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Gilgamesh

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. Harry manages to enroll himself as a Fifth year Slytherin with Tom, the details of which I'll cover later. Tom is suspicious of Harry from the beginning, but somehow they form a friendship (despite Tom's investigations into Harry's past and current activities) that leads to something more complicated. But then, things between them have never been simple.

I should also point out that this is starting to absorb bits of OotP. Read at your own discretion.

This particular snippet takes place at the very beginning of the story...most of this would be prologue and the first chunk of the first chapter. There is a piece missing because I haven't written it yet, but its location is indicated. Keep in mind this is rough, rough, rough. I'm not sure I even spellchecked this thing before I posted it. Damn.


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,

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." 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.

[insert as yet unwritten chunk here...Harry prepares for his mission with the help of the Order, which includes a forged Durmstrang transcript and a charmed set of robes.]

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."

"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.