Sitra Ahra

Second Movement: Malign Paradigm

October 29, 1981

Three days prior to Voldemort’s defeat

Lord Voldemort’s most trusted servants formed a semi-circle around the seated Dark Lord; the Inner Circle members kneeled low. In the gloom of the dimly lit Parkinson study, Lucius observed that only the Dark Lord’s crimson eyes shone brightly, his malevolent gaze fixed upon a point of Lucius’ left.  

“And Bellatrix, what progress has been made on the location of the Longbottoms?”

Lucius noticed, in his peripheral vision, Bellatrix rise from the kneeled position that the rest of the Voldemort’s Inner Circle held, arranged in a semi-circle around a seated Voldemort.

“Milord” Bellatrix began, “We are very close to finding the blood-traitors. It’s only a matter of time.”

“Time is a luxury that we cannot afford at this moment, Bellatrix. It is imperative that the Longbottoms are located within the week. Inform Crouch and Rabastan their new priority is to assist you.”

Bellatrix, stung by the chastisement, opened her mouth to lay the blame on Rookwood, but then thought better of it.

"Yes, milord," she replied obediently, and returned to her kneeling position.

Lucius smirked in amusement. While his sister-in-law may be mentally unbalanced, she was certainly not stupid. No Death Eater had a desire to taste their Lord's potent Cruciatus curse.

Voldemort held his gaze on Bellatrix for a few more seconds, almost daring her to make excuses for her failure.

Finally satisfied by her deference, he returned his attention to the assembled crowd.

“I have nothing further to say. You’re all dismissed.”

Lucius prepared to execute the customary final bow, but Voldemort’s cold voice spoke again.

“Except for you, Lucius.”

He felt his heart clench in fear, but remained outwardly stoic. Their master did not take kindly to movements betraying the mind, as he considered it a sign of weakness. It was a lesson that all novice Death Eaters learned quickly.

The rest of the Inner Circle bowed once more, before rising and filing out the door. From the corner of his eye, Lucius noted that Rookwood was the last to leave, closing the door behind him and blotting out the light from the hallway. The Parkinson study once again thrown into dimness, he couldn’t help but feel jealousy towards the Unspeakable. Private meetings after being singled out by the Dark Lord typically didn’t end well, as Regulus Black would be able to attest to.

That is, if the younger Black were alive.

Lucius remained bowed, not wanting to be the first to break etiquette. After a minute of silence, his Master spoke.

“You may rise, Lucius.”

He rose slowly, paying no heed to the slight stiffness that accompanied holding such a rigid position. Once upon his feet, Voldemort slowly rose to a standing position, putting the two Wizards at equal eye level. While his eyes and posture betrayed nothing, internally he was nearly consumed by fear. The only thing that held his resolve from shattering were his Occulemency shields.

The Dark Lord appraised him for a moment before speaking.

“I’m most impressed, Lucius. Your mental control never ceases in its vigilance.”

“A Wizard who cannot master himself has no hope of mastering anyone else.”

Voldemort smiled a mirthless grin.

“Do you have any idea why I have summoned you, Lucius?”

“No, my lord.”

Voldemort chose not to elaborate on his purpose, but instead reached into his robe. He withdrew what looked like a small book, with an envelope sticking out from its pages. The book was pressed into his hands.

Lucius glanced down. A closer inspection revealed that it was not a book, but a diary bound in black leather. Why was his master giving him this?

He looked up, a question on his lips, but Voldemort silenced him with a wave of his hand, before speaking himself.

“The diary is more than it appears to be. When the time is right, it has the ability to possess, to compel its host into opening the Chamber of Secrets, and achieve Slytherin’s noble goal of eradicating the Mudblood scum at Hogwarts.”

Lucius didn’t even think the Chamber had actually existed.

Voldemort, as if reading his thoughts, let out a short laugh. “I assure you, it does exist.”

The slight smile dropped from his Master’s mouth, and his expression grew austere.

“I only wish for you to keep it hidden. I am giving it to you for safeguarding; you are not to use it to further your own agenda,” warned Voldemort, crimson eyes narrowed.

“However” he continued, “The letter contained within the diary is far more important.”

Lucius found himself mystified. Why would a simple letter be of greater importance than a way to open Salazar’s long-lost creation? His Lord chose to not elaborate on the subject.

“You may be accomplished in hiding your thoughts, Lucius, but I don’t need to gaze into your mind to know your soul. Your loyalty to me is merely a function of your understanding of what disobedience would entail.”

Lucius felt fear grip him. He didn’t have a chance if the Dark Lord intended to kill him. He could only hope to placate him.

“My lord, I have served only your will since I took your mark.”

Voldemort grinned humorlessly at his statement.

“If what you spoke was lies, I would already have killed you. No, regardless of the fact that you only posses loyalty to yourself, you are still very valuable to me, worthy of being within my Inner Circle.”

He felt his mind slightly ease after the Dark Lord’s statement. It seemed evident he would leave this meeting alive.

“In two days, Halloween will arrive. On that night, the death-blow to the Light will be delivered, as is appropriate for the night when Dark Magic is at its most potent.”

Lucius found himself confused. Could they be truly this close to triumph?

Voldemort let out another short lived cold laugh, before his eyes grew hard, piercing into Lucius’ grey orbs.

“Were I to be absent for a time, some may conveniently forget their allegiances. Those certain factions may use the defeat of the Light as an opportunity to take the mantle of England’s sole Dark Lord. Therefore, I require a vow from you.”

Lucius felt his heart stop. Surely he wouldn’t be coerced into…

“An Unbreakable Vow, Lucius.”

While his exterior showed nothing, internally Lucius was a whirlwind of emotion. He found being bound by vows to be completely abhorrent, far from the wiggle room provided by deep pockets and magical litigation. There was no escaping the finality of a magical vow.

Even stranger still was his Lord’s logic. All of the Death Eaters, himself included, were well aware that they would never succeed in combat against him. That, coupled with his vast skills in Legilemency, virtually assured the Dark Lord never had to worry about assassination attempts from within. What were his true motivations? However, as much as he would like to deny his Lord’s demand, resistance was not an option.

“My Lord, whatever you require, I shall grant.”

A mocking smile played at the corner of his Master’s lips, a brash statement that he suspected Lucius’ true thoughts on the matter.

“Wormtail, reveal yourself.”

From the corner of the room, Lucius saw a short, pale man materialize. Lucius stared for a second before recognition dawned. Peter Pettigrew? One of those idiotic Marauders, a Gryffindor, was working for the Dark Lord?

“Lucius, Peter, I’m sure you already know one another.”

He noted the Dark Lord seemed to be taking a sort of pleasure in this shock. The same could not be said for Pettigrew, who looked like he would rather be anywhere else. He had deep rings under his eyes, and looked unkempt in general. The double life he was living must have been catching up with him.

The Dark Lord strode over to Lucius, and presented his right hand. Lucius complied, grasping it with his left. Lucius hid his revulsion, his Lord’s hand not feeling like human skin anymore, as it was without lines or calluses. It was also cold, nothing like a living being should be.

The Dark Lord turned his attention to Wormtail.

“Wormtail, take out your wand, you’re our Bonder.”

The pudgy man fumbled for a second, before withdrawing his own wand.

“Then let us begin. Will you, Lucius, agree to never open the letter contained within the diary unless you fail to acquire the rights to a dead family’s vault?”

“I will,” said Lucius, taken aback at how vague the terms were.

At the conclusion of the first part, a thin jet of red flame shot from Wormtail’s wand and wrapped around their linked hands.

“And will you, should you need to open the letter, follow the instructions contained within?”

“I will.”

A second jet of flame joined the first.

“Do you, Lucius, swear upon your life to uphold this vow?”

“I will.”

A third whip of flame shot from the wand, linking around their hands like a chain. Lucius felt the magic flowing through him, the vow taking form.

“Thank you, Lucius,” the Dark Lord said, without a hint of gratitude, a cruel smile upon his face.

“Whatever my Lord requires, I shall provide,” Lucius graciously replied, stricken with terror internally. How could he possibly fulfill the terms of a vow that didn’t have a single specific clause in it?

“Lucius, you will know when the time is right,” said Voldemort, his smile inching wider.

He found himself doubting that statement, but didn’t voice his belief.

“Now leave us, I have other matters to attend to,” dismissed Voldemort, turning to the spy, Peter Pettigrew.

Lucius complied, and exited from the dark study into the well-lit hallway, a single haunting thought burning its way through his mind;

What had he been pulled into?

-

April 15, 1990

Four months prior to Tonks’ murder

Lucius Malfoy sat in his drawing room, a glass of brandy in hand, his pupils reflecting the yellow flames that licked at the wood in the fireplace. While a potent drink and his favorite leather chair were often enough to soothe his thoughts, that certainly wasn’t the case tonight, his mind blazing every bit as bright as the fire that lay upon the hearth.

Earlier that day, Lucius had made his way into Gringotts. While Wizarding inheritance law was vastly complicated and arcane, he was well accustomed to its nuances, more so than almost any other wizard in Britain. According to one of the more obscure inheritance laws, a possible successor to a family’s vault had ten years to present themselves at Gringotts. If no such successor came forth, then a related family could make a claim to the family’s fortune.

While the three remaining Potters had not been dead for ten years, Lucius left nothing to chance. Who knew what other delusional family would put forth a claim? It was one of the many ways that allowed for the Malfoy name to maintain its wealth and holdings throughout the generations, using the vast expanse of the Malfoy bloodlines to claim right to many a family vault.

However, his visit had not gone as planned. He had been rebuked by the manager of the Potter vaults. The cursed goblin had not even seemed interested in the light suggestions of wealth or the veiled menace of hinted threats. It had been frustrating, to say the least. He had left the office without speaking, going straight back to Malfoy Manor, seeking a quiet place where he could gather his thoughts.

There were a great many things that Lucius was troubled about regarding his current situation. It was no great secret that goblins were among the vilest and most distrustful of all creatures, backstabbing parasites that were solely motivated by greed. Normally, the promise of a gold bribe was enough to motivate any goblin to depart from lawful nomenclature. Not this goblin, however. He really couldn’t remember its name, all their barbaric names always blended together for him.

Goblins were not difficult to understand. If it had refused the offer of gold, then that meant the goblin had more to gain by keeping the vault in the Potter name. Lucius was confident that no other family had put forth a claim, so he knew that he wasn’t currently being outbid with his bribes. He did, however, know that Gringotts charged hugely inflated interest rates for vaults which hadn’t any activity. The vault manager would have made a nice cut of the interest Gringotts charged. However, the gold lost from voiding the last six months of Potter control would have been far more than made up for by the gold Lucius was offering the goblin.

Lucius, his head formerly lowered in thought, snapped to attention as the truth hit him like a banisher. The vault must still be under Potter control; the bloodline hadn’t been completely extinguished. The vault manager wasn’t interested in the gold because it would pale in comparison to what it could make long-term from the compounded inactivity interest.

“How could this be?” Lucius thought to himself. It had been confirmed that the elder Potters had both been murdered. While the body of their young son had never been recovered, it had seemed like a safe assumption that his body had been destroyed by his former master. The home had been described too him as being almost completely obliterated by an explosion. It had seemed almost clear, that the explosion had disintegrated both young Harry Potter and the Dark Lord.

New found knowledge in hand, he was more than willing to change his viewpoint. How he could not conceive, but somehow the youngest Potter had survived. The Blood Link to the Potter vaults maintained. Not only did that interfere with his financial aspirations, but he began to feel a slight pressure upon him, as if his own magic was weighing down upon him.

His thoughts turned back to that fateful night, three days before his master’s destruction. The vow he had been coerced into making had hung over him like a dark cloud for the first few years. While he eventually learned to not think about it, there were the occasional nights where he lay awake, wondering if he was missing the sign that would allow him to open the letter, and release him from this wretched vow.

Unexpectedly, it would seem the first condition had been met. If he had been unsure the vow had pertained to the Potters, the slight pressure he now felt would have cleansed him of all doubt. He shivered, uncontrollably. It was as if the Dark Lord was breathing down his neck, his commands still being carried out almost ten years after his death. What had his master known that no one else did?

He shook himself from his musings. He was a Malfoy, a Slytherin, and would not spend time moping. Slightly more balanced now, he brought the glass to his mouth and finished off the remaining brandy. He closed his eyes as the soothing fire flowed down his throat. As the burning abated, he let out a heavy sigh, before rising to his feet.

Lucius took out his wand, and raised it above his head, dispelling the glamour covering the middle of the floor. Where before the floor was smooth gray stone, there lay a circle twelve feet in diameter, with a smaller circle four feet in diameter in the center. The outer circle was bordered by gold painted ivy patterns, while the center circle contained the Malfoy family crest.

He withdrew a silver knife from his robes, and drew it deeply across his outstretched palm. A sharp intake of breath was his only reaction to the slice. Crimson blood oozed slowly from the wound site, dripping from his hand into the center of the crest. The first protection accounted for, the Blood Seal, Lucius spoke that activation phrase.

“Amat victoria curam.”

At once the outer circle began to slowly sink into the floor without a sound. The height displacement varied linearly, creating a spiral staircase. He quickly descended, leaving the squalor of his drawing room behind, into one of the many secrets of the Malfoy ancestral home. Smooth, grey stone blocks made up the wall, his way lighted by the flickering of Gubraithian torches set into alcoves, the everlasting-fire that had burned since the foundations had been laid.

Twenty feet down, Lucius felt the magic in the air as he passed through the preservation wards, a necessity to prevent the intrusive dampness that accompanied underground construction.

The tight staircase ended on the thirty-second step, in an arched entryway, which he passed through. Inside lay a small room, a fifteen foot square with low ceilings. Along the side walls alternated tall, thin wooden shelves, and portraits displaying only empty canvas.

The shelves had glass covers, and contained a large variety of items. A complete set of silver dinnerware, daggers with jewel encrusted handles, an ornate pocket watch and brass candlesticks were only a few of the items that lined the wooden shelves.

At the far end of the room was only a single wooden shelf, flanked by another two empty portraits. Most of the items in this room were his personal treasure trove of Dark Artifacts. While he certainly had little compunction against using items of this nature for personal gain, he looked at them with the viewpoint of a collector, more concerned with their aesthetic value than any real usefulness. However, this shelf was different from the others.

The first few shelves were cluttered with rings, bracelets and other jewelry of vastly different expense. Every one of the items was a memento from every raid or attack he had taken part in as part of Voldemort’s inner circle. In essence, it was an abstract scrapbook detailing his entire history with the Death Eaters. If his museum was ever found, he could be linked to countless murders, beyond even the long reach of his political contacts. It could be considered a risk, but Lucius had the utmost of confidence in his trophy room’s protections.  

The top shelf held only a few items, of little apparent value to the outsider: A few books, a small diary with an envelope sticking out, and various seemingly innocent items. They were the cornerstone of his collection, items personally given to him by the Dark Lord.

He withdrew the diary from the shelf, looking at it briefly. It was a simple looking thing, bound in black leather. A yellowed letter was tucked into its pages. He opened the diary, exposing the blank pages, and withdrew the letter. It was without mark, as it had been hand delivered, sealed with black wax formed into the shape of the Dark Mark. It had been ten years since it had been given to him.

The Unbreakable Vow hanging over his head like a guillotine, he placed the diary back upon the shelf, and then broke the seal holding the letter shut. He pried the envelope open, withdrawing the letter.

The Dark Lord’s spidery scrawl met his eyes, black ink filling up the both sides of the sheaf of parchment. All too aware of the deadly oath held over him, he began to read.

Lucius,

The conclusion you’ve drawn since your failure to secure the Potter vaults is correct. Harry Potter still lives. For reasons I won’t go into here, the Potters were the key to the demise of the Light.

Nothing has changed since I gave you this letter. Regardless of what has transpired in my absence, all of the Potters must still be destroyed. I had a contingency plan should my first attempt prove unsuccessful, which you will carry out, to the letter.

A mile outside Little Hangleton, on a hillside which is overlooked by a large Muggle house at the top of the hill, is a Dark Artifact of immense power. It’s inside a dilapidated cabin, set off from the road, almost hidden by the tangles of trees.

The artifact is a gold ring with a black stone set into it. This is what you will use to kill Harry Potter. The ring’s powers are of my own design, and will circumvent the protections upon Harry Potter.

On the reverse side of this letter are instructions on how to avoid the protections placed upon the cabin where the ring is located. You will follow these instructions exactly, or either the Unbreakable Vow or the potent defenses in the cabin will kill you.

Once you have acquired the ring, you will buy a new, non-descript owl and use it to send the ring to Harry Potter. If the owl should return without the ring undelivered, you are to return the ring to its hiding spot. Below the retrieval instructions are the steps to recreating the protections. Under no circumstances will you keep the ring in your possession.

My reach is long, Lucius. While I may have been gone for ten years, I will someday return. Fail me in any manner, and there will be a reckoning. Succeed, and our shared dream becomes a reality.

- Lord Voldemort

While he found many items of interest in the Dark Lord’s apparent posthumous correspondence, the final paragraph chilled him to the bone. Could his former Master still be alive? A day ago, he could have scoffed at the notion, but he found that much had changed in the past twenty-four hours. The letter, the Unbreakable Vow, the Potter heir surviving somehow, there was just too much here to be a coincidence. Had the Dark Lord actually orchestrated this entire situation, merely biding his time? And if that were the case, why had Potter survived the initial attack? Surely his Lord had not planned for Harry’s survival?

With an acute longing for simpler times, unbound by any master, Lucius turned the letter over in his hands. As he began to read the instructions for the ring’s retrieval, his jaw dropped.

Without a guideline, he couldn’t conceive a single way anyone could acquire the ring. Even Dumbledore himself would be hard pressed to penetrate the defenses present. Deadly wards of several different designs made up the primary defense. Even if a skilled Curse Breaker were to disable the wards, the moment they went down, one of the most deadly Dark curses known to Wizarding kind awaited.

The Segnior Arsus curse was usually too complex to use in combat, but was very potent as a security measure. It could be charmed to attach to a single object, or to an area. It this instance, it appeared to be linked to the ring. Whoever was unlucky enough to touch the ring, would feel an immense, burning pain as their fingers started to burn from within. The curse acts slow, scorching flesh cell-by-cell. It usually takes hours for the curse to run its course and kill a person, but that time may seem to the victim like an eternity burning in pain. Worst of all, there was no known counter-curse.

With a heavy sigh, he tucked the letter into his pocket. With an Unbreakable Vow hanging above his head, a former Master who may still be alive, and a battery of deadly wards to disable, he didn’t have much time to waste. With one final quick glance around the room, Lucius ascended the stairs, leaving his trophy room behind.

-

April 17, 1990

Four months prior to Tonks’ murder

A ten year-old Harry Potter sat on his bed, within his room at the London Muggle Orphanage. He was hunched over, jaw supported by balled fists, his elbows resting upon his knees. He was gazing intently at the piece of blank wall directly across from him. Truth be told, it wasn’t very interesting. It was dull white sheetrock that had been painted many times over, in differing shades. There were a few indentations in the wall, as if a child had failed in their goal to punch a hole through the wall.

While Harry would even admit that there weren’t very many points of study on the wall, or anything even remotely approaching interest, it did have its uses. When one stares at the same point for a long time, the world starts to drop away. Everything, the feelings, the emotions, the world itself, it just fades into obscurity. After the atrocity that occurred two months ago, he found himself using this technique often.

He discovered that when the world fades into the background, so follows the painful memories, which he had in abundant quantities. He supposed that Crowley wouldn’t exactly be pleased with him, since his mental training instructor had always said that Wizards were blessed in that they had the ability to master their minds, to not let emotion affect one’s self.

The doctors that had seen him at the hospital observed that he had been bereft of burns, despite the state of his singed clothes, but unresponsive to any inquiries. Harry found he hadn’t been in a very talkative mood. After the horror that had occurred at his childhood home, his memories were disjointed, unclear, as if they had happened to someone else, and been told about them later.

All the social workers had was his name, which they obviously were unsuccessful when it came to tracking down his family, or any other missing children matching his description. With no other alternative, they had sent him to the orphanage. Harry didn’t mind. One of the benefits to being the clear victim of psychological trauma was having a room to one’s self, a rare occurrence in the overcrowded orphanage.

Slowly, though, he could feel himself healing. He still couldn’t face his own mind, and the memories contained within, but he felt more human with each day, signs that maybe someday he would be fine. He anxiously awaited his Hogwarts letter, which would provide a nice distraction, something to fixate on aside from inanimate objects.

He was broken from his musings by a tapping sound upon the window. Removing his head from his hands, he turned around, greeted by the sight of a tawny owl tapping upon the glass with its beak.

For the first time in several months, he felt a slight elation. Had the Hogwarts owls been sent out early? Upon moving towards the window, he observed the owl held not a letter in its talons, but a small package. Reaching the window, he unlatched it and pulled it upwards.

The owl wasted no time, swooping in and dropping the parcel off on his bed. The package delivered, it flew over to his dresser, perching itself atop it.

Harry found himself confused. The package was very small, too much so to contain a letter from Hogwarts. He had no surviving contacts in the Wizarding world, so he couldn’t conceive who would send him anything.

Feeling slightly stupid, he addressed the owl.

“Thanks for the delivery. Do you know who sent me the package?”

The owl was very succinct in its reply, a single hoot.

Not being well versed in the tongue of avian messengers, he unsurprisingly found himself no closer to an answer.

Curiosity prodding him forth, he approached the package. It appeared to be a very small object, wrapped in brown paper. He picked it up in his hands, feeling the object through the roughly textured paper. It seemed to be a small square box, perhaps four inches in dimension.  

While he was wary of foreign objects, he figured who had wished him harm would have given up long ago, considering the well-hidden home he had grown up in, cloaked from all methods of magical tracking.

With a deep breath, he tore away the rough paper, revealing the object.

His initial deduction had proved correct, as it indeed was a box. It seemed to be made of a dark wood, similar in design to the ring boxes he had seen on the Muggle television. However, these details were insignificant compares to what was painted on top of the box. In red ink, on top of the box, was the Potter family crest.

His heart stopped for a moment. He didn’t have a single memento from his biological parents, the only pictures he had were from old newspapers that his guardians had kept for him. He only knew about the Potter crest from one of the English heraldry books he found in the library.

With a renewed eagerness, all thoughts of caution thrown aside, he pried the box open. The interior of the box was lined with a velvety red material, with a ring nestled in the center.

Harry was beset by excitement. Maybe his parents had set this up before their death, that Gringotts would send him a family heirloom from the Potter vault. Upon his opening of the box, the owl silently took off from its perch, and flew off into the night air. He never noticed in his preoccupation with the odd gift. Nor did he stop to question the potentially ominous fact that the sender was anonymous.

He removed the ring from the box, examining it. It appeared to be roughly crafted from gold, with a black stone set into it. Harry didn’t know a great deal about precious gems, but he thought it might be obsidian. There was a coat of arms engraved upon the stone, clearly wasn’t the Potter one, but one completely unfamiliar to him. He noticed that the ring was too big to fit around any of his fingers, but might fit around his thumb.

Without thinking, he placed the ring onto his left thumb. A sense of contentment fell over him the moment he placed it on. For the first time in a while, he felt at peace. And why not? He had just been given a piece of his family history. Perhaps his dreams tonight wouldn’t be filled with fire and screams of terror.

With a smile upon his face, Harry collapsed upon his bed, his bright green eyes drooping shut.

-

August 20, 1990

The woman attempted to scream, which proved futile as I pressed the pillow over head. Blood quickly saturated the white pillow, but didn’t affect its sound dampening efficiency. As the seconds grew into minutes, the visible features of the middle-aged woman morphed into those of a younger one, barely out of Hogwarts.

I pulled the pillow back slightly, just enough to expose where her hair met the scalp, while still holding the pillow tight over her mouth. With a carefree air, I brought the knife from my pocket, and began to roughly hack at her roots, crudely scalping the young woman. Her thrashing increased in intensity, flecking small drops of blood everywhere, but not enough to dislodge my grip on her. Her thrashings gave way to hopeless sobs as a small pile accumulated next to her head, containing ragged clumps of blood-matted hair, with bloodied and rent skin still sticking to them…

Harry awoke with a scream boiling in his throat, terror in his mind. He opened his eyes, only to shut them against the invasive light battering his currently sensitive pupils. He clenched them tight, a ward against the tattered shreds of the nightmare.

He was no stranger to nightmares, with his mind having a deep well from which horrors could be drawn. It was a rare occurrence when he didn’t have to partially relive that fateful night where he had lost everyone he cared about. Usually, he played the part of the helpless by-stander, powerless to do anything as the past replayed itself.

Tonight, though, had been far different than normal. He had felt the cold handle of the blade pressed into his palm, the hot blood pumping out from the woman’s punctured jugular. He was even aware of his emotions, which were indifferent to the murder, done with all the consideration one might give to breathing. He was loathe to admit it, but found it more similar to a memory than a dream, the only problem being he was fairly certain he’d never killed anyone.

With the dream fading into obscurity, Harry stretched his body out. Much to his surprise, he found that he wasn’t on his hard, uncomfortable bed. Rather, he seemed to be on an expanse of thick carpeting, the likes of which he hadn’t seen since his home went up in flames. This didn’t make a single shred of sense, considering carpeting was a commodity far out of his orphanage’s price range.

His confusion increasing by the minute, he opened his eyes slowly, in an attempt to let his pupils dilate properly. He rolled over to his side, away from the light, and opened his eyes fully. A bookcase was the first thing that met his eyes. It was packed solid with thick tomes, not yielding any breathing room for the books. He couldn’t help but notice the similarity the bookshelf bore to the library of his youth, right down to the black wood of the shelf, polished to a bright sheen. His gaze drifted downwards, to the carpet he had apparently fallen asleep on.

Recognition dawned in his eyes, as adrenaline flared in his veins. He leapt to his feet, all vestiges of sleep gone, beholding the exact library that had been a fixture of his childhood. The deep green carpeting, the double stacks of books, the staircase leading to the second upper level of the multi-floored room, the large oak table in the middle, the huge storm windows stretching from floor to ceiling, it was all the same.

It couldn’t be. He had seen this room devoured by flames, had hid between the stacks of smoldering books, praying that the Legion wouldn’t find him.

With an anguished cry, Harry ran to the mahogany double doors, throwing them carelessly open. He rushed down the hallway, trying to outrun the memory he seemed to be trapped in, and jumped down the stairs, only hitting two steps on his way down. He jumped the rest of the way, hitting the bottom and stumbling. He quickly regained his balance and threw open the front door.

He stumbled out of the threshold of the house, collapsing upon the green lawn. Shakes wracked his body as he buried his face into the cool grass. He tried to bottle up his emotions, as he always had at the orphanage. Despite his best efforts, tears began to leak from his eyes, which threw the flood gates wide open.

For the first time since his escape, he cried, having finally faced and addressed the night he had lost everything he cared about. It proved to be therapeutic, as the tears had washed away the mental barriers he had put up, blocking out all thought. With his newfound clarity, he was able to make more sense of the situation, look at it with a level-headed temperament.

From an early age, he had been taught mental training by Crowley. While he had never been able to master his mind, which was unsurprising considering it was almost unheard of for a child of Harry’s age to begin Occulemency training, he had mastered a few techniques. His progress had been slow, but every minor victory he achieved convinced him it was worth the effort, especially with the secrets that held residence within his mind, that he had always been told he must protect at all costs.  

He had started with shielding specific memories. He would tell Crowley vague details of a certain memory, and he would have to stop his teacher from finding that particular memory within his mind. It was not easy, but after a few months, he found he could fend off some of his teacher’s Legilemency probes.

With a small grasp upon shielding, they had moved onto a technique that Crowley had referred to as “Shaping”. It was not a method commonly used in the Wizarding world, but it was effective for children who couldn’t augment their Occulemency shields well with magic, or for weaker wizards.

The idea behind Shaping was that under constant duress, anyone’s mental shields will fold if enough physical and mental traumas are applied. Therefore, that fact is conceded from the forefront, and the mind itself is made hard to decipher. An untrained person’s mind will look like a whirlwind of memories, without any resemblance of order. A typical mind trained in Occulemency is surrounded by a thick shield, with weaker, meaningless memories behind the shields, in an attempt to obscure memories of vital importance.

A person, whose mind was “Shaped”, had no visible memories within their mind. If one were to break through their shields, they would be treated to a landscape or place of some sort. Those who Shaped their minds modeled it after a place they were intimately familiar with. The objects within the landscape were memories, disguised as everyday objects.

It had taken him two years, but he had eventually successfully Shaped his mind. He modeled it after his childhood home, a building that he knew better than any other, even more so than those who had occupied it before his arrival.

While it was now clear to him that he had been confined to his mind, the why still eluded his grasp. He rose to his feet, sparing a glance to the forest that ringed the secluded property. What he saw shocked him.

When Shaping his mind, the forest had been fifty feet deep, extending directly to the Occulemency shields that enclosed his mind. Now, it was only about twenty feet deep, as the opaque shields had contracted. Outside the shields raged what appeared to be an ocean of green fire.

His feet brought him closer to the rolling flames, until he stood several feet from it, his thin, light-blue Occulemency shield being the only separation from the all-consuming fire. Not even cinders remained on the other side, the surface being just as dead as the moon’s. Crowley had taught him how to gauge the condition of one’s shield from within the mind. With a deep breath, he moved a step close to the shield, putting his body mere inches from it.

Even in close proximity to the shield, he couldn’t feel any heat radiating, which provided the relief of knowing that his mind wasn’t in immediate danger. The first test passed, he carefully pressed his hand against the shield. Mild warmth met his hand, which left him with hope.

The green flames seemed consistent with Crowley’s descriptions of possession, of an invading presence battering against the host’s shields. While Harry certainly wasn’t thrilled about being controlled by someone else, he at least took heart in the fact that the force battering at his shields was not very strong at all. He had only been undergoing mental training for about three years, and had relatively weak shields. It shouldn’t have lasted against any Wizard with even below-average Legilemency skills.

While pondering why such a weak Wizard would try to take control of him, when he had always been told that his future enemies would be quite formidable, he attempted to pinpoint his last memory before awakening inside his mind. He quickly came to the conclusion that his last memory had been of going to sleep, after receiving the ring by post.

With a start, Harry wondered if it had actually been the ring that had possessed him. He had his share of exposure to Dark Artifacts through the various tomes in the library, but had never heard of an object with an actual magical core, since possession required active magic to work. While all Dark Artifacts had their enchantments cast upon them to produce specific effects, they had no magic of their own to cast. The soul had active magic inherent within it, but Harry couldn’t really see how an artifact could have a soul attached to it.

Taking a wide view of the situation, he found that several aspects did not just add up. By the way his shields had contracted, and the apparent rate the possessor battered against his shields, it seemed that he had been under its thrall for a long time, though the exact time frame was still unknown. That all made sense to him, but why had he been able to rouse his conscious mind from its sleep? Since time spent in the mind was no different than in the outside world, and a person’s perceptions of time are already established and ingrained into their psyche, there’s no doubt he had been under for a while.

The only thing that made any sense to him was that perhaps the force possessing him had weakened. This gave Harry some sort of hope that he may find a way to free his mind. He briefly considered breaking through the barrier and taking his body by force, but if he failed to completely expel the intruder, it would be able to find the hole he used to travel through the shield, destroying all the memories of his mind much like it did the trees upon the edges of the forest.

No, he would have to wait, to bide his time until he could assure his victory. With a turn of the heel, he began to walk back towards the house, his thoughts on who would have sent him the ring. It was rather foolish to think that the wards and charms of his childhood that prevented him from receiving malicious mail had followed him to the orphanage.

Re-entering the house, he strode for the living room. The television, a monstrosity with fake wooden paneling, a refugee from mid-eighties cutting edge technology, hadn’t been a frequently used appliance during his childhood. While his guardians never exactly discouraged him from watching it, enriching his mind other more productive fashions usually brought a smile of pride and approval he never received after reciting things he learned on the telly.

He reached towards the power button, turning it on with a flick of his wrist. The screen slowly filled in, until he was presented with the view from his currently hijacked eyes.

Crowley had taught him a few fail safes, which every good practitioner of the mental arts knew. He especially stressed the importance of having access to one’s senses, should their body be possessed. These backdoors took the place of ordinary objects in his mind, but contained far more than met the eye. If one were to open the oven, the smell wafting out would be the direct information his hijacked nose was experiencing. If he wanted access to his hearing, he only needed to listen to the fifth CD in the six-disc changer. All his senses were arranged in this manner, which would at least grant him the element of surprise, as no one would expect someone of his age to possess such skills.

The actual mechanics of how to develop the backdoor access to the outside world was beyond him; he actually had to allow Crowley enter his mind and form the links. While his guardians had been huge proponents of teaching, and usually letting him perform all the actual practical work, Crowley had considered this important enough to step in.

The display on the television screen showed the surface of the desk that resided within his room. His left hand held a chisel, his right a hammer. The warped wood that comprised the writing surface was covered in a thick layer of dust. Small circular stone tablets littered the desk, each covered in distinctive runes. His knowledge of ancient runes was lacking, but he thought he recognized some of the runes as being of Futhorc origin. He believed one of the stones bore the cen rune, which translated to “torch”, but he couldn’t be certain.

Harry found it odd that his body was still within the walls of the orphanage. Considering that runic stones looked like they were being stockpiled, it seemed to indicate that something big was going down.

He turned away from the television for a moment, and grabbed the large headphones from their wall-mounted position. He pressed the power button to the large stereo, and cycled through the multi-disc changer until it settled upon the fifth disc. He placed the headphones over his ears, while snaking the cord along the floor to his intended position in the leather armchair.

The only sound that he heard over the headphones was the light tapping of the hammer upon the chisel, gouging further arcane symbols into the stone. While he really hadn’t expected his possessor to lay out its plans by talking to itself, it certainly would have made Harry’s life easier.

There was a wand lying on the desk, so whoever was controlling him certainly wasn’t powerless. If all the possessor had to worry about was Muggles, they probably would just use the wand. No, if they were going to the trouble of carving runes, they were preparing to confront something more than capable of defending itself, most likely a wizard of some sort.

Armed with his newfound hypothesis, the foundations of a plan began to trickle into his head. He reached into the drawer beside the chair, and withdrew a notebook. Perhaps he could copy some of the runes from the desk, and cross reference them with the books in the library.

With a reach backwards, he depressed the handle on the side of the chair. The leather chair’s back tilted backwards, and a footrest popped out of the front.

A small chuckle escaped him, the first since he regained consciousness. If he was going to rot his brain with all this television, at the very least he should get comfortable.

-

August 27, 1990

It felt as if her intestines had been animated, and had begun to crawl throughout her midsection, quickly followed by a burning sensation spread through her body. Her fingers went slack as she folded to the floor, her body and glass cup striking the floor simultaneously. Her skin bubbled as it shifted into its new form, her bones and musculature shrinking, her long hair receding backwards.

As suddenly as the transformation had begun, it was over. She let out a deep breath, one she hadn’t been quite aware she had kept, and opened her eyes. It seemed that the initial Polyjuice transformation was not something that one ever grew accustomed to.

She moved over to the closet, and withdrew a pair of robes more befitting for the task ahead of her. She also doubted that wearing robes three sizes too big for her new body would be the inconspicuous look she wished for.

After changing herself, she took inventory of appearance in the full length mirror. While she wasn’t quite fond of her current body, she believed she looked adequate for her scheduled meeting with the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Albus Dumbledore, the sworn enemy of her master.

While she reviled the generally beloved Light Wizard, she did acknowledge his vast power and influence. She would have liked to use the element of surprise that her form provided to mount an assassination attempt, but she had very strict orders, and had no intention of deviating from them.

After slightly adjusting her hair to make it slightly more unruly, she stepped toward the door to her room. She withdrew her wand, and cast a revealing spell upon the hallway. The spell came back negative, confirming it was indeed empty of people. It wouldn’t do for anyone to see her leave the room in this form.

She slipped her hood on, obscuring her facial features, before stepping out into the hallway. The odds were long that anyone would have recognized her under the folds of fabric, but she had no intention of leaving anything to chance.

She swept down the hallway, passing by the other silent rooms. She descended the stairs quickly, emerging into the main level of the Leaky Cauldron. It was mid-day, which accounted for the current sparse patronage. She gave a quick nod to Tom, which he returned with an odd glance, probably due to him being unable to discern her identity.

Making her way to the fireplace, she grabbed a handful of Floo powder, and cast it into the fireplace, while delivering her destination.

“The Headmaster of Hogwarts’ Office!” she said confidently.

Green flames sprung to life. She took one deep breath, steadying herself to for the large task ahead of her. She had to play this right, or risk unraveling all of their carefully crafted plans.

Once she stepped into the flames, she was whisked away, re-appearing in a flurry of ash within the Headmaster’s Office. The office was normally inaccessible from the Floo network, but he would withdraw the block when he had appointments. She rose out of the fireplace, wiping the ash from her robes, her hood dislodged.

“Ah, Miss Tonks, right on time,” welcomed Dumbledore.

The silver-haired wizard sat behind a large desk, with papers strewn about in a seemingly random manner.  She swallowed the bile that rose in her throat at the sound of his relaxed, serene voice. Adopting a subservient manner, she addressed the wizard’s greeting.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice, Professor Dumbledore,” she replied.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled at her thanks, which annoyed her to no end. What the fuck did it even mean?

“You are very welcome, Miss Tonks. Keep in mind that you’re no longer a student here, so no longer have any obligation to refer to me as ‘Professor’. That being said, I will always make the time for any of my former student, when I can. How have your post-Hogwarts exploits treated you?”

She knew a little about the Metamorphagus’ summer exploits due to Lucius’ vast amount of contacts at the Ministry, but planned to move forward the conversation as soon as she could, to avoid getting trapped in the details.

“It’s been kinda odd, knowing I’m not coming back to Hogwarts in the fall. Have you ever heard of the Muggleborn Education department?” she asked, hoping to sound naive. He was second most powerful wizard in Britain; of course he would know about it.

Dumbledore nodded in reply, urging her to continue.

“Well, I work for them, helping them track down and identify Muggleborn students. That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you…” she trailed off, trying to inject confusion and doubt into her voice.

“Yes,” Dumbledore replied, “there was a distinct air of urgency to your message. What seemed to be the problem?”

She was silent for a second, before addressing Dumbledore in a quiet, fearful voice, “About a week ago, I was sent to a Muggle orphanage in London. Small amounts of accidental magic had been released, just enough to catch the Ministry’s attention. It wasn’t a big priority to send me out there, just another Muggleborn.”

With the conclusion of the leading statement, she became silent again. She had to play up this moment, to get him completely wrapped up in her story.

The Headmaster said nothing to spur her on; he only sat with his head propped up by his interlocking fingers, his gaze one of polite interest.

“We did find a magical child, a boy who looked to be around ten years old.”

With a furtive glance around her, as if to check for any eavesdroppers, she lowered her voice.

“Professor, we didn’t find a Muggleborn,” she whispered, “….we found Harry Potter.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened at this declaration, but outwardly showed no other sign of emotion.

She raged inside, but betrayed nothing outwardly. So much for her fucking plan to ensnare him with dramatics! Fucking old wanker, and his mental control.

“Miss Tonks, I’m rather shocked. Are you sure it’s him?”

“No,” she thought to herself, “I just felt like socializing with you, I didn’t bother to confirm it.”

“They found him wandering a lonely road in Bedfordshire, his clothes burned, but relatively unharmed. He said his name was Harry Potter, before passing out. He’s been unresponsive since then, almost catatonic.”

With a great deal of effort, she made her eyes moisten.

“Professor, he’s all alone out there, scared. He wouldn’t even talk to me when I tried to talk to him. It’s like we don’t exist to him. I think something horrible happened to him.”

Dumbledore looked ready to reply, but she cut him off, not wanting to lose her momentum.

“I told my Director, but she just wants to wait, until she figures out what to do. She doesn’t even know that I came here! Please, don’t tell her I came here, it could ruin my future chances at the Ministry!” she finished, with a hysterical note in her voice.

He rose from his desk quickly, and stood before her, placing a single hand upon her shoulder.

“Miss Tonks,” he began, “you don’t have anything to worry about. I’m going to pay a visit to young Mr. Potter right now, and retrieve him. He might need help at St. Mungo’s. You have nothing to worry about, I’ll talk to Mrs. Lewis, I’m sure she’ll understand.”

Tears leaked down her cheeks as Dumbledore finished his statement.

He turned back to his desk, pouring a cup of tea, and then pressing it into her shaking hand.

“Have a spot of tea; it will make you feel better. You did the right thing by coming to me,” said Dumbledore.

She only nodded in assortment, her head lowered.

“Nymphodora, what else can you tell me about Harry? I want to be prepared when I talk to him, to make a good impression, so he’ll want to rejoin our world when I ask him.”

It took a large effort to still her laughter. There was no way he could possibly be prepared for what “Harry” had in store for him during their first meeting.

She took a sip of tea, before replying, “I don’t really know how much he knows about our world, since he never even acknowledged me.”

“You did say that already. My apologies,” Dumbledore apologized, inclining his head slightly.

She nodded once, acknowledging his apology. She was honestly surprised, since she didn’t think the old bastard really listened to people too often, too absorbed in his own prattling words to really pay attention to conversation.

“All I really know about him is what he looked like,” she volunteered.

He said nothing, only nodded, implying for her to go on.

“Well, he was short for his age, and very skinny. I think he was taken care of; he’s just small for his age. He had black hair, green eyes, and hand-me-down clothes, which is what all of the children receive there.”

She lowered her head slightly, preparing to inject more sadness into her voice.

“His room is in the southeast corner of the second floor. Other than that, I don’t know anything about him. I’m so sorry, sir.”

She saw him stiffen slightly at her final statement. Was he familiar with that room?

He gave her shoulder a squeeze of assurance.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for, Nymphadora,” Dumbledore kindly replied.

“If I were to leave and go pay a visit to Mr. Potter right now, would you be alright by yourself?”

She nodded again, inwardly pleased that her first task was almost complete.

“Take all the time you need here, and help yourself to some more tea if you want,” he said, motioning to the steaming teapot on the corner of his desk.

He gave her shoulder on final squeeze before heading to the fireplace, and throwing a handful of Floo powder into it.

Before leaving, he steadied his gaze upon her a final time.

“And Miss Tonks, thank you for bringing this to my attention.”

He turned back to the fireplace, and disappeared with a cry of “Diagon Alley”.

With the office to herself, she smirked internally, suppressing the urge to smile victoriously. She wasn’t about to let out any outward sign that an attentive portrait could catch, and report to Dumbledore. She imagined that if Dumbledore had gotten wind of it, he would have been far more reticent to take her word at face value, which would throw her carefully planned machinations into disarray.

She was well-aware her cover would only last for so long, so she immediately turned to the fireplace, with the intention of Flooing to the Ministry. In a flash of green flames, Narcissa Malfoy disappeared.

One task down, two to go.

-

Dumbledore appeared in the Leaky Cauldron’s fireplace in a flash of green flames. He only stayed long enough to give a friendly nod to Tom, before Apparating to the familiar muggle orphanage, within the heart of London.

Magical travel was quick, but enough so for him to outrun the turbulent thoughts that clung to him. A mere two-and-a-half weeks ago, he had pondered the disappearance of Harry Potter, widely acknowledged as one of the greatest unsolved mysteries of the Wizarding World. Now, not only had he been informed of his location, but had discovered it was in the same exact room where Tom Riddle had slept every summer for sixteen years.

He stood before the dull grey building, and mused on how swiftly time could make a fool of anyone. Even since he had become Headmaster, meeting with Muggleborn students had been delegated to his teaching staff, so had never been presented with another reason to ever venture back to Tom Riddle’s childhood home. While time had not been kind to the decaying building, it truly didn’t look that different than it did fifty years ago.

With a light twirl of his wand, he transfigured his midnight blue robe, adorned with bright yellow stars and moon shapes, into a Muggle business suit. He let out a slight chuckle, admitting to himself that one would be hard pressed to find a midnight blue suit with bright yellow pinstripes. While he didn’t think wearing a Wizard’s robes into a Muggle orphanage was a great idea, he was absolutely unwilling to part with his loud style of dress. The odd looks of his colleagues and fellow Wizards never bothered him. Even if they had, the scores of delighted smiles his bright colors had inspired on the face of children would have been worth it.  

He opened the front door and let himself into the main foyer. He nodded pleasantly at the few dumbstruck children within, and made his way to where Mrs. Cole’s office used to be. He thought it a reasonable assumption that the office had not moved, even if the manager had.

He let out a surprised chuckle when he reached the end of the hall. If the nameplate on the front of the office was to be believed, chief responsibility of the orphanage had not changed in over fifty years. It was only the most tenacious of Muggles that lived to this age, and still lived productive lives.

He rapped a single knock upon the wooden door. Within a few seconds, a strong female voice answered “Come in!”

He complied, closing the door behind him. The woman behind the desk had definitely aged fifty years since they had last met, but still maintained an aura of vitality, despite her advanced age.

She looked slightly taken aback at his bright appearance, but recovered quickly.

“Are you from Social Services?” Mrs. Cole asked, with barely concealed suspicion.

“Yes, I am,” Dumbledore replied, “I’m following up on a child that one of my colleagues saw a week ago, Harry Potter.”

“Ah, so you must work with Charlotte?” she asked.

Dumbledore nodded in response. Miss Tonks must have used her abilities to take the form of the Muggleborn witch, her boss, to make her job easier.

“Well, I must say, I’m quite displeased with Charlotte at the moment,” said Charlotte, eyes narrowed.

“Oh, why is that?”

“She saw Harry Potter and disappeared soon after. She didn’t check in with me, and she didn’t see any of the other children. It was all very unprofessional, which is completely unlike her.”

Dumbledore was surprised. Even though Miss Tonks was relatively new to this position, it still didn’t make sense, unless she had just been so overwhelmed by finding Harry Potter that rational thought had fled her.

“I’m not sure why she left so suddenly. You’re right; it was very unprofessional of her to do so. Let me apologize on behalf of her, and my entire department. We value your work here very highly, and appreciate everything you do for these children.”

Mrs. Cole let out a laugh.

“It’s not a big deal, I’m sure something just came up. You’ve no obligation to kiss my backside over this.”

Dumbledore let out a laugh himself, before extending a hand.

“I’m Albus Dumbledore, by the way. We’ve met, but it was a great many years ago. I haven’t been out here in a while.”

She shook his hand in a surprisingly strong grip, pumping it once.

“I thought you looked slightly familiar, and the name certainly was unique enough to earn a permanent place in my memory. What ever happened to Tom Riddle? We never saw him after he turned seventeen; he left without saying goodbye to anyone.”

Dumbledore hid his reaction quite well, but a deep shame penetrated his being at the mere mention of the child who turned into one of the most evil Dark Lords to ever walk the planet.

Without question, that had been his largest failure. He couldn’t help but think what might have been if he had stepped in and tried to find a Wizarding family to take Tom Riddle in. While the orphanage wasn’t a bad place to grow up, it didn’t provide for the care that Tom Riddle might have needed to turn him from the path to Voldemort.

However turbulent his thoughts may have been, he managed to keep his face impassive, as he had always strived to master himself.

“I regret to inform you that that Tom Riddle had been dead for quite a while,” Dumbledore said, the pain in his voice barely noticeable.

Though his voice held barely a trace, Mrs. Cole seemed to intuit the undertow of pain Dumbledore experienced regarding her former ward, and chose to not pursue the subject, despite her thinly veiled curiosity.

He wanted to give her some sort of closure, but didn’t know a great way to tell her that Tom had gone on to become the very personification of evil. He held no blame towards the orphanage matron for how Tom turned out, but was certain she would feel a deep guilt if she knew what Tom Riddle had become.

“Tom Riddle was one of the most promising children I had ever met, and his tragic loss at a young age still bothers me to this day,” Dumbledore said in a solemn voice. He figured he owed Mrs. Cole at least a minimal explanation for her patience in not pursuing the subject. While his reply hadn’t exactly been articulate, it was the closest version of the truth he could give her, as he did consider losing Tom Riddle to evil to be a tragedy of the highest order.

She seemed to truly understand, as her gaze softened for a moment.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Albus. Do you need a moment, or would you like to see Harry now?”

“Thank you, but I’ll be alright,” he replied gratefully. “Would you please direct me to his room?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “Oddly enough, he has the same room that Tom Riddle used to have. A few months ago, both of the children who shared the room decided to run away. It’s odd; both of the boys were two of our better-behaved and happy children. They would have been the last ones I’d expect to run away.”

Dumbledore found that to be an unsettling coincidence, but the other piece of information surprised him more.

“I had heard that he really didn’t talk to anyone. Did he really approach you to request the room?” Dumbledore asked.

“It seems you’ve been misinformed. While Harry, during his first few months here wouldn’t talk to anyone, over the past few months he does talk to people. While he still does occasionally have his bad days, I really do think he’s getting better.”

Dumbledore nodded at her words. Inside, he was confused. Perhaps Miss Tonks had caught Harry on a bad day, unwilling to talk to strangers, but the amount of discontinuities between what Mrs. Cole had told him and what Miss Tonks had was mounting rapidly. Then again, she was a rookie at her job, which by nature meant a lot of mistakes were going to be made.

“Well, in that case, I shall endeavor to make my reports more complete than my co-worker,” Dumbledore humbly stated.

“Please do. Make sure to see me before you leave, once you’re done with Harry,” she said, a slight edge to her words, strongly suggesting he heed them.

Dumbledore had every intention of doing so.

“Certainly, I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes. Thank you for your time.”

Mrs. Cole waved off his thanks, but he got the impression she still appreciated him saying it.

He turned on his heel, and exited her office. He was barely cognizant of the path his feet took him, once again wrapped up in thought. For the first time in almost a decade, he felt anticipation of the unknown flow through him. Long ago he had given up trying to find Harry Potter, deducing that he was too well hidden to ever find.

Now, he was mere steps away from the room that held him. It was an almost inconceivable turn of events.

Before he knew it, he was in front of the closed door. With a hand that almost shook with excitement, he knocked upon the door. There was no response for a few moments, which seemed like several eternities to Dumbledore. He was about to knock again, when a small, quiet voice froze his hand halfway to the door.

“Come in.”

With his heart pounding in his chest, Dumbledore opened the door.

The room was very similar to the last time he entered, although the walls looked like they had been roughed up a bit. The bed was a little more modern, but the same battered bureau stood against the wall, and a small desk sat opposite the bed. These, however, were minor compared to the sight on the bed, which took his breath away.

If no one had told him otherwise, the child on the bed could have passed for a direct relative of Tom Riddle. He had the same black hair, parted in the middle and combed down to either side, so unlike his father’s unruly mop. He was just as thin as Tom, only far shorter. Their eyes were both the same, dark hazel; Harry had certainly not inherited his mother’s eyes. Most disturbing of all was that their positions were exactly the same, as Harry was sitting on the bed, holding an open book.

The only major difference that he could discern was that Harry had an odd, lightning shaped scar upon his forehead.

Dumbledore desperately locked down his Occulemency shields, trying to block the sense of mourning and failure threatening to overtake him. This was not Tom Riddle, but Harry Potter, a boy who was very important, and he certainly wasn’t about to lose his cool in front of a child!

Harry’s eyes took a guarded look, so similar to Tom’s, at Dumbledore’s strange reaction. At Harry’s look, he had to fight to put his head in his hands. Not exactly the start to the meeting he had hoped for.

He stepped forward, and extended his hand.

“How are you doing today, Harry?”

Harry looked at his outstretched hand for a second, before placing the book on the bed and rising to his feet. He took Dumbledore’s hand lightly in his own, shaking it once.

“Who are you?”

“My name is Albus Dumbledore.”

Harry didn’t have any reaction to the name. Dumbledore began to think that perhaps Harry, sad as it may have been, had never received any exposure to the Wizarding World. He decided to continue on anyway.

“I teach at a fairly prestigious school, for students eleven years and older. Would you be interested in taking a tour sometime, to see if you would like to attend it?”

Harry narrowed his eyes, and gave the professor a look of distrust.

“Why are you asking me? Why not ask the other kids?”

While not the cold rage he had heard from Tom, the same mistrust was still evident.

“I’m asking you because I knew both of your parents, as they both attended the school I taught at, and the special skills needed for the school tend to be genetic in nature. If you’re anything like your parents, and I have no reason to suspect you wouldn’t be, you have a special gift that most other children do not possess,” Dumbledore explained.

Harry didn’t waste any time before replying, “Wait, what special gift?”

Dumbledore was disappointed to note that the mention of his parents didn’t elicit any response. He really was a great deal like the young Tom Riddle. At that moment, Dumbledore made a vow to himself. He would not let nature take its course. If he had to raise this child by himself, he would, providing him the support and love needed to keep him from falling into darkness.

“Well, Harry, have ever done anything that seemed unnatural, inexplicable?”

Harry was silent for a second, before throwing a pointed glance at the open door behind him.

Dumbledore, understanding at once, went to the door, and closed it. Harry seemed to relax slightly with the door closed.

“I can…sometimes make things happen,” Harry whispered.

He found himself interested in the child’s answer. Had be been consciously using his power?

“What kind of things can you do, Harry?” he asked, an encouraging smile upon his face.

“All sorts of things,” Harry excitedly whispered. “I can make things move without touching them. I can make animals do what I want them to, without training. I can make bad things happen to people who annoy me. I can make them hurt if I want to.”

Dumbledore froze at Harry’s words, a soul-deep terror enveloping him, one that a Dementor would be hard-pressed to reproduce.

“No, it can’t be….” Dumbledore trailed off, unable to articulate anything else. How was the son of James and Lily Potter spewing forth Tom Riddle’s words?

He felt helpless as he saw a malicious smile break out over the face of Harry Potter, a look of pure evil that had no business presenting itself upon the face of a ten-year old child. He saw that Harry was about to speak, and was unsurprised to find himself fearful of whatever words would flow forth.

“I can even speak to snakes. I found out when we’ve been to the country on trips – they find me, they whisper to me. Is that normal for a wizard?”

If anything, Harry’s latest words only deepened his paralysis. How the was this even possible? Harry Potter, who was prophesied as the only one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord, now speaking the words of Tom Riddle himself? This was impossible!

Harry continued to smile in an evil fashion, clearly enjoying his current state of mental distress.

“Here, let me show you!” Harry yelled, in an almost maniacal fashion.

He opened his mouth, and let out a series of hisses, which Dumbledore could only assume were words in Parseltongue. At the conclusion of the short burst of hisses, he felt the distinct wash of magic pour over him as Anti-Apparition wards sprang into existence.

With a quick movement, Harry reached under his pillow, and pulled out an ash wand. He twirled it expertly between his fingers, in the exact same fashion Voldemort had used during the first war. He stopped its momentum with the tip pointed directly at Dumbledore, adopting the traditional dueling stance; knees slightly bent, dominant foot forward, weight centered over it.

Harry’s expert movements broke him of his paralysis, and he withdrew his wand from his robes, brandishing it before him.

“I see you’ve finally woken up, Dumbledore,” Harry mocked.

“What have you done with Harry?” Dumbledore asked coldly, all traces of warmth gone.

“Oh, he’s kicking around somewhere in here,” Harry said, while tapping his forehead with his other hand. “I haven’t been able to completely devour his soul; the little bastard keeps fighting me back.”

Another large smile found its way onto Harry’s face. “I suppose that means you’ll just have to it easy on me, eh Dumbledore? Unless you really think it’s worth it to sacrifice Harry for the greater good of the Wizarding World,” Harry mused, all while laughing.

“Harry beat you as a child, Voldemort. Remember? What makes you think you’ll pose any challenge to me?”

The good humor dropped instantly from Harry’s face, which pleased Dumbledore. Whatever psychological edge he had planned to gain from this situation had been lost when he chose to banter rather than go straight for the kill.

With the last words exchanged, the two most powerful wizards in Britain raised their wands, and entered battle with one another.

-

Author Notes:

I hope that this chapter explained some of the questions that were out there regarding Harry’s current situation. If anything isn’t clear, just ask me in a review, and I’ll clarify it to the best of my ability.

Sorry about the cliffhanger, but I felt twelve thousand words was enough, and I really wanted to get another chapter out. The next chapter should be out mid-June.

Any comments, suggestions or criticisms would be deeply appreciated. I’ll make an effort to answer every review I get.

Thanks to darklordmike for his valuable suggestions with plotting, characterization, continuity and grammar.

Thanks to the lovely Lillith Nocturne for the beta work on this chapter.

Thanks for the help in the planning stages, BajaB and charmscharles.

Thanks for reading.