A/N: What follows is raw and only lightly edited, and will in all likelihood change substantially after it's been edited. If I'm being honest, it'll probably end up being scrapped and redone from the ground up. I know it seems like it's taking me a long time to get this thing written, but the real problem is that I got over excited and announced it about two years too early; at this point in the writing process, you really shouldn't even be aware of this story's existence.


Chapter 2 - Something to Protect: Tom Riddle


Pain flashed through the scar on Harry's forehead and he staggered, momentarily disoriented by the sudden shift from calm to calamity. In the void left by the absence of Hermione's aura, the sense of doom was almost unbearably overwhelming.

It was never her aura, Harry thought bitterly. It was a lie. It was all a lie.

His eyes regained their focus, revealing cold stone walls and various apparatuses of Potions-brewing. In the corner of the room, a Fiendfyre phoenix radiated scarlet light which overlaid every surface in a blood-red tint. He was back in the forbidden third-floor corridor, in the final room in a series of challenges Dumbledore had set to protect the Mirror of Noitilov and the Philosopher's Stone contained therein.

Dumbledore might still be in the Mirror, Harry thought. Voldemort wouldn't have included that scene for no reason, he must have believed Dumbledore would actually be lying in wait to spring the trap... right? But... Harry furrowed his eyebrows. But even if that were true, it doesn't make a difference. Voldemort won't give me an opening. He'll just stick me in a Greater Circle of Concealment and Dumbledore won't even know I'm there until it's too late.

The thought occurred to Harry that the Dark Lord must have written the contents of Dumbledore's letters. There's no way those could have been based on ...

Anger mingled with the adrenaline in Harry's veins. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he became aware of the steel ring on his left pinky finger. He glanced down at the gem - no longer emerald green, but chestnut brown - and his face hardened. More or less on autopilot, Harry began to cast his gaze around the room, his eyes mechanically searching for the source of the familiar tension. His thoughts still came slowly, as though his brain had been dipped in molasses; but the sense of doom was practically tangible in the air, and he knew that any moment now -

"Mr. Potter," said a high, cold voice close behind him. "Let me show you something."

The world again went dark. The floor vanished and Harry fell through apparent nothingness and then, just as suddenly, he found himself standing in what appeared to be some sort of institutional lobby.

It was antiquated, with a black-and-white tile floor and a few shabby, erratically-placed Victorian chairs. Three children no more than a year younger than Harry were scattered about the room, reading tattered old books and keeping to themselves. They looked a bit malnourished and wore clothes that were almost as shabby as the furniture.

The door opened and another two dozen children, varying widely in age and just as shabbily dressed, burst into the room chattering excitedly amongst themselves. Harry caught the word "cinema" more than once. One of the newcomers flipped on a radio, and the three original children all got up and retreated to the far side of the room, though they still tried to maintain their own little bubbles of personal space.

Harry was in no mood for this bullshit. "Are you here with me, wherever 'here' is?"

The Dark Lord, wearing the form of the Defense Professor of Hogwarts, stepped forward into Harry's peripheral vision.