the taller boy.

"What?"

"When do you want to meet?" Tom asked. His tone was conversational, as if his encounters with Harry's foul temper earlier in the term had never even occurred. This in itself irritated Harry.

"Let's just do it tonight and get it over with," Harry sighed. The thought of discussing his dreams with Voldemort was giving him a queasy feeling in his stomach, which did not help his temper.

"Fine," said Tom. "I've Prefect duty until ten, but after that should be fine. We probably shouldn't do it in the common room. The whole thing seems sort of personal, don't you think?"

Harry thought this went without saying, so he didn't respond.

"How about the Astronomy tower?" Tom prompted. They were nearly to the Defense classroom.

"Astronomy tower. Ten. Fine," said Harry.

"Great," said Tom with a grin. Harry merely scowled.

Attempting to study in the common room later that evening was a futile effort. All Harry's concentration was bent on his upcoming meeting with Tom. It would be the first time they had been alone--really alone--together since Harry's arrival, and he was dreading it.

Exactly why he was dreading it was the subject of Harry's scattered thoughts. As many times as Harry turned the situation over in his head, he kept coming back to the fact that as much as Harry hated Voldemort, Tom was not anything like what he had been expecting. He was just so infuriatingly...nice. This had thrown Harry off entirely, and when presented with this oddly friendly Tom, Harry was at a loss as to what to do other than to get angry with him...which led him back to the problem of Tom being too damned nice to hate, and Harry feeling guilty because he had done nothing thus far to try to prevent Tom from becoming Voldemort.

It was all so terribly confusing.

"Beastly, that," Honoria grumbled as she threw herself down in a chair near Harry.

"Pardon?" said Harry without looking up.

"Meeting with Olive Hornby. The girl has all the charm of a goblin's rear end."

"Mmm."

Honoria blinked. "Quite a huff we're in today," she sniffed. Harry looked up from staring blindly at his Transfiguration text.

"I'm not in a huff," he said tersely.

"No offense, but Hamlet was a pile of giggles compared to you." Harry could not help but laugh at that. Honoria's dry wit was what helped him through his days lately, what with the students whispering various theories about him, ranging from his being a spy (as Honoria had predicted) to his being a war hero under Ministry protection. The problem of Tom went without saying.

"I suppose you're right," he said.

"Of course I am," Honoria agreed. "When are you meeting Tom?"

Harry's smile faded. "Ten," he muttered.

Honoria cocked her head and inquired, "At the risk of being a nosy parker, am I going to have to guess why you appear to despise him so much?"

"Good luck," said Harry. He went back to staring at his book.

"Let's see, then," she said, leaning back in her chair to observe the ceiling, "He must have done something to throw your chivalric sense of honor into question." Harry snorted. "No? Alright, perhaps you have something against particularly tall people."

"You're strange, you know that? And I don't want to talk about it," Harry said from behind his book. Honoria ignored him.

"Or maybe he made a lewd comment about your mother," she mused. Harry lowered his book. Honoria's words had hit too close to home.

"I said, I don't want to talk about it." The words came out louder and harder than he had intended, and Harry was caught somewhere between indignation and embarrassment. Honoria blinked. "I have to go," Harry said shortly, shouldering his bag.

"You really ought to learn to control your temper," Honoria said quietly. There was no trace of her usual sarcasm, which made Harry feel even worse. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to say, until Honoria prompted him, "You'll be late." With a sigh, Harry shuffled out of the common room.

The boys met at the Astronomy tower, as ordered by Professor Siduri. Harry arrived last, and the sight of Tom lounging against the wall in good-natured wait for him was enough to set Harry's teeth on edge.

"Evening," said Tom. Harry merely grunted in reply, digging around in his book bag for the parchments from Divination. He dropped them unceremoniously on the stone floor, followed by the black leather diary. Tom cocked his head at the sight of the book. "Where did you get your diary?"

"Professor Malachi picked it up for me," Harry answered curtly. Tom looked thoughtful.

"It looks almost exactly like mine," he said, pulling out his own. He then took out a quill and wrote, "T. M. Riddle," on the first page in tight, elegant script. "There," he said with a self-satisfied smile, "now we won't get them mixed up."

Harry was staring at the diary and the shining, still-wet ink of Tom's name. Part of him was horrified that he had just witnessed the germ of his second-year ordeal, but part of him was fascinated that the entire thing had come from something as mundane as labeling a dream journal for Divination.

"Harry?" Tom prompted, breaking Harry from his reverie. "Do you want to go first?" He picked up Harry's list of questions, which Harry snatched from his hand in an attempt to clear his head and regain his composure.

"Right, then," he said. "I suppose we should fill out this rubbish. Name, Tom Marvolo Riddle..." With a look of intense concentration, Harry began filling in Tom's information. Tom watched him through slightly narrowed eyes.

"Birthday?" prompted Harry.

"I don't recall giving you my middle name," said Tom.

"Birthday?" repeated Harry. Tom sighed.

"Twelfth November, nineteen twenty-seven." He continued to observe Harry as the other boy quizzed him on his life thus far.

As for Harry, he berated himself mentally for the near mistake he had made in rattling off Tom's middle name like that. He vowed to ask every question as impassively as possible, even if he knew the answer. He regretted making that promise when he came to the next question. Clearing his throat, he said, "Parents?"

Tom's expression was unreadable. "Not applicable," he said, his voice flat. Harry swallowed, nodded, and wrote, "N/A," in the blank.

"Mine, too," he said softly after a moment. He wasn't sure why he even said it, but it caught Tom's attention.

"Really?" he asked, fine eyebrows raised only slightly in surprise.

"Really. I live with my aunt and uncle." He was about to describe the misery that was number four, Privet Drive, but Tom spoke first.

"You're lucky, then," he said with a grimace. He did not elaborate any further. Strangely enough, Harry learned more about Tom's childhood at the orphanage in those three words than he had from both Hagrid and Dumbledore.

"Maybe," he said, thinking of all the terrible things Dudley and his parents had put him through. The beatings he got from Dudley. The lectures from Uncle Vernon. The endless chores from Aunt Petunia.

"But she took you. She may have taken you grudgingly, furiously, unwillingly, bitterly, yet she still took you."

No one had taken Tom.

"Sometimes I forget it," he added quietly. Glancing down at the form, his eyes fell once again on the, "N/A." It looked so cold and clinical when written that way. Absolute. No part of those three characters suggested one might feel any sort of connection with the people to whom they referred; no memories, no legacies, no ghosts. Tongue sliding between his lips, Harry scratched out what he had written and replaced it with, "passed on."

Tom was watching him again, Harry could feel it. In an attempt to order his thoughts, he returned to the next question. "Have you ever had a recurring dream?"

"Yes," came the answer after a moment. Harry looked up, wordlessly encouraging Tom to continue. The form didn't ask for it yet, but some perverted part of Harry's brain wanted to know what a young Voldemort dreamed of, night after night.

As if he heard the question, Tom warned, "Don't laugh." Harry had to suppress a wry chuckle. The future Dark Lord was self-conscious about his dreams.

"'There can be no judgment of dreams,'" he cited. Tom scowled at him.

"Well, I have a few recurring dreams, actually," he began, watching Harry's reactions intently, "though there is one recurring thing. Person, rather."

And his name is Voldemort, thought Harry.

"You."

Harry blinked. "Sorry?" he said, certain he had heard Tom incorrectly.

"You. You're in them," repeated Tom matter-of-factly.

It wasn't that strange, Harry supposed. He dreamed about Voldemort, after all. Mortal enemies were bound to dream of one another. Arthur and Mordred, Hamlet and Claudius, Holmes and Moriarty...hell, even Dumbledore probably has dreams of Grindelwald, thought Harry, desperate for examples to shore up his uncertainty. His mind was racing so fast he was barely aware of Tom still speaking.

"You've been in them for quite some time. Since I first came to Hogwarts, really."

"That's before we ever met, Tom," said Harry, keeping his tone conversational.

"Yes, I know."

"Then how can you be certain it's me? It could be anyone, I might just--"

"I think I'd recognize someone I've been dreaming about for almost five years now," Tom cut across him. At Harry's appalled expression, he chuckled. "Oh, don't worry. They're not always what one would call pleasant."

Harry's face slid into unconscious indignation. "What are they, then?"

"There's quite a lot of death," said Tom. He smiled, somehow looking both smug and exhausted at the same time. "I doubt it's your thing."

Though Harry found Tom's smile infuriating, it was more important to learn all he could about the inner workings of Tom Riddle's mind. "Try me," said Harry.

Tom seemed encouraged by Harry's unusually even temper. "Right. I'll start with one I've been having fairly often lately. I can't say I ever actually see you in it, but I know you're there."

"How--?"

"Sometimes you can be more certain of something in a dream than you can of anything in reality." Tom continued over Harry's budding question without missing a beat, getting up to pace the tower. "Anyway, it takes place in a house. It's a nice house. Small, clean, and...secret. It's strange, but there's a definite feeling of secrecy about the house, like I shouldn't be there.

"But it's happy. Or it was, at least, until the dream really starts up. There's a couple, a man and a woman. The man looks a lot like you, Harry. Older, of course, but just like you. The woman has these exquisite green eyes," Tom paused, obviously aware of Harry watching him with a strikingly similar gaze. Breaking away, he leaned against the wall, looking out over the grounds. "She's quite pretty, but afraid. They both are, very brave, but very afraid."

"What happens?" Harry's voice was a raw whisper.

"Someone...or something...comes. Something dark. I can never remember exactly what happens, but I know that by the time I wake up, they're both dead." Harry stood suddenly on shaky legs, gathering his papers haphazardly into his arms. Tom turned to watch him. "Are you alright?"

"I think we should call it a night," Harry replied sharply.

"Was it something I said?" Tom bent down to help Harry with his parchments, which Harry angrily snatched from his long fingers.

"Let me ask you something," he said, grappling with the papers. "Do you enjoy it? The dream?"

Tom considered this for a moment, dark eyes cast downward. "When the dream first starts," he said slowly, "there's a house, and a family, and they're happy. It's a home. I never had that. But watching it all as it's destroyed...I can only imagine the nightmare it must have been for those who were there." His gaze flickered upward to meet Harry's.

"I'm sure," said Harry stiffly, avoiding Tom's eyes at all costs. He started down the stairs.

"'Night, Harry," called Tom softly, still crouched low on the stone floor. Harry paused only briefly before hurrying the rest of the way back to the dormitory.

He did not even bother to change into his pyjamas before throwing himself onto his bed in a huff. Despite his earlier fatigue, however, Harry found his eyelids refused to stay closed. He was too preoccupied with the dream Tom had described to him. The fact that Tom had been dreaming about him at all was strange enough, but that it had happened before Harry had arrived at Hogwarts-before Harry had even been born, really-was perplexing enough to keep Harry's mind working long after he lay down.

That, and Tom had dreamed about Harry's parents. Harry supposed it had merely evened things up between them; Harry certainly knew more about Tom than the other boy was aware. Still, it was troubling that Tom knew anything at all about Harry, even when he wasn't aware of the truth of what he knew.

Restless, Harry pulled the bedcurtains aside to observe the rest of the dormitory. All the students were fast asleep. A glance at Tom's bed showed the curtains pulled, without so much as the sound of breathing emanating from them. As quietly as he could manage, Harry retrieved his invisibility cloak from his trunk and tiptoed through the empty common room and out into the hall.

The corridors were cool and quiet, a welcome change from the stuffy air in the dormitory. Harry wandered aimlessly for a long while, contenting himself with observing the snoozing portraits that lined the walls. He recognized most of them from his midnight wanderings in his own time, though a few were noticeably absent. Harry supposed they had yet to be painted.

"Stand and fight," came a familiar, sleepy voice from a nearby wall. Harry followed it to Sir Cadogan's portrait. The plump little knight was asleep on his equally round horse, mumbling the occasional challenge between snores.

"Hey, Sir Cadogan," Harry whispered with a smile.

"Filthy cur," muttered Sir Cadogan without waking. For some reason, Harry found it comforting to speak to someone who existed unchanged in both this time and his own, even though the knight was giving no indication of waking any time soon. Harry merely chuckled and wandered further down the hall, his mind now occupied by memories of Ron and Hermione, who had been with him when they first met Sir Cadogan.

Harry's wandering had a purpose now; he passed the portrait of the Fat Lady, the Transfiguration classroom where Hermione had helped him cram countercurses for the Triwizard Tournament, and the third floor corridor on the right-hand side where they had encountered Fluffy. Nearly every hallway held the vestiges of one memory or another, some less than pleasant, most joyful. It was in that same third-floor hallway that the statue of the one-eyed, hump-backed witch could be found. Harry smiled, wondering if she yet guarded one of the secret tunnels that lead to Hogsmeade. Drawing his wand, he was about to tap the witch's hump when he heard someone coming down the hall. He ducked behind the statue, pulling the cloak tightly around him.

It seemed an eternity before the approaching person came close enough for Harry to see him. It was another student, and a very large one at that, shuffling along the corridor in pursuit of what looked like a family of puffskeins.

"'Old still!" he muttered, grabbing one and stuffing it into a pocket of his robes, at which he shook a warning finger. "Quit yer wrigglin', now, little fellers."

Harry smiled to himself. This had to be Hagrid. He followed him silently, biting his lip to keep from laughing at Hagrid's antic chasing of the puffskeins down the hall. They trekked upstairs, with Hagrid stopping occasionally to pluck some small creature or another from shadowy corners. Harry debated revealing himself to his future friend, but thought perhaps it would be better to wait until Hagrid was not so occupied by his harvesting of the Hogwarts household pests. Harry had to come to an abrupt stop then as Hagrid paused to scoop up a dormouse. Surveying the hall in which they stood, Harry realized they had wandered much further than he had thought. As Hagrid soothed the menagerie in his pocket, Harry examined the door to their right. It was in a storage room on one of the upper floors-Fred and George had directed him there once, on account of the wide assortment of strange magical knick-knacks that were a sure cure for boredom over the Christmas holiday. Its door stood slightly ajar, the cool, papery scent of old things wafting out through the crack.

Once Hagrid had shuffled off down the hall, Harry quietly pushed open the door of the storage room and stepped inside. Stacks of dusty furniture and books made it difficult to find a path, but Harry didn't mind. It was in places like this that Hogwarts still felt like the home he knew in his first few years there, before the world outside changed both the castle and the people inside it. There was no big picture here; it was a pocket of existence separate from everything else, much as Harry thought Hagrid's pocket must feel to the creatures now cradled there.

So Harry took his time as his fingers left lingering trails in the dust on the desks and discarded portraits. He lifted drapes to peer at the piles of things under them. There were larger things toward the back, bookshelves and skeletons of weird creatures hung on racks and covered with cloth like sleeping birds. Harry peeked at them all, hearing Lupin's voice recite, "grindylow," or, "kappa."

It was then that he came to the tall, covered thing in the very back corner. There was something familiar about this object, Harry felt. He tugged at the drape, revealing the thing from top to bottom. Harry's heart lurched as his eyes fell on the words engraved across the top of the gilt frame: Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi.

He was standing to the side of the mirror, unable to see into it clearly. Harry wasn't sure he wanted to. Between reliving his parents' murder with Tom and wandering the castle with Hermione and Ron in mind, he had already made too many detours through his memory that night.

Yet the mirror called to him. If everything else in his world was too damned complicated to make heads or tails of, at least this part of him might be made plain. He wanted-no, needed-to understand this. Shrugging out of his invisibility cloak, Harry set his jaw and stepped resolutely in front of the mirror, fully expecting to see his parents and family smiling back at him once again.

His parents were indeed there, but not in the same group of people Harry had seen during his first encounter with the Mirror of Erised. There were hundreds of people, and they were certainly not his family.

Some he recognized immediately; his parents were two of these, of course. In front of them stood a cranky-looking old man and Cedric Diggory. Near Cedric stood a few vaguely familiar members of the Ministry of Magic, and at the very front stood none other than Sirius and Hermione.

Harry's breath caught in his throat. These were people he had seen hurt or killed by Voldemort. They were dead, or worse, and there they stood, smiling at him with determination and encouragement.

He wished they were really there with him. Making an effort to breathe and move, Harry stepped even closer to the mirror, until his breath fogged it and the images appeared dreamlike. Behind his parents were more people he recognized from brief glimpses of photographs, members of the Order of the Phoenix that Mad-Eye had pointed out to him. They stood among dozens of other people, most likely Muggle-borns or sympathizers that had met the business end of Voldemort's wand.

And there, in the very back, was a very familiar figure with dark hair and eyes that watched him with unnerving intensity. Harry squinted and raised a hand to the glass, fingers hovering just above its surface. The boy at the back of the crowd smiled, and there was something in that smile that Harry was afraid to name.

With one last glance at the crowd gathered in the mirror, Harry threw the cloth over it once again. Though the glass was covered now, the feeling of hope and encouragement he had felt in those smiles lingered. He could save these people, all of them, and he had a sudden suspicion that he knew how to do it.

It was early the next afternoon before Honoria spoke to him again. She caught him in the hall on the way to History of Magic and pulled him into one of the window alcoves.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you last night," Harry said before she could say anything else. Honoria smiled and pointed a finger at him.

"It's fine. Just don't let it happen again," she scolded him. Dropping her casual tone, she added, "Look, Harry, I know it's really not my place, but I've been thinking... perhaps you should make and effort to get along with Tom."

"Maybe you're right," said Harry with a sigh.

"Now I know you, and I know your temper, and...what?" Honoria stopped mid-lecture as Harry's words registered. "What did you say?"

"You're right," Harry repeated. "I should try harder and not hold stupid things against him."

Honoria looked absolutely stunned that Harry had agreed with her. "Oh. Well then. I think..."

"I shouldn't take out my bad mood on someone who--"

"--Is walking this way," Honoria finished for him.

"What?" Harry's grip on his books tightened involuntarily. He glanced over his shoulder and winced upon seeing that Tom was, in fact, walking in his direction.

"Tom's headed this way," Honoria explained patiently. "You can start being nicer to him now."

"But--"

"Harry," she said firmly, "mind your temper." With a wicked smile she walked off to speak to a group of Slytherins across the hall. Harry stared mutinously after her until Tom cleared his throat.

"Harry, may I have a moment?" he asked, keeping his distance. Harry nodded, feeling slightly embarrassed for some reason. Tom appeared to be ordering his thoughts before he spoke, almost nervous. "I get the impression you don't like me much," he said at last, looking up from his shoes to Harry's face. "Was it something I said? Something I did? Or was I just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

Harry colored, feeling like an idiot for treating Tom the way he had. "It's..."

"In any case," Tom continued without letting Harry speak, "whatever it is, I'm sorry. I'll do my best to stay out of your way." He moved to keep walking, but Harry caught his arm.

"Wait," he said, awkwardly searching for the words that felt strange in his mouth. "You don't have to do that. I've been told my temper's...not the best."

"Really?" Tom's eyebrows raised incredulously. Harry scowled at him, but only briefly.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have taken my anger at someone else out on you. You didn't deserve it." Beyond that, Harry had no idea what to say. He hoped Tom did not ask for any sort of explanation as to why Harry had been in such a foul mood in the first place. He squirmed under Tom's characteristically appraising gaze.

"Divination again tomorrow night, then?" Tom asked. Harry thought he detected a note of relief in his voice, and smiled.

"Tomorrow night," he said. Tom smiled back, hesitantly almost, and continued on his way.

Harry found Honoria no longer talking to the Slytherins; instead, it appeared she had been eavesdropping on his conversation with Tom.

"That was positively touching." Honoria smirked.

"Shove off, nosy parker," Harry said with a grin. They headed for the History of Magic classroom.

"Temper, temper."

"I know, I know." They reached the class and sat down as far away from Professor Binns as they could manage. Harry took out his quill.

"Harry?" Honoria whispered. "I do think you did the right thing."

Harry could only smile back at her as Professor Binns began lecturing them on the goblin rebellions in the eighteenth century.